Chapter 18
Twas the week of another Yuletide season, and the Korea of 1952 had that Christmas look. The numbing cold had put a one-inch crunchy crust atop a thick blanket of white. A silvery full-moon illuminated the countryside…glaring, allowing daylight to come at 3:00 a. m. A one-inch crust on a field of snow won’t support the weight of a man… nor that of a heavy beast. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Faintly at first the sound came, drifting down from the steep slope above the “engineering marvel” where I stood. This person didn’t want to look up there. But I did, and that which my eyes came in contact with has forever denied me the privilege of living to reach the average human lifespan on planet Earth. Subtract a decade from the national average, cause pilgrim, 10 years of my life were left on that inhospitable hillside. A huge dark shape began emerging from a clump of brush, inching down the incline in my direction. A shadowy, slinky form, each step measured and deliberate, causing a slow-motion effect that made time stand still. Crouching, belly low against the snow. The frightening silhouette paused 5 seconds, wheezed, coughed. Then resumed it’s movement…crunch, crunch crunch. My disbelief resulted from a total lack of knowledge about the wildlife in this part of Asia. I simply didn’t know what species of beasts were inhabitants of Korea, and which were not. Disbelief hardly describes the situation as I looked at the creature, now halted again and standing a mere 30 yards up the slope from my position. Black stripes on a tawny coat of orange! A damned tiger! I stared into a pair of glowing yellow circles with vertical black slits (those 10 years slipped away at that precise moment ). Malevolent, piercing eyes, eyes that remembered one-million years of cruelty heaped on the animal kingdom by a savage human race. A true giant, the size of a large pony. Grunting, coughing, jaws gaping wide and drooling saliva. A regal monarch, 650 pounds of ferocity and lightning reflexes. The beast quickly tired of his little cat-and-mouse game. A blood-curdling roar echoed across the mountain range as midst a spraying of snow he came. Two effortless, bounding leaps brought the world’s most fearsome predator to the edge of a road bank directly above my head. Gunther-Gebbel Williams is an internationally known trainer of wild animals who travels with Ringling Brothers Circus. But that blond chap hadn’t yet made his world debut in 1952. However, an equally famous animal expert, Mr. Clyde Beatty , had been around a long time. Man, how I ached for his presence at my side…
Chapter 19
An entire mountain shook with the roar of the Siberian tiger. A second echo rolled across the hills, my own voice sounding a desperate cry: “Clyde…oh Clyde! Wherefore art thou Clyde?” How many people have wondered what their reaction might be if, suddenly and without warning, they found themselves in a face-off with an adult male tiger? A nagging question that’s pestered me these many years since my own unusual encounter. Not a zoo variety feline, but an uncaged “in his prime” monster prowling thru your neighborhood streets, parks, alleys and byways, Fully equipped with every fang and claw intact ( unconfined tigers are known to roam anyplace they choose ). Have you personally given any thought to this hypothesis? No? Dammit, you should!! I’ve just completed an exhaustive 5 year study into this matter, and the results are quite alarming. Not one gol-durned person expressed any concern whatsoever about being involved in such a confrontation! In a word, we’re a totally unprepared population. Our defenses are pitifully inadequate if the big cats decide to move against mankind ( lets hope the insects don’t join forces with ‘em. Such an alliance would surely doom the human civilization as we know it. Neighbor, we’d all be “gone goslins” ). Such wide-scale apathy might well prove disastrous, for we live in an uncertain world. One never knows what tomorrow may bring…the gloom of an unknown future may very well spring many surprises The close presence of a 650 pound Siberian tiger can induce gut-wrenching fear into the heart of man like nothing else on earth. I watched helplessly as tightly knotted muscles catapulted the huge carnivore from the top of the bank and in his gleaming yellow eyes I saw the flames of Hell. Where were the “gung-ho” fighting qualities epitomized by John Wayne in “zoo” movies? Why couldn’t I have a mite of Robert Mitchum’s bravado as seen countless times on the big screen? I learned the folly of Hollywood that night. Sadly, shamefully, and with deep regret will I make a confession…I didn’t serve my country well that night. Not one speck of patriotism did I exhibit. Thoughts of flag, pride, duty and honor went the way of the old dodo bird. Basic training had prepared me to deal with a variety of touchy situations. But hell man, let’s be realistic. No amount of training , be it in the field, classroom or scientific laboratory will ready you for the shock of a “tiger encounter.” Be ye prince or pauper your reaction will be exactly the same…life-threatening fright! Time ceased to exist as the long furred beast sliced thru the night air. I stood terrified, horrified, mortified and petrified. Ladies and gentlemen, fear has a distinct flavor. A really unique taste. That of rusted iron…
