Pheasants, Dogs, and Long Necks - An Atterbury Tale

The Macho Man Chronicles - Volume 2

The frost-bitten grass crunched beneath our boots as we trudged through the early morning haze, the mist clinging to the earth like a stubborn memory. Pops led the way, his steps steady and deliberate, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the rising sun. Atterbury Army Base stretched out before us, a mix of wild untamed fields and orderly reminders of its military past. This was hallowed ground for hunters, a place where the ghosts of soldiers and pheasants mingled in the crisp Indiana air.

"Hell of a place," Blackie grumbled, his voice rich and steady, as he stroked his bushy black beard. A Vietnam vet and artillery man, he carried himself with a wiry resilience. Pops had been his best friend since they were kids growing up in Brooklyn, Indiana. To Blackie, Pops had always been "Whales," a playful spin on our last name. In my youth, I was "Lil’ Whales," a nickname that eventually evolved into the more endearing "Robbie." Together, Pops and Blackie were the stuff of legend—two old-timers who knew how to hunt and didn’t care much for amateurs with flashy gear and unruly dogs. Pops’ own bushy brown beard, now streaked with gray, twitched slightly as he grinned at Blackie’s remark.

Behind them, I carried a quiet confidence. Being home on leave from the Navy, these fields felt as familiar to me as the hum of a submarine’s reactor. I’d hunted here since I was a boy. Chad, my younger brother by six years, was another story. A senior in high school, this was his first trip to Atterbury. While he was a solid hunter, this was his first experience with pen-raised birds. The whole idea seemed to amuse him.

"I’m telling you, Chad," I said with a grin, "these birds are practically farm-raised. It’s like shooting chickens."

Chad laughed. "I guess that explains why you’re so good at this kind of hunting."

"Fair enough," I replied. "But don’t let your guard down. Even these birds will surprise you."

"Used to be you didn’t have to worry about hunting pen-raised birds," Pops said, his tone reflective. "Indiana was lousy with wild pheasant and quail back in the day."

"What happened?" Chad asked, genuinely curious.

"A lot of things," Blackie interjected, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "The Blizzard of '78, for one. That winter killed off so many of them—birds couldn’t find food or shelter."

Pops nodded. "And then farming practices changed. Used to be a lot more no-till farming, which left food and cover for the birds. Now, it’s clean fields and efficient equipment. Doesn’t leave much behind for wildlife."

"Plus, urban sprawl," I added. "Every year, we lose more habitat. Fields turn into subdivisions or shopping malls."

"And predators," Blackie said. "Coyotes, raccoons—hell, even feral cats. You get fewer birds, but the predators don’t go away. They pick off what’s left."

Chad looked thoughtful. "So, hunting pen-raised birds is...what? A way to keep the tradition alive?"

Pops smiled. "Exactly. It’s not the same as wild hunting, but it keeps the dogs working, the skills sharp, and the stories flowing. Keeps the dogs ready for our pheasant hunting trips to South Dakota and those grouse hunts up in Michigan."

The heart of the operation, though, lay in the lithe forms of Rex and Mecca, their English Setters. Rex, the male, was a stoic workhorse, while Mecca, the female, moved with an almost playful elegance. Pops and Blackie owned the dogs jointly, a testament to their decades-long partnership. These were no ordinary mutts; they were finely tuned bird-finding machines, their noses sharper than Blackie’s wit.

We started our morning at the Biscuit Junction, a greasy spoon that smelled of bacon grease and stale coffee. It was the kind of place where time slowed down, where old-timers swapped lies about the one that got away, and where we laid out our strategy for the day.

"Two pheasant limit per hunter," Pops reminded us, stabbing his fork into a pile of eggs. "That’s eight birds total. But don’t go thinking it’ll be easy, Chad. You’ve got to let the dogs do their job."

"Got it," Chad said, though his expression suggested he still found the idea of pen-raised birds a little amusing.

Blackie leaned back, his coffee cup in hand. "You’ll see all sorts out there today. Amateurs with shit-eating dogs that couldn’t find a bird if it was gift-wrapped. Just stay close to Whales and me. We’ll clean up after the chaos."

I chuckled. "Sounds like a war zone out there, doesn’t it?"

Blackie’s eyes twinkled. "Hell, it’s safer in a war zone. At least there’s some discipline."

After the Atterbury check-in, the field quickly became a spectacle. Over a hundred hunters and their dogs crowded the area, creating an orchestra of barking, whistling, and human chatter. Rex and Mecca stood out, their sleek coats gleaming in the morning light, their demeanor calm and focused.

Before the hunt officially started, Blackie’s booming voice cut through the noise. "What’s the spirit of the bayonet?" he yelled; his grin as broad as ever.

Without hesitation, we all shouted back, "To kill! To kill!" The words rang out with a mix of laughter and nostalgia, a tradition borrowed from Blackie’s Vietnam days that had somehow become ours. Even Chad cracked a smile, caught up in the moment.

