Vetterli 71 Karabiner
VETTERLI 71 KARABINER. (See also, RIFLES) The Swiss Army adopted the Vetterli rifle in 1868. At the time, it was the most advanced rifle in use by a European nation. Its designer, Johann-Friedrich Vetterli, combined the tubular magazine of the Winfield M1866 with a bolt-action receiver, introduced by the Dreyse needle gun. This gave it a tremendous rate of fire. A couple of years later, and after a few improvements to the original design, the M1871 Karabiner was developed. A shortened variant of the original rifle, it was intended for use by cavalry. Due to the neutrality of Switzerland during the period, particularly the Franco-Prussian war, the rifle was seldom used in combat, until it was phased out in 1891. It was sold on the market to various entities, proving popular thanks to its powerful design. Of note, it saw extensive use by the Boers in the first and second Boer wars.
Interview with Leander Coetzee
Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (...), 8.5in x 11in
1/4
FORM C - TEXT OF INTERVIEW
STATE Louisiana
NAME OF WORKER Leander Coetzee
ADDRESS None Available
SUBJECT A Boer In New Orleans
My father said we had pioneer blood. Strong and bold. But there was something of the land in me, too. Maybe that's what pioneer blood needed. When you live on the edge of the civilized world, you don't have the time to worry about sophistication. I didn't feel I was on the edge of the world though. Between two, maybe. My fathers, and my mothers. It wasn't until we fought for independence I saw it run.
Acacia's in bloom meant Spring and this Spring we were headed to war. A fine Swiss rifle had bought. A Vetterli. Bolt actions outpace the most disciplined breach shooter, and can be fired from prone rather than standing. We ambushed redcoats, the ground hiding us, devastating them as they tried to form into rank and files lines. Bloody fools. Bright coats are easy targets. Bullets hitting rock, scrub, and bodies. An easy war.
Since, the Uitlanders were still settling my father opposed Kruger's policies. Seemed another war was inevitable I had no politics. My trade had become hunting. Big game hunting. The British were often my clients, on their safaris. War would make me poor. And I spilt blood for the republic once. I still have the bayonet wound in my shoulder. I have no love left for the frontier.
We call it the trekgees. The desire to wander. I sold my farm, my arms, and headed to Port Elizabeth to find passage. I arrived here with little but my Vetterli and a Nitro Express. New Orleans was a wonder, the first time. Streets lined with endless terraces, wide verandas, swarming with society types. Left a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted to head westwards, but needed to scrape together some money first. I sold the Nitro for a few dollars, but couldn't part with the war rifle.
It took me an afternoon to find work hunting. I thought that was lucky, that my profession was in high demand. I didn't know what hunting meant then.
Interview with Leander Coetzee
Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (...), 8.5in x 11in
2/4
The first night. A man called Samson had offered me work. Three of us paddled out in a flatboat to the middle of a great lake. Black sky wrapped around the boat. He shone a light. The lake was bristling with driftwood. What I thought was driftwood. One of them thrashed in the light. He switched it off. I asked him if it was crocodiles. Alligators, he said, and told me to shoot where he shone the lamp
He shone and I shot. He turned the light off and I worked the bolt. The other man paddled. The light was never on for longer than it took to aim the rifle. Never off for longer than it took me to work the bolt. We circled the lake slowly. The sky grew brighter and the water darker and a cloud of black powder smoke hung in the air.
I'd opened a cut on my hand over an old welt from working the bolt all night. I remember pausing to bind it. In the light I saw the surface of the water for the first time. The nights work. A corpse, face down in the water. Not a gator at all. I jumped up, rocking the boat. The lake's surface was covered in corpses. Men I'd killed.
I worked the bolt a final time and aimed at Samson. He was calm. I shouted at him, what have I done, crying, pleading. He began explaining.
I became a hunter again that night. We did the ritual, still paddling the surface of the lake covered with so many corpses. Not more than two nights in America, with nothing but an old war rifle, and I had a place again.
