That evening over dinner with Mary Katherine’s family, Phil discovered they were members of the only foxhunting club in northern Georgia—the Atlanta Hunt Club. “It’s the oldest hunt club in Georgia,” her father explained over after-dinner scotch and cigars.[1]

Mary Katherine stifled a chuckle. “Phil, it was established only two years ago, in 1943.”

Her father blew a puff of aromatic cigar smoke into the air. “We’re hoping to be officially recognized by the Master of Foxhounds Association someday, but that’s likely to take some time. Actually, our first official hunt of the season is next weekend. Mary Katherine tells me you rode in fox hunts before the war and that you’re riding pretty well these days … er … despite you’re handicap. Anyway, would you be Interested?”

Phil could not believe his good fortune. “Why,” he stammered, “I’d love to join you!”

Her father set his tumbler of whisky down and turned to his daughter. “What do you think, darling? Do we start Phil in the Second or Third Field?”

Her father was referring to the terms used by hunt clubs when rating riders. The First Field was for confident, experienced foxhunters with proficient horses. The Second Field closely followed but did not jump coops,[2] although they did jump over fallen logs and smaller ditches. The Third Field was for novice riders and horses that would be challenged by the speed of the
First and Second Fields.

Usually, Phil would have considered the question an insult. He was more than experienced and had never ridden in a hunt except in the First Field. But given his new leg and the fact that he and his horse were only newly introduced to each other—and he had already been thrown once—he blurted out, “How ’bout I start in the Third Field?”

“Daddy,” Mary Katherine interjected. “Phil’s ridden First Field many times before.”

“No,” Phil broke in. “With my new leg and a new horse, I think it’s best I start slow.”

“Okay,” she conceded. “How about this, Daddy? We’ll start in the Third Field, and if it goes well, as I know it will, can we ride up to the Second Field?”

Her father smiled. “Agreed.”

Phil had a question. “What are your dogs?” he asked.

“Mostly Penn-Marydel hounds,”[3] he answered. “But we also have some crossbred foxhounds.”

“I know the breed,” Phil said, sipping his scotch. “A true American hound. I’m told they are a derivative of hounds that came to America from England and France in the early 1600s.”

“Phil!” Mary Katherine exclaimed. “How do you know that?”

“Not my first hunt. And what do you hunt?”

“Mostly red and gray foxes, although we see more coyotes and bobcats,” her father explained. “Oh, and all participants in the hunt must obtain and carry an annual Georgia hunting license.”

“Phil, don’t worry. I can drive you to get the license,” she assured him.

“I can’t wait,” Phil said, almost giddily. Then he remembered. “But what will I wear? I had pinks when I hunted at Fort Benning, but I borrowed them.”

“Well, of course, you couldn’t wear colors as a newcomer here,” Mary’s father explained. “Our rules for those without colors are that they wear a plain black hunt coat with black buttons. No facing on the collar, of course. Your breeches should be a heavy material and can be buff, canary, gray, or rust. You’ll need plain black calf boots without tops, a canary vest with plain brass,
and a black velvet riding helmet with a harness.”

“Daddy! Don’t scare Phil away!” Mary Katherine put her arm through his. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll get everything you need.”

Honey, she’d said. He almost swooned.

That night, when Mary Katherine dropped him at the hospital, she pulled him close. Their kiss was passionate. As she withdrew slightly, her smile radiant and welcoming, she said, “Don’t be late for curfew. I want to see you again.”

Before hopping out of the car, he kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks for a great day, Mary Katherine. A great day.”

“Off to bed, soldier!” she commanded, laughing.

“Mary Katherine, I’m so thankful. You’ve made me feel whole, and I now know that I’m recovering not only physically but emotionally and spiritually as well. You’re a big part of that.”

“Me or that beautiful Thoroughbred?”

Phil chuckled. “Maybe both?”

She laughed and kissed him again.

As he watched her drive away, he looked up at the stars. They seemed to shimmer and sparkle more vividly than he could remember. It had been so long since he had felt like a whole man.

Could it be that romantic love had dawned once again?[4]

~~~~~

[1] Larimore, At First Light, 285..

[2] A coop is a brace of boards placed over a wire fence, providing a “safe” place for mounted riders to
jump when crossing a boundary.

[3] The Penn-Marydel (PMD) hound is a variety of American Foxhound developed in Pennsylvania
and the Eastern Shore of Maryland/Delaware, hence the name. Although only formally recognized by the
The Masters of Foxhounds Association as a separate breed in 2008, PMDs were developed in the early 1900s.
The dogs are driven and enduring hunters when in pursuit of game, yet they are said to be generally playful
and amicable at home.

[4] Larimore, At First Light, 285-287.

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