"Damn right," Blackie said, stroking his beard. "Now let’s show these rookies how it’s done."

"Let the rookies rush in and waste their shots," Pops said, watching the chaos unfold. "We’ll hang back and pick up the leftovers. Clean hunting."

And so, we waited. We knew better than to be in the first wave—let the amateurs stir things up, miss their shots, and leave the field to us. Sure enough, the first line of hunters surged forward, their dogs darting in every direction. The air exploded with the sound of flushing pheasants, and a flurry of poorly aimed shots followed.

Suddenly, five or six cocks turned tail and flew backwards—right toward us.

"Incoming!" I shouted, ducking as a spray of buckshot peppered the ground near us.

Blackie hit the dirt, his face a mixture of shock and exasperation. "You damn fools trying to kill the birds or us?!" he yelled toward the hunters ahead.

Pops stood up, brushing off his coat. "Might wanna read the manual on aiming next time!" he hollered. "And quit shooting like blindfolded drunks!"

Chad was laughing so hard he could barely hold his shotgun. "I think one of them just tried to hit the sun!"

"Well, they missed that too!" Blackie muttered, still shaking his head. "God help us if any of these guys get a license to drive."

Despite the chaos, the birds kept coming, oblivious to the amateur-hour antics ahead of us. Rex and Mecca were ready, their bodies tense as they pointed toward the nearest patch of brush. Pops steadied himself, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Alright," he said. "Let’s clean this mess up."

The rest of the hunt unfolded bird by bird, each moment worth retelling. It started with Blackie calling out, "Dogs are getting birdy," as Rex froze mid-step, his tail rigid like a flagpole. Mecca followed suit, both dogs pointing toward the brush. Blackie eased forward, his Remington 870 shotgun at the ready. "Easy, Rex. Easy, Mecca," he murmured, before stepping into the brush. A cock pheasant exploded into the air, its two-note cackle piercing the morning stillness. Blackie’s shot was clean, and the bird dropped gracefully. Rex retrieved it with pride, tail wagging as he brought it back.

Next up was Pops’ double. Rex and Mecca each locked onto separate birds, their stances mirroring one another. Pops grinned, raising his shotgun. "Think I got a double here, boys," he said. Chad and I swung wide to cover his flanks. The first bird flushed directly in front of him, and Pops dropped it with practiced ease. The second shot nearly straight up, tail feathers rattling as it climbed. Pops pivoted, firing again, and Mecca leapt to catch it almost before it hit the ground. Pops let out a triumphant laugh. "Double! That’s how it’s done, boys!"

Chad got his moment shortly after. A bird flushed so close to him that he almost jumped back. He raised his shotgun and fired, the pheasant folding in mid-air. "Nice work, kid!" I said, clapping him on the back. "But I think you scared it to death first." Chad grinned. "At least I didn’t miss."

By the time we hit our eight-bird limit, the dogs were still eager, tails wagging as they worked the field. Each bird had been retrieved with precision, and every shot came with its own story and a round of banter. I had the honor of taking the final bird. Rex locked onto it first, his body taut with anticipation, while Mecca followed suit just behind him. I eased forward, my shotgun raised, and gave a quick glance at Pops and Blackie, who nodded in silent encouragement. The bird flushed hard, its cackle slicing through the cool air as it darted toward the edge of the field. I tracked it, squeezed the trigger, and the bird folded mid-flight. Mecca was on it in seconds, retrieving it with a bounce in her step. "Nice one, Robbie," Pops said with a grin. "That’s how you close a hunt." Blackie couldn’t resist one last jab at the rookies ahead of us. "If any of those amateurs try ground-swatting one more time, I’m gonna hand them a broom and call it pest control."

Once home in Green Township, we set to work cleaning the birds in Pops' garage, the air rich with the smell of feathers and fresh game. A cooler of long-neck Budweisers sat nearby, its contents steadily diminishing as the stories flowed.

"That first bird," Blackie began, wiping his hands on a rag, "Rex was locked in so tight, I thought he was going to vibrate himself to death. I swear, if I hadn’t flushed that bird when I did, Rex might’ve done it himself."

"You’re not wrong," I said, laughing. "But that double Pops hit—that was art. Especially the second one, flying straight up like a rocket."

Pops grinned, leaning back on a stool with his beer in hand. "What can I say? Some things just get better with age." He paused, raising his bottle. "Here’s to Rex and Mecca. Best damn dogs in the state."

Chad nodded, his face alight with pride. "And to a hell of a first hunt. I’ll never forget that bird flushing right at my feet. Scared me half to death, but I got it."

Blackie raised his beer. "To tradition, boys. And to not getting shot by rookies."

The laughter rolled through the room, a fitting end to the day. For us, hunting wasn’t just about the birds. It was about the dogs, the camaraderie, and the fleeting moments that made it all worthwhile. In that moment, surrounded by family and friends, I couldn’t help but think—we’d just lived another story worth telling.