Page 56 - The KRH Year of 2023 (CREST Sharing)

56 The Regimental Journal of The King’s Royal Hussars
Ex HIGHLAND HAWK
Ithink it’s safe to say that the absolute last thing we expected (or wanted) was to be sharing our Officers’ Mess fieldsports week with a group of strident vegans wearing man-made fibres. But perhaps I should start at the beginning.
Culloden Hawk, Highland Hawk, call it what you will, we are very fortunate to belong to a regiment which values the personal and professional development opportunity that a week shoot- ing things in Scotland represents. Ten members of the Mess set off in late November to the windswept and claggy Cairngorms. The Regiment has done something similar on and off for many years, and one of the delights is that no two exercises have been exactly the same, but all have been successful in the same spirit. This year we revisited Rothiemurchus Lodge outside Aviemore, which is the perfect venue for Officers’ Mess North; basic but comfortable accommodation, a fully fitted kitchen in which SSgt Smith (the UCWO) could stretch his culinary muscles, and a dining room which felt almost like home once kitted out with a van full of silver. More importantly, Rothiemurchus is used to groups of officers waddling about in tweed, traipsing mud all over the carpets, and the team there remain hugely welcoming.
The excitement started en route to Scotland, in our fleet of entirely unsuitable vehicles. Capt Turner and Capt “Dairy” Lee couldn’t wait to kick things off by undertaking to eat a BabyBel each every half hour of the ten hour journey, but as Charlie was the self-appointed cheese member that was fitting. On arrival we were greeted by SSgt Smith and the two mess staff, Tprs Reynolds and Petit, and treated to a fabulous meal. We tried to bring with us as much of the spirit (not to mention spirits) of the mess as possible, and this caught out Maj Wade on several occa- sions: on day one, OC C Sqn was forced to choose between buy- ing a bottle of champagne, and discharging his shotgun from a moving vehicle. Obviously he chose the only acceptable course of action, enjoyed by all present.
The fieldsports to be undertaken this year were hind stalking and pheasant shooting, and so the first party set off onto the moor under the watchful eye of the wise guides - not a single one of whom turned out to be Scottish, somewhat ruining the romance. Despite an excessively loud rustling jacket, and a fit of the giggles brought on by noisy Velcro at a crucial moment, Majs Padgett and Wade successfully stalked a group of hinds. (Wade felt a degree of remorse on closer inspection of the Bambi-like creature he had dispatched; apparently through the rifle scope he’d just thought it was ‘further away’, as opposed to being a juvenile). The Adjutant and Maj Jackson also had a successful day, and when Capt Turner was ‘blooded’ nobody
Dempsey plucking up the courage to ask for his number
was more surprised than he at the sheer quantity of gore which was dashed in his face - except perhaps the lady behind the Tesco checkout on the way home. We took a carcass back in the boot and delivered it to a delighted SSgt Smith for his expert ministrations.
A day out on the pheasants followed, at the glorious Phoines Estate where we felt most welcome. All had a day to be proud of (except Maj Wade who shot pretty much the bag total on drive number 1) sustained throughout by the good Lieutenant Cheeseboard. Lt Dempsey won the sweepstake on the bag, but he also claims he saw a pheasant decapitate itself on a telephone wire, so there was clearly something fishy going on. Capt Turner was reduced to a quivering wreck by Tpr Petit’s driving on the way home, experiencing flashbacks to his time as LCpl Turner of the Royal Lancers MT Tp. Such was the trauma of the journey that we had to call in at a pub, and another chance for Maj Wade to fall foul of the arcane mess rules. For reasons nobody can recall, this time his choice was the inevitable bottle or to drink ten jagerbombs in three minutes; once again he made the cor- rect decision but this time we weren’t proud of him, and had to pretend not to know him. On return to base, we proudly hung out our pheasants (and a pigeon) behind the lodge ready for Staff Smith to do his thing later. It was shortly thereafter that Capt Turner, coming in with three shotguns over his shoulder, was accosted by a woman in the hall who demanded of him “are you enjoying your killing? Well, that’s what you’re doing
Proof of Capt Skrine in technical clothing
Two lifeless mammals – and two beautiful Red Hinds