Chapter 20
I certainly wasn’t unarmed when the army sent me to that guard post. No siree folks, weapon-wise I wuzn’t naked. Frankly, I wuz “loaded fer bear” ( however, as later events would prove, not nearly ready fer tiger ). A heavy M-1 rifle , a hard shootin’ weapon with incredible knockdown power, was slung over my right shoulder. On my right hip was a wicked 45 calibre automatic. A cloth sack containing 4 grenades and 6 tear-gas canisters dangled loosely at my left side. Across my shoulders, X-ed in the fashion of a Mexican bandito, were two bandoleers of ammo holding many, many pounds of extra bullets. A really impressive amount of firepower. But one cannot be gauged solely on the number of his armaments. One must be rated on his skills and competence with the weapons at his disposal. Performance is the only thing that really matters. The M-1 rifle. Now people, modesty is a virtue to be admired. But I have difficulty restraining myself when the M-1 is the conversational topic. Listen here pal, you don’t want me shootin’ at yer butt with that reliable piece of equipment. Small insects winging their way across the sky at great altitudes are not beyond the range of my trusty M-1. Hell man, I could knock the legs off’n a gnat flying near the clouds . I’d take careful aim, squeeze the trigger gently, and domn those pesky pests would plummet. Tailspinning, screaming like a dive-bomber hit by deadly ack-ack fire, crashing to earth with a dull thud. Great sport, great sport...a truly exhilarating pastime! As has been a long-standing custom, this person will continue his practice of truthfulness. Sadly, my expertise did not extend beyond the M-1 rifle. I wuzn’t a qualified marksman with anything else. Lets haul the old microscope and place that other pair of weapons in my “arsenal” neath the durned thing fer close scrutiny. Firing a consarned 45 calibre pistol wasn’t one of my strong points. Many times I’d stand with my back against an entrance way leading into a farm structure, step off ten paces, turn, aim carefully, squeeze off a round. And miss not just the barn door, but the whole damned barn! Such ineptness could be extremely dangerous, even fatal, when dealing with an Amur tiger in a close-quarter fight. Maybe I’d hit a paw, crease a twitching tail, or nick one of his ears. Such would mean a really explosive situation…a wounded tiger at bay!! Neighbor, you don’t want to jeopardize your body and soul in this manner. Your friendly undertaker will place yer badly mangled carcass on a cold slab inside his mortuary. Even his considerable talents won’t make a cadaver presentable fer public viewing after a tiger mauling. Hand grenades… the famous “pineapple.” At the tender young age of sixteen I abandoned all dreams of pitching in the major-leagues. Just never had a strong arm. At the zenith of a short-lived athletic career my fastball wuz timed at a blazing 17 mph. Yer target must be way out yonder when tossin’ hand grenades. Ya’ just can’t use ‘em in close…a sure-fire way to self-destruct. Hear me, ye pilgrims with weak arms. Don’t fool around with hand grenades. So then, grenades and a 45 calibre pistol. Neither was a help in my predicament, but rather a hindrance. Hardly an asset, but surely a liability. But I had one very useful weapon available. That walkie-talkie, and I began a desperate cranking…
Chapter 21
My shoulders were covered by an avalanche of dislodged snow from the slope above as the lithe tiger, in one mighty bound, arced over my head by a mere 48 inches. I whiffed the nauseating stench of it’s putrid breath, felt a displacement of air as the momentum of it’s leap carried the monstrous beast upward ever closer to the moon. Musta’ been a combination of training and pure instinct. Whatever, I pitched forward and slammed myself to a prone position on the icy ground. From that vantage point I watched “the cat from hell” clear the road and sail 15 yards down the lower slope to land gently on four padded paws ( no matter from what altitude the fall, a durn cat never lands on it’s back. Spry and agile, this remarkable talent helps explain, at least in part, why these critters can live out 9 lives. A cat landing on it’s back following a long fall means a cat with a broken back. A crippled feline can’t go after his prey, starves to death. So he’s lived only one life, not nine. Good thing cats