By DAVID EPPS

Guest Columnist

It wasn't the first time I had taken a life but it was, by far, the most unsettling.

At 4 a.m., I was alone and surrounded by the green protective coat of trees and underbrush. First light was still some time off as I settled into a comfortable spot. The sounds of the forest slowly began their daily routine and, as dawn began to break, I could hear the sporadic sound of gunfire off in the distance. I cradled my weapon closer and eased further back into the concealing thicket.

At just after 5 a.m., I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. Cautiously, I peered out from under the branches and spied him about 50 yards to my left. Slowly, breathlessly, I eased my body into a firing position and braced the high-powered rifle snugly against the trunk of a tree. I brought my sights to bear on him just at the moment he walked behind a stand of trees.

I could feel the sweat bead on my upper lip and sense the movements of my heart on my trigger finger. Gently, I shifted the rifle barrel to the other side of the trees where I thought he just might emerge, if he hadn't gone down the well-traveled path on the other side.

What was that motto of Marine Corps Sniper School? Oh, yeah... “one shot, one kill.”

What took seconds seemed like eons but, finally, a head peered out from under the brush just the left edge of the tree stand. Between breaths, I squeezed gently on the trigger, feeling the perspiration sting my eyes, as I aimed at the base of his skull. Suddenly, the explosion of the rifle shattered the morning calm and my target fell in his tracks.

I hesitated just a moment, then, gripping the weapon, charged out from my hiding place to the spot where he lay motionless. Feeling the adrenaline rush through my shaking body, I made my way to him... only to discover to my horror that he was not dead!

My bullet had found its mark, but had shattered his neck. Breathing heavily, blood pooling underneath him, he looked at me with terror-filled brown eyes, unable to move his paralyzed body. Suddenly, I was filled with shame. There was no way in the world to undo what I had just done, as much as I wished I could at that moment.

Sorrowfully, I set the rifle against a tree, unsnapped the holster restraining my sidearm, and gripped the handle of the semiautomatic pistol. Mentally, I apologized to my victim as I slowly brought the barrel up, and pumped two quick rounds into him, finally finishing the deed.

It wasn't the steamy, foreboding jungles Vietnam, but a large wooded area, on a frigid morning, in Coweta County, Georgia. The body in front of me wasn't a trained, fanatical enemy trying to take my life, but a young, male deer on the way to his resting place after a night of foraging. I killed him for no other reason but that I could.

I had hunted before, but it was always out of what I deemed to be necessity. I had tracked down a wild dog that threatened children, had brought fish home for frying or for the grill, had hunted for food... but this was different.

In Colorado, during my time in that lovely state, many of the inhabitants hunted for the primary reason that an elk would fill a freezer for a year. For them it was truly a matter of putting food on the table. For many, it would constitute the only meat the family could afford to have all winter.

But this wasn't Colorado, and my freezer was full. I had killed because I could, for no other reason.

As I dragged the once-magnificent animal out of the woods, I knew that my son, who surely had heard the three shots from his tree stand, would be excited for me. I knew that he would be rushing to assist me and would help dress the animal and prepare it for butchering. I knew that the meat would be shared among the family. It didn't matter. Those brown eyes kept looking at me for days afterward.

My father was raised in the hills of east Tennessee and spent summers with his grandparents in the mountains of western North Carolina. Many times, he would tell the stories of how, each day, his grandfather would give him one shell for his single shot .22 caliber rifle with the warning that, if he didn't aim true, there would be no meat that night. His targets were primarily squirrels and rabbits who, by the end of summer, graced the table nearly every evening. For a young boy growing up in Appalachia during the Depression, a true aim was more than just target practice.

One year, for Christmas, I received a special gift. It was a Daisy lever-action BB gun that would hold about 50 BBs. One spring day, after I had become pretty proficient with my Daisy, I watched a blue jay land in the front yard to poke around in the grass after some insect he had spied. Slowly, the barrel of the BB come came up as I secured the stock in my shoulder. In a moment I was standing over the dead bird, whooping it up, and rejoicing in my victory. Dad came outside to see what all the commotion was about and I proudly pointed to the lifeless jay.

Expecting to see delight, I was surprised and confused to see, in my father's eyes, shock, replaced by a moment of anger, finally settling into a profound sadness. “Do you feel better now, son?” Dad asked.

My brow scrunched up as I realized that I wasn't sure what the right answer might be. Dad, a World War II veteran, then sat me on the front porch and explained to me some lessons of life and of death.

“You kill for food. You kill when an enemy is trying to kill you... or your family. You kill when there is a true and prevailing necessity. You never kill just because you can.”

Dad helped me bury the blue jay in the backyard and even said a little prayer at the makeshift funeral. That night, after I went to bed, I cried and asked God to forgive me for taking a life just because I could.

God always forgives crying, repentant people, of course, so the incident eventually slipped into the murky waters of time. Until that day in the woods.

After the deer was dressed, butchered, and put in the freezer, I emptied the magazine and put the rifle up. Will I ever train its sights on another living thing? I can't answer that. But I have decided that I will never kill anything again... just because I can.

[Father David Epps is priest at Christ the King parish in the south metro Atlanta area. He is a former Marine and police officer. He may be contacted at P. O. Box 2192, Peachtree City, GA 30269, or online at CTKCEC@aol.com.

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