Author Archive for Eddie Chapman

Working Jack Russells in South Africa

(Obituary of Eddie Chapman written by Dave Harcombe at the end of this article)

A couple of years ago, I was offered the chance, while in South Africa, to spend a week or so with one of their well known terrier men, who exclusively used Jack Russells. Not being one to miss an opportunity to see how the other half lived, I accepted, even though it was to be an endless drive across country, in stifling heat, to get there. They said it was their winter. God help them in the summer!

The journey was made extremely enjoyable despite the heat, for I was being driven by one of the nicest people I have ever come across in the terrier world, Frank Joubert, who, sadly, is no longer with us. I shall never forget him.

We arrived at Des Krugers house late in the evening and were made very welcome by Des and his family. Des is one of those guys that, though extremely modest, has that sort of look in his eye, which I always associate with old time diggers and the like, so we hit it off immediately.

‘We have to start early,’ he said, ‘as it still gets a bit hot here in the middle of the day’, so an early start it was and the first stop was a sort of game reserve that apparently had everything. We loaded up the terriers, or what was left of them for he had only two, or almost two! A three legged dog and a one eyed bitch! Both were under twelve inches and smooth coated with lots of scars in odd places.

‘You don’t keep many then’ I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

‘Well I try to keep a fairish team as there is quite a bit of work for them around here,’ he replied, ‘but I have had a bit of bad luck this last year and have lost a few.’

‘How many is a few’ I asked.

‘Well, this time last year I had eighteen,’ he said casually, ‘they have gone down a bit.’

‘How the hell did you lose that many?’ I asked.

‘Oh, we have some pretty dangerous animals using the earths around these parts.’ He wasn’t kidding, as I soon discovered!

A one hour drive found us at a large farmyard and after Des had spoken to the farmer we went through a couple of gates in a high game fence and literally belted off across some flat open country towards a small mound in the distance. ‘There is a meerkat earth in that mound,’ he said, pointing towards it, ‘let’s see if we can catch them unawares.’ Fifty yards or so from the mound, he hit the brakes at about ninety miles an hour and we skidded to a halt with meerkats flying in all directions and even as we skidded, both terriers shot out of the windows and raced after the nearest one in an effort to catch it before it disappeared down a hole. Well, they did after they stopped rolling in the dust! One cat was a bit far out and there was quite a chase before it made it to a hole with Des’ lurcher right behind it.

‘Never caught one like that’ he said, ‘but it helps to wind the terriers up a bit, don’t you think?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure it helps’ I said, ‘that is, if they are still conscious after their crash landing!’

I remember thinking, this chap has got to be ‘touched’.

Another hour’s drive and two burly farmers took us in their truck, at a somewhat slower pace into some wild looking country where they had a secluded valley which they swore was full of earths which held all sorts of rodents. Rodents! They must have been kidding! The first earth, in the distance, had something resting on it which looked distinctly like a crocodile! From where I stood it looked at least ten feet long and as we approached the earth, which looked like a fair sized badger set, this monster disappeared into it. Without a second thought, Des let out the two terriers and they plunged into the nearest hole. No bleepers.

‘We will have to listen for them’ said Des, but, as you can imagine, I was a little bit reluctant to put my ear to the ground, let alone down a hole to listen as it gets a bit hard to hear with your head is in a crock’s mouth, don’t you think? However, the earth was so deep we couldn’t hear a damn thing, probably a good job too, and in the end both terriers came out, luckily, unharmed. I asked Des what it was and he replied, casually like, ‘Oh, some sort of lizard, I suppose.’

Lunch preparations get under way

Lunch preparations get under way

A bit further on we came to a two hole place on some flat ground but the holes were big enough for a sheep to go in which made me wonder why the chap bothered with under twelve inch terriers as the place was just made for a Pit Bull or something of the sort and we were probably going to need one by the size of the tracks leading in there. I asked Des what it could be and he said he wasn’t sure and as he again slipped the two terriers, I walked slowly away, backwards. In seconds there came from the hole the strangest sound I ever heard. To describe it I would say that it sounded like an industrial vacuum cleaner with part of the motor loose, a sort of whirring, clattering noise. ‘Porcupine’ said Des and began to call out the terriers who had just started to bay. Well, fair play to them, and luckily too, they came straight back out, the dog already having been well and truly ‘quilled’ in the face. Yes, porcupine quills, about eight inches long right through his cheeks! Des quickly removed them and we set off again.

‘A bit dodgy them things,’ he said, ‘if a dog gets one in the eye it can go right through its brain, I lost several like that recently.’ Apparently, and I saw it later in my visit, these porcupines quiver like crazy and all the quills vibrate and clatter against each other, creating one hell of a noise, a sort of warning to intruders but the trouble was that the terriers just seem to get excited by it and almost always get quilled.

By now it was starting to warm up and the last place we tried was a nice looking spot and looked more like a normal fox earth but with slightly larger entrances.

‘Could be a jackal in here’ said Des.

