The Model 721 Goes to Bechuanaland

My family and I had decided for various reasons to move from Kenya to Bechuanaland, an obscure British protectorate adjoining South Africa and reputedly teeming with a wide variety of wildlife. Here, it was hoped I would be able to open up a new safari operation for Ker, Downey & Selby Safaris.

My last safari in East Africa was with Chito and a large group of friends in 1962, just prior to my departure. Chito asked that I take his rifles to Bechuanaland, as my own, for he had no intention of returning them to Mexico. He also looked forward to joining me on safari as soon as the company was established in Bechuanaland. Having guns already there would save him a lot of hassles traveling with firearms.

I established Ker, Downey & Selby Safaris in Bechuanaland in 1963 and, after extensive negotiations with the British Government and the Batawana tribe, was granted permission to operate, initially for one year. A number of my old clients were interested in something new and ready to go, so we commenced conducting safaris in April that year.

One of my earliest clients in Botswana was a man by the name of Prince Stanislaw Radziwill, a member of the Polish royalty, who was forced to flee to Britain when Hitler came along. Stas had made several safaris with me in East Africa and was anxious for the new experience. He was an ideal client, easygoing, humorous, and a good sportsman who loved his champagne.

We started hunting with Stash using the Model 721, and had collected a few animals when, on the evening of the third day, we came upon a herd a sable. The bull had a fantastic head, and I had never seen another sable that even came close to that size. His horns reached well over his back and he was jet black. The herd seemed skittish, and when we tried to stalk within range, they just took off into the dense mopane forest. It was late, the light was bad and we never came up on them again that day.

Stash was so eager to get that sable that he very seriously suggested we forget everything else and concentrate on that one bull, even if it took the entire safari. We concentrated on finding that bull for a day or two and came upon the herd twice more, but on each occasion, the bull was not with them. We searched the entire area around the herd in case he was merely lying down and taking a rest from the herd, but found nothing!

Then, on the fifth morning, we spotted the herd again and there he was. The herd was resting not far from the Khwai River, which was completely dry at that time. The herd appeared to be unaware of our presence so we took our rifles and slid down into the Khwai’s fairly deep dry watercourse and crept along it until I figured we were more or less opposite where we had seen the herd. I eased up the bank very carefully and there they were about a 100 yds. distance, with the bull even closer. I motioned Stash up to me and we crept on hands and knees the short distance to a tree from which Stash could get a good rest. We eased up behind the tree with all the animals still seemingly unaware of our presence, and Stash got ready to shoot.

The bull was no more that 75 yards away, but angling slightly away from us. Stash began to aim, and I was anticipating the shot when he raised his face from the stock of the rifle and whispered to me, “He is standing at the wrong angle.” I whispered back, “Just hit him a little back from the shoulder the bullet will range forward into the chest” As I spoke with Stash looking back at me, the shot went off and so did the bull along with the entire herd. Stash began to curse himself in English and, I presume, Polish, too. I thought he was going to cry.

“Come on, Stash. Let’s get back to the car and try to locate the herd.” I said.

We soon found the herd again, crossing a flood plain, but the bull was not with them. As this bull had so often been absent from the herd, I thought he might have left them again, so we went back to where Stash had fired the shot with the intention of trying to track him, which was no easy task in scrub mopane bush.

We found where he had been standing when the shot went off and began to track. We had gone about a 100 yds. perhaps a bit further in the scrub mopane, when suddenly we came upon the bull, laying stone dead. The bullet had entered exactly where it should have, had Stash been aiming through the scope. What a fluke!

To this day, I consider it one of the most inexplicable incidents I have ever experienced in all my years of hunting. I was not looking at the animal when the shot went off. I was looking at Stash. Otherwise, I would probably have noticed something to make me think he had been hit. The sable was a grand animal, in his prime, pitch black body contrasting with white belly, rump and facial markings. The horns measured just a fraction less than 50 inches. After this incredible experience, we resumed our normal hunting, and Stash collected the rest of the animals he was after in the Okavango and Kalahari areas.

In 1965, I was on safari with a client who had been with me the previous year and, as my son, Mark, was on holiday from school, the client very kindly invited him to join the safari for a while. I realized that during the time Mark would be with us, he would have his eleventh birthday. I suggested to my client that if it was agreeable with him, it might be an idea to allow Mark to shoot a buffalo on his birthday. Mark handled a rifle well and had already shot several animals with the Model 721. There were no restrictions on age or calibers in those far-off days, and I had some 220-grain solids in my ammo box for the .30-06.

The client thought it a splendid idea and, as buffalo were plentiful, we would not have to go to great lengths to find a nice bull.

Mark joined the safari and, on the morning of his birthday, we all wished him a “Happy Birthday,” and then set off hunting. At about eleven o’clock, we came upon a herd of buffalo resting in the verges of a small plain with some animals drinking at a small waterhole in the center of it.

Until then, we had mentioned nothing to Mark about the possibility of him shooting a buffalo. The client now said to Mark, “Wouldn’t you like to shoot one of those buffalo?”

“Oh yes, but I don’t have a license,” Mark replied.

“You can have one of mine,” the client offered.

“Thank you very much,” Mark said, beaming all over.

We loaded the Model 721 with the 220-grain solids, then Mark, accompanied by me with my .416 Rigby, and a tracker set off to stalk the herd. It was fairly easy to get within a 100 yds. of the nearest animals, which were either cows or immature, but from there it meant a hands-and-knees stalk. We had spotted a nice old bull off to one side and decided to try for him. We eventually reached a small anthill about 50 yards from the bull, and I helped Mark get the Model 721 settled and steady on the anthill, and explained just where to aim. Mark fired and the buffalo lunged forward, and ran off with a broken shoulder. He joined up with the rest of the herd, which, by then, were milling about on the plain.

Through the binoculars, I noticed the old bull stagger and finally collapse. On examination, we found that Mark’s bullet had hit him squarely on the shoulder, smashing the shoulder bone, and penetrating the vitals. Mark was as pleased as any young boy could be after having been given something beyond his wildest imagination and his smile in the picture shows it. This was the Model 721’s first buffalo.

Several safaris with the Longoria family and their Texan friends followed and the Model 721 and the shotguns saw constant use on these and other safaris over the years.

When Ker, Downey & Selby Safaris embarked upon building a tourist lodge, I employed quite a large number of workmen for the job. The Government generously agreed to grant permission for a “pot license,” allowing a limited number of animals, even including buffalo, to be taken monthly in order to feed the workforce. The Model 721 was the rifle used to do this job.

In Africa, there is an insect, which will build a nest of green leaves and mud in any small orifice it can find—a rifle barrel is an ideal place. Too late, we discovered this had happened to the Model 721 during a period when not in use and, upon inspection, it was found that about a two-inch section of rifling was completely eroded, which totally destroyed the rifle’s superb accuracy.
What a sad end this appeared to be for a great old veteran of the African safari, and I determined that this would not happen. A friend kindly brought a premium-grade Douglas barrel from the United States for me, which was fitted to the Model 721 by an excellent gunsmith friend of mine in South Africa. The Model 721 took to the field again with a new lease of life … its first trophy a superb sable.