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 [email protected] .

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