‘Oh that’s good,’ I said, ‘I want to see what they are like to pick up. Just like a fox aren’t they?’ I enquired.

‘Well its a bit dodgy,’ said Des, ‘with all the rabies and that, don’t like to handle them myself.’

There were fresh marks on the entrances so it looked good and the terriers were loosed again and within seconds could be heard baying nicely. We listened around and, after some time, located them several yards from the entrance where they were baying well and it didn’t sound too deep. Just as well, for the ground was hard as iron.

‘Don’t it ever rain in these parts’ I said, as I jumped on the spade and bounced off again.

‘Not this year,’ said Des, ‘but what do you want to dig for, it might bolt with a bit of luck, and then we can shoot it.’

Looking around, I got the idea for the farmers were unloading their armoury from the truck and between them, they had enough weapons to start a world war. We had a few drinks while we waited but nothing bolted so we decided we would have to dig though it was, by now, really hot. Out came some picks and a big bar which could only be used with any effect by the biggest of the farmers, they loosed the soil and I shovelled it out and after half an hour we had gone down about two feet. Being just about drained due to the heat, we listened and the action seemed to have moved on a bit but we carried on for they had not gone very far. The bar broke through and I cleared out all the soft soil to listen. They seemed to be just up the tube so we knocked down the rest of the trench bottom until it was level with the bottom of the tube and I lay on the ground with my head into the trench and looked up the hole with the aid of a torch. The two terriers were stood there, side by side, baying very steadily and I noted at the time just how steady these two were, no diving and darting forward, not mixing it, just a steady continuous bay, bay, bay.

As they were about six feet on, Des told me to call them out so I filled the back hole ready, to see if the quarry would bolt out. I don’t think I could have dug any further in that heat.

‘You guys ready with the guns?’ I said, but I needn’t have worried; they were both Rambo look-alikes by that time and I was just wondering where it was best for me to hide when the shooting started.

Des called to the terriers and, like magic, they came back immediately and he picked them up and took them over to the truck. We stood there, with baited breath, watching the trench, but nothing showed and after five or six minutes I suggested Des take a look with the torch.

‘No, its all right,’ he said, ‘you have a look.’

‘Des,’ I said, ‘what’s in there, is it a jackal, or what?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said with a grin, ‘could be anything, you will never know unless you look, will you.’

‘Go on Des, have a look.’

‘No, no, it’s all right, you have a look.’

Well, I thought, these three are ‘having me on’ so I took the torch and, with Des holding my boots to pull me back, sharpish, if I shouted, I got him to lower me into the tunnel and was surprised to see that whatever it was, it had moved on again. We entered the terriers once more and this time they went out of sight and I couldn’t hear a sound. Des and I started to listen about while the farmers still waited for a bolt and after a few minutes, scratching below the ground gave us a mark, though it was faint, it did not sound too far below the surface. The terriers seemed to be about six feet away from the quarry and I figured out that whatever it was, it would soon dig its way out to the surface. We decided to trench after the terriers as they did not seem deep and we had only been at it for about five minutes when a loud shot from one of the farmers’s guns made us spin around to see what had happened. For a few minutes, nothing could be seen through the cloud of dust then, as it cleared, a hole in the ground revealed the spot where the animal had dug out, to be blasted immediately as he did so. I opened the hole and cleared to what remained of the head and, taking hold, was hauled out by the rest of the lads. We had taken a large animal, the size of an Alsation, a member of the hyena family so they said, and the terriers, coming through, ragged the carcass in fury. The shot would have dropped an elephant I think and, judging by the size of the teeth, we had accounted for a pretty dangerous predator.

Not many volunteers to go down

Not many volunteers to go down

It was far too hot for any further sport and after a long, cool drink, we were early to bed for the next day we had a long drive to meet a man who, to me, resembled ‘Jungle Jim’. A three hour drive in the early morning brought us to a one street town right in the heart of Africa. We pulled up outside a bar and an hour later another truck arrived, driven by Jungle Jim, accompanied by a right tidy little sort of Jack Russell, a young bitch. We stayed in the bar for about an hour, telling lies and then we made tracks for this chap’s farm which was, apparently, about twice the size of Dorset!

It seemed that we had met Jungle Jim on his way back from some other African country where he goes about once a month with a fleet of artics to capture wild animals for release on his ‘farm’ where they are later tracked by game hunters. On these trips he would be accompanied by his devoted gang of natives, who he called his ‘boys’. I was told he had a whole tribe living on his place and it looked almost as though he owned them the way they treated him and instantly reacted to his every word. Anyway, they seemed to respect him, even love him, just the same. We also met another chap and his son who also had Jack Russells and, after a chat at the farm we loaded the big safari truck with terriers and lurchers and an Irish terrier and were off to the bush.

By this time it was already getting hot and I wasn’t looking forward to any hard digs and mentioned this fact and suggested that we should try some smallish earths first as the ground was rock hard.

‘Don’t worry about the digging,’ said Jim, ‘the six boys in the back will see to that as they always get to eat whatever we dig out, and the heat hardly affects them.’