land on their feet every time! An amazingly soft landing the tiger made, cushioned by a 24 inch blanket of snow. The considerable depth prevented any “slippin’ and slidin’.” All deer hunters, at least those who are honest, will admit to being familiar with the term “buck fever.” These outdoorsmen spend weeks and thousands of dollars in preparation for the late fall adventure…”I’m gonna’ put venison on the table” ( no doubt you’ve heard the wind blow ). Our macho-man saunters off to the woodlands, arrives at his favorite hunting grounds in a most excited frame of mind. Down a forest trail prances the prized buck, sporting a beautiful rack of trophy-sized antlers. At which time “buck fever” sets in. Mesmerized, entranced, the Great Hunter stands rooted in his tracks, doesn’t even think of raising a rifle to his shoulder. Never really in any danger, the buck lopes away and will live to a ripe old age. On his return home the little wife stands waiting in the doorway. An impatient look spreads across her pretty face as she inquires: “Where’s the venison?” In a convincing manner the sonofagun lies like a dog: “Just my luck. The game-warden says acorns and mast are in short supply, meaning the deer population is way down this year. I didn’t see one sign of wildlife, not a single track.” I know about “buck fever.” A severe case of the durn stuffhit me in those pre-dawn hours so many years ago in Korea. From just 50 foot down the embankment the tiger swiveled it’s massive head to glare back over his shoulder in my direction. No e3cho this time, only a whimpering plea: “Good Lord in heaven above, I ask of you. Perhaps Clyde Beatty and his expertise ain’t available. If not, please send Tarzan and Jungle Jim”…
Chapter 22
Fellow humans, one very important point needs emphasizing here and now. Though this hair-raising “feline adventure” occurred some 39 years ago the details are not one bit vague. Not the least fuzzy, no cobwebs to obscure that terrifying moment. There’s just something about a “tiger encounter” that lingers always and forever in one’s memory. Trying to forget has been a lesson in folly. I’ve resorted to self-induced hypnosis, held prolonged consultations with Fakirs in New Delhi, engaged in “frank and open” pow-wows with medicine-men from our own Indian tribes. I’ve earnestly sought advice in darkened offices of psychoanalysts, endured a multitude of grueling sessions on worn-out couches belonging to creepy head-doctors. I’ve made contact with a whole raft of psychic mediums, ouija-board experts, channelers, tarot card specialists, crystal-ball gazers, gypsies who specialize in reading palms, outerspace emissaries from the planet Orgobon, humanoid extraterrestrials from Weegeeboo, mystics from allover, and a varied potpourri of other weirdos. A wide-berth has been given to that voodoo clan in Haiti. Man , I want no dealings with them dudes, avoid ‘em like the bubonic plague. Where, you might ask, are these types found? Well pilgrim, ain’t no shortage of freaks in our “age of enlightenment”. Quacks are everywhere!! At least a dozen are standing near you at this very moment, just an arms-length away. Many times I’ve been turned away at the doors leading into Cedars of Lebanon hospital, a renowned west-coast medical facility with hundreds of “headshrinks” on it’s staff. Their specialty, as you might well suspect, is dealing with the frivolous whims of nutty Hollywood movie stars. These institutions don’t have time for paupers such as myself who seek professional assistance from ANYONE who can make me forget! Likewise the Mayo Clinic , located up near the Canadian border , has turned a deaf ear to my urgent pleas for help. I’ve even wished for a solid conk to the noggin which might result in amnesia. But dammit, ain’t nothin’ helped in making me forget that feisty cat! Even unto this day, nearly 40 years later, this beast slinks free and unchallenged through my endless nightmares. A suggestion for deer hunters of this area, and those who seek out other critters for sport. Surely that urge will come again to go tramping through woodlands in search of wild varmints. Might I recommend you try the ultimate competition on for size…TRY TIGER!! Don’t be overly surprised if the size is way yonder too large, and your nervous system is irrevocably shattered. Hell, you might give up huntin’ altogether! Something good finally happened on that Christmas Eve in 1952. My walkie-talkie, being the very latest model on the market and in fine working condition, got an immediate response from the valley below: “Guardhouse, Sgt. Hobbs here.” “Sarge, listen carefully,” I managed to blurt out. “There’s no time for repeating any of this message.” The non-com from Kentucky interrupted : “Slow down . What’s your situation?” Sarge, my situation is relatively easy to determine. I’ve got a full-blown crisis up here!!… |
