DRIVEN SHOOTING | Anglo American Shooting Society

DRIVEN SHOOTING?

A DRIVEN SHOOTING PRIMER

The US and the UK are two cultures separated by a shared passion for shooting.

A British driven-bird shoot is a colourful event that falls somewhere between a medieval faire and a light-infantry maneuver: There is a handful of “officers”—that is, the team of eight to ten Guns—and 20 or 30 “enlisted.” The former, who pay dearly for the day, are often ferried about in ex-military vehicles (called gun buses); the latter, who are being paid (a pittance) for their day, travel on wagons pulled by farm tractors. Inbetween are the “sergeants,” the gamekeepers. The head keeper stands the Guns in line while sending the beaters miles away to walk back, flushing the birds toward the Guns. And well behind the line wait the pickers-up and their dogs, who are there to, well, pick up.

A gamebird on afterburners with a stiff tailwind may carry on for a very long way after it’s been shot overhead.

All this tends to scandalize American upland hunters who march abreast down cornrows or struggle through hawthorn thickets: You just stand there? And the birds come to you? And you shoot HOW MANY?

Right: Two or three hundred per day, or more—including hens. This is why it’s called shooting, not hunting. It’s a prime example of cultural disconnect between the Colonies and the Kingdom, the sort of misunderstanding that both sides love to exploit. We Americans twit them about their short pants and tweedy behavior; the Brits gall us about camo and Texas heart shots—shooting birds up the bum as they try to flee.

IT'S SHOOTING, NOT HUNTING

A thousand years ago, European aristocrats figured out how to take the labor out of la chasse: Let the serfs do the tiresome scouting and walking! Royal hunts became monumental slaughters that vacuumed up everything in their path and sometimes pushed animals against fences or into deep water, so that even the most feckless princeling couldn’t possibly miss. Wild boar and sometimes stag and even bear are still taken this way in Europe, by driving them with beaters, but elements of sportsmanship have tiptoed in: A 75-yard shot on a pig dashing through thick cover is never easy. No more corrals or water traps, either.

This is why it’s called shooting, not hunting. In Britain, “hunting” is Oscar Wilde’s “unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable”; that is, country squires and ladies galloping after foxes. (Pursuing deer with a rifle is called stalking.)

Shooting driven gamebirds—pheasant, partridge or red grouse, as done in Britain, Ireland, Spain, France, Eastern Europe and now sporadically in New Zealand, America and even Morocco—apparently began in the Hungarian Empire during the muzzle-loading era and migrated westward to the United Kingdom. There, the Prince of Wales (the one who was the son of Queen Victoria) became the sport’s biggest fan.

In 1862, he bought a 20,000-acre estate in Norfolk, northeast of London, called Sandringham and began to groom it for shooting. (“Bertie” had to wait until 1901 to become Edward VII, so he had plenty of time for recreation.)

The addiction spread, and the great shoots of the Victorian and Edwardian eras followed. This drove the English game gun and wingshooting technique to rarified heights. Then the Great War killed off half of Britain’s gunmakers and a third of their clients, and that festive, financially ruinous lifestyle slowly ground down.

Today, however, driven shooting has recovered and, although still pricey, democracy has taken over: Titles, land or position are no longer required; about anyone with the cash can play. There’s a shoot at the end of every country lane in the UK now, and once again it’s become the thing to do. Furthermore, slaughter is out, skill is in.

This means ignoring the 20-yard floaters in favor of the “cheeky bastards” that climb into low earth orbit before transiting the gun line.

Or something in between; a good gamekeeper can quickly take the temperature of a team and then—within limits—show them birds that they should be able to reach. (Pheasants, partridge or ducks, that is; red grouse are another matter entirely. Grouse will do their own thing, low and fast, and best of luck to all.) Be they 30- or 50-yard birds, Guns should shoot at or just beyond their ability, and somewhere between three and seven cartridges per bird usually ensures that the clients go home satisfied.

There are, however, estates, often in Wales or the West Country, where inexperienced teams may need more cartridges than that. Guns must show some judgment, too. Those who poke only at the archangels leave behind lightly wounded food for the foxes and raptors—and then may whine that they didn’t get the day’s bag they paid so dearly for.