This was real bush country with large ant hills everywhere and herds of different animals often dashing across our path. We just seemed to wander about for the first hour and, being dead flat and each tree looking identical to the next, I was wondering how the hell they found their way about as it all looked the same to me. We pulled up at a small earth and from the moment Jim pulled up, every dog and every human unloaded so, had there been anything in there it would have been absolute chaos. Luckily, it was empty and so were the next two but when we came to another of the ‘sheep holes’, every terrier and lurcher was in to ground with a rush. Porcupine, and the whirring sound came clearly from the hole. The boys began dragging the dogs out and soon a porcupine bolted to be easily killed by one of the boys as these huge things appear to have a very soft skull. Dogs were coming out with quills in all sorts of places and porcupines bolted everywhere with the boys accounting for them like men possessed, I didn’t twig it at the time, but they were really getting in the next week’s food supply, doing the shopping in a way, for they are supposed to be very acceptable meat.

When it was all over there were half a dozen porcupines in the back of the truck and if you think of them as some sort of hedgehog, forget it. They are really big. After de-quilling the dogs, which took some time, we were off again.

A herd of springbok passed and Jim dropped one with his rifle saying that it would do for our lunch. It was quickly gutted and later hung on a tree to bleed until mealtime. I had been hinting all along that I wanted to dig a jackal so Jim found us another sheep-sized hole but this time there were tracks entering which, said Des, were definitely Jackal.

I did not see them for myself as I was taking some badly needed refreshment at the time but I should have taken notice when he only let one terrier into the place. A bad mistake on my part. Des stationed two of the boys at the entrance, but nothing bolted and he said, ‘good tracks here Eddie, you can show us how to handle one after all, I was beginning to think we were not going to find one for you.’

I walked over to the entrance but, by now, all tracks had been disturbed and I could not make anything out of them. It was obvious that porcupine had opened the hole out at some time but the one eyed bitch could not be heard baying and, after listening for some time, and having a large Scotch at the bar, which had now been officially opened, I got hold of a torch and crawled into the earth to see what was going on. The hole, dropping slightly all the time, went straight for about thirty feet until I finally came to a corner which was too small for me to enter. I could now hear the bitch baying plainly, some way in, so I back peddled all the way out, got a rope from the truck, took it back in and then measured the distance on the surface, exactly to the turn off. By this time it was midday and far too hot for me to dig so I asked Jim if the boys would mind having a go.

‘You just mark it out, and leave the rest to me.’ he replied.

I marked out a really big hole for I knew it would be at least ten feet deep, if not more. Jim then spoke to the boys in the local tongue which seemed to me to sound like ‘wunga-banga-jumy-langy’ but no sooner had he spoken than the boys had raced to the truck for tools and were digging away like good ’uns, probably only as they would have been able in such heat. I know I could not have done it.

Soon Jim was barbecuing the Springbok and I was having another Scotch before supervising the digging for I wanted the sides kept straight incase the hole began to taper to a smaller area as sometimes happens. I knew we would need plenty of room. As I watched, I smoked a cigarette and every time I put it to my lips, or flicked off the ash, the boys followed every movement then, when I flicked it away, almost finished, I almost caused a tribal war for they all wanted to get at it. When they sorted themselves out again, I offered my packet around at which Jim said that I should not have done so. He had already told them that I was ‘a great white hunter from England’, and this would be looked upon as a sign of weakness on my part! It just wasn’t done, he said.

That ground was dry as hell and those boys worked their butts off digging in tremendous heat for about three hours by which time we had eaten much of the springbok and I had drunk too much Scotch. Finally, the diggers broke through into the hole, right on the corner, at about twelve foot and after cleaning, dead level with the bottom, I got in and had a look with the torch. The hole went straight on to the bitch for about fifteen feet I guessed, for my torch only lit up about twelve feet, but she did not seem to be around another bend, at least, but we would have to tunnel in if we were to get the jackal. I climbed out and asked Jim to get the boys to tunnel on, following the hole and he spoke to the head boy, a huge strong man like a heavyweight boxer. The reply was not what we wanted. Even I knew that ‘Binka nacker-mumba-wanka!’ wasn’t positive.

‘Sorry, no tunnelling,’ said Jim ‘they don’t fancy it.’

I had another Scotch and asked Jim to use cigarettes as bribes but it was no good. It was cooler down there, so I began to tunnel myself with the boys behind to throw out the loose soil which was soft sand really and easy and, had I taken less Scotch I would have enjoyed it but I was soon suffering with sweat literally running down into my eyes. I was determined not to give up though, just to show them I wasn’t kidding about handling the jackal so I kept at it until I was too far in to throw the soil out to where the boys could clear it. I asked one of them to come further into the tunnel, but he shook his head and even Jim could not get him to change his mind. Eventually Frank came down to help me though he too was almost wetting himself in case the tunnel collapsed but after another hour I got right up to the little one eyed bitch and, fair play to her, she had kept up a steady bay all the time. Holding the torch in one hand, I took hold of her tail and drew her slowly back, still baying. As I did, a great head, like a rabid pit bull appeared around the corner and let out an almighty scream that had Frank and the boy out of the tunnel like a pair of bolting rabbits! I let the little bitch go, straight away, and she shot back in.

