Unfortunately, that day would never come because he would soon be dead.
Unaware of his impending fate, the forty-year-old cocked his head to the side and squinted as he stared down the barrel of his rifle. Suddenly the world around him blurred and the only thing that mattered was the mammoth target that had roamed into his field of fire. Weighing over 600 pounds, the Russian boar had two deadly tusks that were nearly twelve inches in length. Highly intelligent and often cantankerous, wild boars were common in central Europe, but they rarely reached this size. Only mature males in the harshest of climates ever grew so large, which was the main reason that Becker had travelled here for a few days of hunting.
He wanted his shot at some sizeable game.
The snow-capped peak of Zugspitze, the highest mountain in Germany, could be seen to the west. It was part of the Bavarian Alps, which stretched across the region like a massive wall and formed a natural border with Austria to the south. The rugged peak could be climbed via several different routes from the valley below which cradled the town of Grainau, but none of the trails interested Becker. As an experienced hunter he knew Russian boars would forage for food in the thick groves below the timber line - the highest elevation where trees and vegetation are capable of growing - so he had positioned himself in the middle of the forest, far from the hiking trails and far from any interlopers.
Out here, it was Becker against the boar.
Just like he had hoped for.
After taking a deep breath, Becker made a slight adjustment to his aim and then pulled his trigger. Thunder exploded from the barrel of his Mauser M98 hunting rifle as the stock recoiled against his shoulder. A split-second later, the boar squealed in agony as the 9.3 x 64 mm bullet entered its left flank and burrowed deep into its lung. Remarkably, the boar remained standing. Without delay, its survival instincts kicked into flight mode. Since the gun blast had come from its left, the boar bolted quickly to its right, disappearing into the undergrowth that covered the forest floor.
‘Scheisse!‘ Becker cursed as he jumped out of his tree stand.
To kill his prey, he would have to track it on foot.
Following the blood trail, Becker moved with alacrity. Despite their girth, boars weren’t fat like domestic pigs and could run surprisingly fast - able to reach speeds of more than fifteen miles per hour. Carrying a rifle and dressed in camouflage, Becker couldn’t even travel that fast on a bicycle. Still, given the amount of blood he found on the hillside, he knew this was a race he would eventually win.
With every beat of the boar’s heart, it was a little bit closer to dying.
And Becker hoped to be there when it did.
Five minutes later, he caught up with the wounded boar in a natural cul-de-sac, formed by the steep incline of the mountain and a pile of fallen rocks and trees. Years of experience had taught Becker about the dangers of injured animals, especially when they were trapped. He knew if they felt threatened, they would attack with every bit of strength they had left. And since Becker didn’t want to get run over by a 600-pound bowling bowl with sharp tusks, he stopped a safe distance from his target and raised his rifle to finish the job.
‘Steady,’ he whispered in German. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
The boar snorted loudly and focused its beady eyes on Becker while a soft growl steadily grew from deep inside its throat. Sensing what was about to happen, the boar decided to get aggressive. Suddenly, without warning, it lowered its head and charged forward, reaching its top speed in only a few steps. Becker had expected as much and adjusted his aim, compensating for the boar’s pace and the shrinking distance to his quarry. Without flinching or jumping out of the way, Becker calmly pulled the trigger, confident he wouldn’t miss.
Fortunately for him, his aim was true.
The bullet tore through the boar’s skull and ploughed through its brain, killing it instantly. One moment it was charging at Becker, the next it was skidding to a halt on its belly - as if someone had turned off its power via remote control. Just to be safe, Becker fired a second shot into its brain before he