Driven well, a pack of birds leaves the ground, comes over a stand of trees or a hilltop and approaches the Gun line at speed, and then the individuals curl on the wind at all angles. Late-season birds know what’s up, too, and take evasive action. Picking a proper target and connecting, then moving on to the next one and doing it again is, outside the pigeon ring, the greatest challenge in shooting-flying.

BUT THOSE SHORT PANTS!

The business with the short pants, also misunderstood in America, begins with mud. The UK is notably green, thus wet, thus often muddy. Farm machinery and livestock may chew up extra mud. The Congo in the rainy season has nothing on a British farm for mud. (Shooting estates, grand as the term sounds, are mainly farms, and a lot of your barons and viscounts and such are really farmers.) The best way to deal with deep mud, the traversing thereof on foot, is with a high and waterproof boot: the wellie.

Early in the 19th Century, one of the most idolized figures in Britain was Field Marshal Sir Arthur Wellesley, ennobled for his army service (he stopped Napoleon, et al.) as the first Duke of Wellington by George III. His name became attached to the high, tasseled leather boots worn by military officers of the day. These evolved, on the one hand, into cowboy boots and, on the other, into the muck boots known as Wellingtons, or wellies. Cynics say that only the English could with a straight face sell zip-up rubber boots for $400; but the most popular ones come from France (payback for Wellington and Waterloo?) and a good pair may show no significant wear after 20 seasons.

Now the short pants: If trousers were to hang outside these boots, their cuffs would get soaked and muddy; but trousers tucked into boots bunch up uncomfortably. Generations ago, some bright fellow cut his trousers short and pulled his socks up over the ends before pulling on his boots. Ta-da!

The British term for these useful garments is breeks, which is just Scottish for trousers. In the UK, then, breeks and wellies are perfect for shooting. In America, “knickers”—from the abbreviated trousers worn by Washington Irving’s fictional New York aristocracy of Dutch descent, the Knickerbockers—are an awkward emblem of boyhood, something that early-20th Century males sought to outgrow as quickly as possible. In Britain, however, knickers are something else entirely: those unmentionables that are not to be gotten into a twist.

Breeks fit like ordinary trousers; plus-twos are breeks cut slightly wider and longer, with about two inches of fabric to drape over the boot-top; and plus-fours are longer yet. The extra length makes climbing over fences easier, and it encourages rain to drip off the overhanging fold rather than seep down the trouser leg and into the boot.

Flashes, those colorful bands that shooters tie around their legs below the knees and above their wellies, are actually garters. Wrapped twice and knotted at the side, with the stockings folded down over them and the breeks fastened below the fold, they help keep stockings up and breeks down. Today, given synthetic-blend stockings that hold their stretch, flashes are more decorative than useful—think of them as the tassels from the Duke’s original leather boots—and it’s better to leave them away entirely than to wear them incorrectly. (More and more Brits don’t seem to know how to wear them, either.)

WHY CAN'T I SHOOT MY GAS GUNS?

Only break-action shotguns are allowed on driven shoots. As with “knickers,” this is not just upper-class pretension. Where dozens of people (some with guns), dogs and vehicles are gathered, C3—command, control & communication—is critical and safety is the prime concern. The dopiest Gun, buzzed from too much sloe gin at elevenses (see below), can instantly render his or her gun safe by thumbing the toplever and letting

the barrels drop open, and any gamekeeper or shoot captain can see from a hundred yards away who’s truly safe. The beaters also like to feel secure when they step into the open and finish their advance; the no-more-shooting horn may have blown, but it’s always good to see open, safe guns. Or Guns.

Rate of fire is the other chief reason for double guns. Contrary to popular belief in the US, Brits do not turn up their noses at single-barrel repeaters because they can shoot five or six times. No. Safety concerns aside, it’s because they only shoot five or six times—and then have to be laboriously reloaded. A break-action double speaks but twice, yet it can be recharged in seconds; and a pair of guns supported by a loader can keep up a relentless barrage until the cartridges run out. (A pair of guns should be identical in every respect, so they handle the same way, for both shooter and loader.)

In truth, an ejector gun and a stuffer—a loader who reaches over your elbow to pop two shells into the open breeches of your gun—is almost as fast as shooting a pair, but alternating between two guns halves the wear on each.