‘What the **** is that?’ I shouted down the tunnel, but only laughter came back. ‘Jim, Des, come and have a look at this, it’s ginormous.’ More laughter, so I crawled quickly out of the tunnel and, looking up at them all grinning down at me said, ‘Come on you ******* pass me down a gun, this is no jackal and well you know it. ‘No, no,’ said Jim, ‘no gun, I told these boys you could drag it out and you can’t let them down,’ and everyone laughed again.

‘Jim,’ I said, ‘there’s no way I can drag a thing as big as that out of a tunnel, now be fair, it could rip me to bits. Let’s have a gun and get it over with.’ But Jim only handed down another drink and insisted I at least try.

Aardwolf – Proteles cristata

Right I thought, I will show you lot, so I said I needed to dig on a bit to make room for more dogs to go in and hold it until I got a grip and after more negotiations I got Frank to come back into the tunnel again and one of the lads down into the hole. I started working around the sides of the little bitch who was now starting to dart and dive at the thing then, when I had just about made enough room I shouted back for Frank to let another dog in. In seconds, another Jack Russell rushed in and literally dived in beside the little bitch, only to be grabbed firmly by the ‘thing’, then, as it held the dog, so the bitch tried to get alongside to get a hold herself. I dug frantically at both sides to make even more room but within seconds the dog got loose and both terriers started baying frantically, side by side. I continued to widen the hole and, when I had opened it a bit more, Frank let another dog in. Another rush, another comeuppance from ‘thing’ so I finished up with three in there baying and, watching the quarry snapping and snarling back, I knew it would be one hell of a job to get them to even grab it properly let alone hold it for me to try to drag it out. I sat there for a while and shone the torch into its eyes hoping to dazzle him so that the terriers had more chance and although they tried and one or the other would hold for a moment, they were soon beaten off due to the vastly superior jaw power and tremendous strength of the animal before them. A shout came down the hole. The head boy wanted to show the others that he was not afraid to go into the tunnel so he asked if he could have a look.

‘Make sure he brings a gun with him!’ I shouted back.

Cautiously, he came in, past Frank, but he did not stay long and a minute later I was told that the second lad also wanted a look so he, too, came crawling slowly in. All of a sudden, the ‘thing’ let out one of its blood curdling screams and that guy was out of the tunnel so fast that he knocked poor Frank flat as he passed over him and they reckoned he never touched the sides of that twelve foot hole as he came out of there. Well, what was I to do? The dogs were tiring and their quarry was beating them off as if it were a game so I tried to get my spade alongside to maybe use it as a lever to help the dogs but, as it saw the spade come past the terriers it dived forward, knocking the dogs out of the way like so many skittles. It bowled me over too and I shouted to Frank to look out. He made a scramble but he too was flattened as the animal went right over him and out into the big hole where one of the boys was still shovelling sand. They reckon he now holds the world record for a vertical leap from a standing position and they would not allow him near the hole again as they said he smelled terrible! They were all shouting down the hole and the ‘thing’ just turned about and dashed in again. I could see it coming as it passed over Frank, by this time, he was flat out with his hands over his head and I dived flat too as the terriers met it half way along the tunnel. They had no effect on it and it came running over me again, and so did the terriers, back into the block end. I gathered myself up as Frank made a quick exit from the tunnel and right out of the hole and I shouted for someone to bring three fresh terriers and take away the tired ones. Brave Frank was finally persuaded to do the honours and, after some manoeuvring I managed to swap the weary dogs for the fresh although, to be honest, except for the three legged dog, they were not much use.

At one point, as I was clearing away with the spade, it dived forward again and, more by luck than judgement I momentarily held it against the side and made a grab for it with my other hand. It lunged forward, just as I let the spade go and my hand went right into its mouth. Luckily, it just sort of closed its mouth and let go so I was able to get myself loose and hold it with both hands.

‘Frank, Frank,’ I shouted, ‘I’ve got it, come and get the terriers off.’

Frank was watching further along the tunnel and, seeing it come forward made himself scarce. So that was it, in pitch darkness, I held on for grim death with the three terriers all trying to help out but only succeeding in making matters worse in the enclosed space, with all five of us rolling desperately about. The next few minutes were pretty terrifying, as you can imagine but on the other hand, it was very exciting and I am glad that it happened for it was unique, something I shall never forget. This animal fought as if it were a tiger and somehow I fought back and to this day I just don’t know how I managed to hold on to it and drag it along that tunnel, wriggling along on my back with the awful screaming ringing in the enclosed space. It’s well known that in a scrape like this, superhuman strength can come to your assistance and a little guy I once worked with, a right weakling really, threw chaps twice his size about while in some kind of a fit. Finally, with my hands all numb, I came struggling, upside down, into the hole only to be met with roars of laughter though I kept shouting at Des that I daren’t let go in case it bit me. After a bit, Des dropped down into the hole and, grabbing it from my hands, threw it out of the hole, terriers and all, where it was accounted for, eventually.

