From MY FORTY YEARS IN AFRICA: by John F. Burger.

He was writing about the lies some people write about Africa.


�Woodhouse� was knocked down and the lion seized him by the wrist, tearing his shoulder open with its claws. The lion then lay on top of him whilst I rushed up an instantly placed the muzzle of my rifle within two inches in the region of the lion�s heart and discharged it. It was a heavy gun and of large caliber(14), but he took no notice of the shot. Woodhouse then , said: �Try another rifle�, alluding to his own. There were three rifles lying around which I took up and, one after the other, cocked and snapped at the beast�s head, but with no result. I had no alternative than to proceed in quest of my other gun. It took me some time to obtain it and load it; I, however, at last got my Joe Manton fowling piece. It was only a 19 bore) but carried ball well, and with this I returned towards the spot where Woodhouse lay with the lion on top of him. Poor Woodhouse! I expected to find him dead, and I must say I thought it was a bad business as regards myself, for the brute, independent of the natural ferocity of his disposition seemed to possess a charmed life, the shot not crippling him in the slightest degree. And let it not for a moment be supposed that the guns employed were light or ill-directed. All was right in these respects, as it was shown in the sequel. .. I did not know exactly where Woodhouse lay, but advancing and looking earnestly around, I was delighted to hear his voice at my left, saying: �Come in the other direction.� My attention was instantly drawn to the spot whence the voice came, and I saw at that moment the lion�s head rising just above the grass at twenty or twenty-five yards distance. There was no time for hesitation, and in spite of Woodhouse�s caution, I seized the opportunity, and with steady aim pulled the trigger that was most likely to decide his fate as well as my own. The result was instantaneous-the beast�s head dropped like a stone; he was indeed, stone dead, the ball having passed in between the eyes to penetrate the very brain. I ran up in time to see Woodhouse draw his arm from the brute�s jaws. His arm was smashed to a pulp, his thumb hanging by a bit of skin, and the hand otherwise dreadfully bitten through. The lion, on being brought to the village, was found to have received twenty five to thirty five balls, many of them in the head, but none, with the exception of the last, had actually penetrated the brain.� .

Ouch! Poor "Woodhouse" indeed...either a damn hard-headed lion, some awfully weak cartridge choices or both. What he would have given for a decent revolver or even a large blade. Wonder how the poor buggers hands healed up...and if Burger gave any thought to where on the lion's head he was placing his shots? On most skulls, the bone is thinnest just behind the eye, of course hindsight is 20-20, but, running around looking for the right gun while your friend is being chewed on would rank high on the "Oh Shit!" stress meter...

It was not Burger who was doing the shooting.

Burger was relating a number of stories he had read that defy anyone to believe them.

He was complaining of what we call "arm-chair" hunters, who write all sorts of rubbish dreamt up while sitting in a bar, and attributing it to real life experience.

Apparently, not much has changed, as we still do get those today

Saeed,

There may be a simple explanation and the story may even be true.

You quoted:

Quote:

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The lion, on being brought to the village, was found to have received twenty five to thirty five balls, many of them in the head, but none, with the exception of the last, had actually penetrated the brain.

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There is a saying and we all have heard it but we may have all been misinterpreting the true and historic meaning. In this case it may be that those all those previous riflemen shooting in the past truly did not have the "balls" to kill a lion.

Okay, I will go to my room.

MrLEXMA, you droll fellow.
Saeed, this passage conjures of an old American cartoon character, from "Our Boarding House": Major Hoople. I can see the chubby old major now, boring the lads down at the Owl's Club, his fez cocked rakishly, a beer in one hand ...