(In Spain, where a driven day may run to a thousand partridge or more, a trio of guns mostly ensures that two remain if one fails.)

Except on driven grouse, where we have to seize every opportunity, pairs of guns aren’t needed for daily bags of even 300 birds, but shooting this way—the “double-gun dance” with a loader—can be tremendously satisfying, not to say justification for buying another shotgun. A skilled loader or stuffer can refine our technique too, by cultivating good habits from the start: “A bit behind, sir!” “Low bird, sir!” “On the right—your bird, sir!” “Oh, very nice! What a day we’re going to have!”.

PEG PICKING

A day usually consists of five drives, in different parts of an estate, and Guns draw lots for pegs, their numbered positions in the line. If someone has a slow drive because he or she had little to shoot at, next time he stands somewhere else in the line according to the gamekeeper’s rotation—often, “You’ll move up two positions on each drive.”

The lines of pegs are laid out across the birds’ likely path, so everyone wants to be in the middle, but depending on wind, sun, noise and one’s astrological sign, the birds may decide to swarm one end of the line or the other instead. By day’s end, however, each Gun will have stood everywhere along the line and the odds of getting a hot peg should have evened out. The only downside is that if the Gun to your left insists on shooting at your birds, he’ll be on your left most of the day.

POACHING

Strictly speaking, “your” birds are the ones that approach within 45 degrees to either side of you. “Poaching” is shooting birds outside this zone—that is, your neighbour’s birds. Keeping in mind Rule No. 4 of the Anglo American Shooting Society (“Poach with honour!”), remember that poaching can work both ways.

IT'S NOT JUST FOR 12-BORES

The 12-gauge gun is still the standard on driven shoots, but this is evolving. Many years ago, when we first pulled a 28-bore out of our gunslip, the keeper was horrified: “Sir, toss that thing in the ditch and get yourself a proper gun!” Today, on partridge days and grouse moors 28s are almost common, at least in the hands of top shots, and we know one Gen-Xer who does unnervingly well with a 32-inch .410. On pheasant days, 20-bore guns may show up almost as often as 12s. Part of the “secret” to smallbores, just as in all wingshooting, is the cartridges. The rest of it is that lighter, quicker shotguns can be useful on fast, agile birds, while more deliberate guns with heavier shot loads help kill taller birds on steadier trajectories. By the way, it was Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army, around 1650, that settled on 12-gauge as the standard for its muskets.

'ELEVENSES'?

Yes, it’s true: Alcohol and gunpowder will mix. This occurs during “elevenses,” the ceremonial hiatus in a morning’s sport that Americans would call a “snack.” It takes some time for the beaters to regroup after the first drive and the Guns are still a bit cobwebby from the night before, so we take a break. Another coffee, not to say a biscuit or a sausage roll, goes down well; and a touch of the grain or the grape—sloe gin or champagne—helps loosen the brain and the muscles.

In America, this equates with devil worship or socialism; in Britain, it’s a wee dose of civilization. Of course, too much “civilization” can do away with too many inhibitions, so the gamekeeper and the shoot captain keep an eye on everyone’s intake. We may all be adults here, but safety is paramount.

That’s the thing throughout, in fact. The worst infraction a Gun can commit, even worse than not wearing a tie, is shooting low and pricking one of the beaters. (Let’s not even mention swinging too far left or right and hammering your neighbor, who may be only 30 yards away. Poaching doesn’t merit capital punishment.) Once in a while, a newbie—maybe an upland hunter who’s programmed to shoot at everything that shows in front—just can’t stop doing this. If a warning isn’t enough, he or she will be sent back to the gun bus.

THE DRESS CODE

While wearing a necktie is not as grounded in practicality as breeks and wellies, a tie is a mark of distinction and ultimately respect. Bespoke tweed shooting suits show up less frequently these days—olive-drab rainproofs are more the routine now—but a collared shirt and some form of cravat persists. A driven-game day is a special occasion, freighted not only with a hefty price tag but also significant responsibility and centuries of tradition. We should not lose sight of the fact that this is an ultimate—we would say the ultimate—form of shooting-flying. Some standards still do apply.