‘Right,’ I said, ‘where are we going next?’ as if I had just started out but really I was just about ready to drop from exhaustion and the after effects of the Scotch.

‘There’s a party laid on back at the farm,’ said Jim, ‘and then we’ll go lamping later on.’ But that is another story and one day I just might tell it.

In the vast continent of Africa, men are still able to be men and to follow manly pursuits unhampered by the attentions of those who will not be happy until we are all one and the same, faceless and characterless.

Editors Postscript: What animal featured in Eddie’s African article that appeared in the first issue of Earth Dog-Running Dog, April 1992? Wild guesses poured in, ranging from a warthog to a giraffe (yes, a giraffe!), from a cape wild dog to a hyena. Somehow, in the editing (for some of Eddie’s comments were unprintable!) the animals identity was overlooked. So what was it? An aardwolf! About the size of a large lurcher though Eddie says it was as big as a lion! Must have been the whiskey!

Obituary
Eddie Chapman

Cover No.301

Eddie Chapman passed away on July 7th surrounded by his close family, daughter Louise and son Ed. He was 74 years of age.
A great character has departed the hunting stage and the scene of the working terrier, particularly his beloved Jack Russell breed. If ever a man mapped out his future then it was Eddie, and the future he saw before him was as a champion for his chosen terrier breed and a lifetime in hunt service. If a man can live exactly the life he chooses for all his years upon this earth then he will have achieved something special for few can claim to have done as much.

Eddie didn’t mind the hard work, the long hours, the total commitment which his way of life demanded. In fact, he enjoyed it and relished it and lived every moment to the full. He set out his goals in life as a young man, pursued his aims and met his targets and along the way he made, worldwide, a huge host of true friends and established his world famous Foxwarren kennel of pure bred, true breeding Jack Russells. And he did it with an open honesty for though hunt service may often mean subjecting your opinion and view to the will of others, he was always his own man and ever prepared to put forward that view and stand by his opinion.

For many years I had little contact with Eddie for our paths rarely crossed but we always kept in touch, more regularly over the last five or six years and he told me that he was working on his biography and would like me to put it all together and handle its publication. He mentioned that his original intention had been for someone to write it for him because he did not want to be involved in the publication but then, for personal reasons he decided to do it himself. He was more than capable of doing that. Who could have done it any better than the man himself? I told him that I would see to it. I also told him that I would write a foreword because I wanted his book to include details of his soldier father and the esteem he was held in at the village of his birth. His father won the Victoria Cross in the Second World War and if you read the citation, no one was ever more deserving of his country’s premier award for valour. He was truly a hero throughout his life and held in the highest regard by all who knew him and I told Eddie that in his own way, he was also a hero. And also held in the highest regard. For by then Eddie knew that his days were limited and I wanted him to have some idea of the way we admired him and all he had achieved with his life. For his achievements were not the achievements of great statesmen or premiers or politicians or establishment figures we look up to who, all too often turn out to be flawed and unworthy. No, Eddie achieved the pride and satisfaction of a job well done and in so doing he won the admiration and friendship of so many people.

He faced his last weeks, his last days, with wonderful fortitude and the last time I spoke to him he was even then writing and trying, in vain, to complete the last chapter of his book and he told me, quite cheerfully, that he had had a good life and had enjoyed it. Another sign of the heroism handed down from his magnificent father.

Eddie, like his father, was small in stature but a giant in his journey through life. I told Eddie that in his case, the apple fell very closely to the tree and I think that toward the end of his life, that pleased him. I owe it to him to make sure that his book, though lacking his final chapter, will be a fitting record of his life and a final tribute to the man.

David Harcombe

Explosive Digging

Picture
There was a meet of the Cattistock foxhounds one day, at the head of the Sydling Valley, late in my second season there. Hounds found quickly in some gorses at the head of the valley. After a long hunt, running the length of the valley the fox turned right, going up over the top of the downs in the direction of the Frome valley. The downs there about are mostly of chalk and flint, with the tops of the downs being mainly corn ground. By this I mean large fields of up to eighty to a hundred acres. About half way over the top of those downs, with a long hunt on the cards, the fox ran into a small wood that I had never been too before, in fact I never even new it existed, the hounds marking in a deep looking chalk badger set at the base of a steep bank in the middle of that small wood.
The Master, in his first season with the Cattistock, hated a fox going to ground if there was any chance of the hounds catching it, and this fox he assured me later, was slowing up fast as he made it, just in time to that badger set. As a sort of punishment the master would always say, ‘Kill It’, especially if it looked a deep and difficult place, probably in his mind trying to teach me a lesson about earth stopping. However, even during my second season with that hunt, there were literally hundreds of such earths in that hunt country that I still didn’t know about. Anyway, as this set was maybe a half mile on from the last earth I had stopped at the bottom of the valley, I thought I had done well to get a hunt that far.

