It was about 1980, and I was sat in the middle of a rhodedendron bush in the middle of a wood called White Sytch in Shropshire. We had, had a spate of nights were we had been picking up 2" .410 cartridges around the roosts, and I was with a fellow gamekeeper called John.
We were on poacher watch, it was after midnight and at a cross roads, in the wood, were it would be reasonable for poachers to pass across, and the ambush was ready (or, so we thought! Pick axe handle at the ready, and two way radio linked to Barry another keeper, near by.)
All of a sudden, a stout figure with a couple o