As luck would have it they marked that fox in that big chalk set, just after I had first acquired my first fifteen foot bleeper, so although it looked deep in chalk, I was fairly confident that it wouldn’t run to over fifteen feet.
Arriving at the earth it looked a strait forward place, having about ten holes, all on the same level at the base of that steep bank. There were big mounds of chalk at each entrance, so it was clear it was an old established set that had probably been there for several hundred years.
As usual the master was a little pissed off, so, ‘Kill It’, was the order, as he called the hounds out, then trotted off, leaving me to deal with the fox.

To be honest I wasn’t that dismayed at the prospect of tackling such a place, for I had two good bolting bitches in my truck that were guaranteed to ignore the badgers and stick to a fox exclusively. The only worry I really had was if the fox was able to get in behind a badger, or two or three for that matter, as the place was obviously full of them. Luckily it had taken me some time to get to the earth, as I had to make several detours around huge corn fields to get there, so with the hounds marking loudly at the one hole they were at, I was hoping it might have scarred the badgers a bit so they may have gone off to some block ends, and maybe put up a wall of chalk, in doing so making it impossible for the fox to get in behind them.

However, I felt rather confident that at least I could get one of those bitches right onto the fox from the start, as the hounds had only marked at that one hole, the very first hole in the line of ten just inside the wood. Out came the net bag and I netted up the ten holes, then to be sure they were the only holes to the set, I walked up to the top of the bank to scan that area, just in case there were any bolt holes anywhere. What I found came as something of a shock, something that at that time I had never seen before. To begin with the flat ground above that steep bank looked devoid of any tell tale turn out, but on closer inspection, just ten or twelve feet out onto that flat ground revealed what I can best describe as chimney’s, or vertical holes, that ran down to a depth of about ten feet. They were holes that had been dug from beneath, with all the turn out dragged out onto the mounds lower down. That though was just the start, for there were probably a dozen or more of them, all like twelve inch vertical pipes. Now I began to panic a bit, for I was there on my own, so if I had to dig, it was going to be a deep and long one. With only a couple of nets left after covering the bottom holes, I decided to fill the chimneys with sticks and take a chance on a quick bolt. After blocking them all up I went and got the young bitch Scatter. After putting my new fifteen foot bleeper on her, I made sure it was working properly before taking her to the hole where the hounds had marked, then slipped her under the net. She didn’t need encouragement and was gone in a flash. After a few second re setting the net properly, I began following her with the bleeper. It was as I had thought, going up over the bank she was moving about at a depth of about ten feet. After about three laps around that top level ground, she suddenly went down the bank, ending up just below one of the turn out mounds. I put my ear to the ground and could hear her plainly baying about five feet down. I stood for a moment wondering if I should begin digging, then ‘Whoosh’ the fox hit the net where I had entered the bitch. Dashing to it a bit sharpish, I got my boot onto its neck, as Scatter appeared at the entrance. Leave it, I ordered, and like the true professional she was, she just stood there, almost like a pointer, staring at the fox under my boot. I took my humane killer out of my Barbour pocket and put in a bullet to finish the job, much I might add, to my relief. That set, its size and location, stayed on my mind for some time afterwards. It would be time consuming to stop up every time we were anywhere near that area, and stop it I would have too, otherwise I’d be in for a bollocking if we ever ran in there again. After a time I decided that I had no choice but to get rid of the set completely, so I made a plan, although I knew I would have to wait until well after the hunting had finished to carry out that plan. What I did in the mean time was to deliver at least a dozen five gallon cans there, either made of plastic or tin. Then I went there one day with my chain saw and, as there were several fallen, or half fallen fir trees in that wood, I cut them up into ten foot lengths, trimming off any small branches so I knew they would fit down into the chimneys. A few weeks after hunting ended, several lads came to visit to help me get rid of some badgers. They were all good digging lads who all seemed to have at least one good staying badger dog they wanted to work. However, I told them that before we went badger digging properly, we had an earth to get rid of, an earth that I made clear would take several hours of hard work in order to make a good job of. I always had to give credit to those lads, and other lads too, who came to me over and over to help me cut down on the badger population in that hunt country, for no matter what I asked of them, they always seemed full of enthusiasm. We drove to that set, and they walked onto it, which I assured them they could, without disturbing the badgers, which was something I was normally against. Disturbing the badgers I mean. There were low rumblings and statements being made of deep hard digs, that might take several hours, if not days to complete before we could start blocking the place up permanently. I was expecting such reactions of course, for the set did look quite daunting to say the least.

‘Right lads,’ I informed them. ‘What we are going to do is to stink out the badgers so they vacate the set, and I have just the thing here that will do the job nicely.’
They all looked at me with confused expressions, so I began to explain to them what I had in mind.
Many years before, while I was a second horseman at the Heythrop, I had befriended the hunt terrier there at the time, Charles Parker. After endless conversations with him, I had made it clear to him that my ultimate goal in hunt service was to become a professional hunt terrier man, at one of the more prominent riding packs who could afford the services of a professional terrier man.
Charles Parker was not an easy man to converse with, particularly for someone like me who was from a Welsh coal mining background. However, there was one bit of advice he had given me that I never forgot, advice he insisted was essential for a professional hunt terrier man to remember.

I bet you are all wondering what the hell I’m going to say next. However, I assure you it was the best bit of advice he could have given me.
‘If you ever get the chance to become a professional hunt terrier man,’ he told me. ‘Your main task will be to make sure that every earth is stopped throughout the area you intend to hunt on any given day. If the hunt country you take on is heavily infested with badgers, then you will have to cut down on their numbers drastically, otherwise you will never be able to stop up an area big enough for a days hunting. If there are lots of big deep sets, don’t waist your time and energy trying to dig them out, so you can cut down on the number of sets in an area. Its best to stink out the bigger sets so the badgers vacate them. Then, when they move into smaller earths that are quick to dig, small earths that you purposely leave undisturbed, they will be easy to get rid of.’

He also gave me a list of smelly substances that badgers don’t like, the most effective I found to be the smell given off by damp carbide, or in the dictionary, calcium carbide. It looks like small pieces of coal, is quite safe to handle, but when wet it gives off a flammable gas that smells something awful. Its what they used in bicycles lamps years ago to give off a small flame in the dark. One little peace of carbide put in your headlamp, then add one droplet of water and it would instantly give off a gas that you could put a match too, so that it gave off a light. That’s about the best way I can describe it. Anyway there was a small sort of factory unit in the Cattistock hunt country at the time called, ‘Young’s Of Misterton’. They made nets and every kind of trap you could think of, they even sold badger tongs at the time. They also sold carbide, and I bought it by the bucket full, especially for stinking out big badger sets.

So that’s what I brought out of the back of my truck, a bag full of carbide. It was a simple procedure, I gave each chap a hole to work on, telling them to dig out the entrance to a depth of five or six feet, so a five gallon can could then be rammed into it. However, just before placing the can into the hole, a handful of carbide would be thrown into the hole as far as I could throw it, then about a cup full of water thrown in on top of it. The hole would then be blocked up with the can and, the hole filled with chalk or soil and tamped in hard with a big bar that had a big flange on the end of it so the soil or chalk became hard and air tight. The whole hole would then be filled, with the whole turn out from outside the hole, piled up on top of it then tamped down hard. That was done with every hole. The chimneys though would have carbide dropped down into them, then after adding a little water, the logs were lowered down into them, with loose earth thrown in to seal up the hole and keep the smelly gas down in there. It actually worked a treat and, two days later we went back to check the place, finding two holes that had been dug to the surface about ten feet below the line of original holes at the base of the bank.
To make sure the place had been vacated, I threw another handful of carbide into each hole, then another bit of water just to get the fumes going. I didn’t block them up though, but instead just placed sticks over both entrances. We then went on to try any small earths in that area, most of which I knew were unoccupied. I believe we dug over twenty that morning, none of which was deeper than two foot or so. Returning to the big set a couple of days later, there was no sign of any other holes having been dug out, and the sticks I had placed over the two new entrances had not been disturbed either. A good job was then made of blocking up those two new entrances, and that set then went dead for the next year and a half, as I always made a point of checking it anyway just in case, if we were meeting in the vicinity.

Before leaving the subject of using carbide to stink out badger sets, I think I should relate an incident while using that material, that back fired on me, literally. There was a difficult chalk and flint set that ran to about twelve feet deep, on the side of a hill at the top of a valley called ‘Charity Bottom’. There were about fifteen holes to it, so again, rather than waste a day or maybe even two digging the place to get rid of the badgers, I decided to stink them out with carbide, to persuade them to move into a couple of very shallow earths just a hundred yards away where they would be easy to get at without much effort.

I had a friend staying with me at the time, so between us we did the business on about a dozen of those holes like we usually did, putting carbide in first then ramming a five gallon drum down into the hole before making a good job a of blocking it up tight. After cleaning out the next hole down to about five feet so a drum could be rammed down in there, I then threw a handful of carbide into the hole, then a cup full of water onto it. The gas started to rise off the carbide quite quickly so I grabbed the can and went to push it down into the hole so the smelly gas didn’t escape, but on my first try the drum didn’t quite fit, so I gave it a thump with my spade. Big mistake. The spade hit a flint, that caused a spark, igniting the carbide, which exploded like a cannon going off. The metal can, plus several flints came out of the hole with a huge bang, and a big bang too, hitting me full in the face, sending me flying backwards for at least ten feet. I have no idea why, but when I hit the ground, I somehow retained my faculties. As I tried to get my elbows under me to try and get up, I could see my companion look at me. One can only imagine how I looked. But my friend was instantly overcome with shock, his legs giving way as he slumped to the ground, thinking I had been killed by the blast. I struggled to my feet, knowing quite well that I had just sustained the full force of a quite violent explosion. My first thought was that I had ripped open my wind pipe, which proved to be right, for when I looked in the wing mirror of my truck I could see clearly that there was a huge hole in my throat were my larynx should have been. For whatever reason I was able to keep my composure, I have no idea why, but I suppose survival instinct took over, so I grabbed my friend, helping him into my truck, then I drove off down the valley towards a gate that would take me out onto a road I knew would take me towards a hospital in Dorchester. I got it wrong of course, for I should have turned left towards Yeovil. Yeovil was where there was an accident and emergency service. I drove into Dorchester and saw sign for ‘Hospital’, so I followed the signs until I reached the hospital, then just walked in, ignoring the sign that said they had no accident or emergency service. They took one look at me and gave me a bed, then phoned for a surgeon to come from Weymouth to operate on me, putting in upwards of eighty stitches in my face and throat.
It was just after that explosive episode that II received a phone call from an old friend, Alfie Edmonds, from the Chiddingfold, Lecondfield and Cowdray country.

One winter’s afternoon, hounds found a fox above Maiden Newton and, to begin with, they hunted it well. After a few miles it crossed several big fields that had been planted with corn. The ground was dry and hard so the scent soon became patchy, then almost none existent. The Master persevered though, slowly casting hounds forward in the hope that sooner or later they would come to a grass field were the scent might improve. He ended up about two fields away from that small wood on top of the downs were I’d got rid of that bad badger set. With the scent gone completely he made the decision to cast forward onto that small wood, for it had been in that direction the fox had been headed just before the scent ran out. I remember watching him from a distance as he got off his horse and walked into the wood. No sound came from the hounds, so I still felt quite confident that they hadn’t marked there. I drove to the wood and went in to see for myself if any holes had been re opened.
None of the original holes had been touched but, at the bottom of a ditch that had been dug to make the boundary fence around the wood, a new hole had been dug, and the Master was stood by it hoping the hounds would mark at it. They didn’t, but he was adamant that a couple of hounds had shown some interest in it so he wanted me to try a terrier. Off he went with the pack to draw for a fresh fox, as I looked down into this quite small hole with a torch, it had obviously been dug down to one of the tubes from the old set that at that point ran close to the surface. The hole looked really fresh, and was just strait down to a tube that ran below at about three feet.

I placed a net over the hole then went and got a good dog I had bought about a year or so before off Edmund Porter, at The Eskdale and Ennerdale. I was told by another hunt terrier man who happened to be hunting in The Fells at the same time as I was, that the dog was “no good”. Having been brought up with the hot bitches in the kennel’s, his only interest seemed to be legging the bitches when out with the pack. But I had seen the dog in kennels on his own, and I knew how he was bred, so I took my chances and, although he was a lot of money I bought him. Once away from the hounds that first summer, he turned into a first class worker to badger, then later he was just as good to fox, finding in most cases very quickly in the biggest of earths. His name was Rebel and it was he I tried at that single hole that was probably about twenty feet or so away from the nearest original hole from that set. As Rebel had proved on a number of occasions, he was very clever at putting a great deal of pressure on a fox with just his voice, so they usually bolted quite quickly. With this in mind, I made the mistake of just standing back quietly for a few minutes in anticipation of a quick bolt. We all make mistakes and mine that day was a bad one. After about five minutes I decided to find out where he was with the bleeper, first trying close to the hole then further and further afield. After probably twenty minutes I had covered the whole area where the set had been, even going out into the field on the other side of the bank and ditch where the hole was, but wherever I seemed to go I couldn’t make contact with him. Then I decided on a plan, I always had a plan. The plan was to make sweeping turns around the perimeter of where the set had been, six feet further out with each sweep of the ground. Finally, when probably forty yards away from the nearest of the chimneys I got him on the box at about six feet deep. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Obviously glad to have found him at last, I felt a great surge of relief. Then it dawned on me that I was now going to have to dig him out on my own and, knowing that the chalk there about would be riddled with flints, it was going to be an extremely hard flog, made even harder as the ground was bone dry.

Anyway I went to my truck and, after a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches, I took all my tools back to the spot. After checking with the bleeper box that he hadn’t moved I began to dig. Now chalk and flint mixed is a deadly combination. A combination that many a good digging man will avoid if at all possible. However, I had worked out a method of coping with that kind of ground, so at least I could make some kind of progress, all be it very slowly. What I did was to drive a fork down into the chalk and flint with a sledge hammer, first tapping one side, then the other, then back and forth until the fork had sunk down to a depth that I knew I could still lever out. The broken chalk and flint was then thrown out with a spade. This may sound a bit far fetched to some, but the only alternative, which had always been used before my time, was to loosen the ground a bit at a time with a bar, for believe me, chalk and flint when dry is like trying to dig tarmac. So, I set about a hole three feet wide by six feet long which took me approximately six hours of hard graft, so it was well after dark when I broke through onto the dog. Would you believe it he was baying at a single badger, who had of course scented the old tunnel under the ground and dug down to it.