Singleton tells of circumstances leading to death of 'Phantom Tom'

Male wild turkey displaying his feathers.

(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Phantom Tom: Too regal to be killed, but he was” was originally published in the May 25, 1972 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

Phantom Tom was a huge wild turkey gobbler. Although he’s dead now, this is our story. This tells of my association with him and how he became known as Phantom Tom, and the circumstances leading to his death.

One of my favorites pastimes is trail bike riding. Most afternoons when I get off work, weather permitting, I ride the back trails of Monroe County by motorcycle. I see the wonders of nature and listen to the sounds of the deep woods, and when I return home I feel relaxed and rested. It was on one of these excursions that I saw this huge turkey gobbler for the first time.

It was before the spring hunting season, and I just got a glimpse of his huge feathered body as I climbed a steep hill that I liked to ride up. At that time, I didn’t think much about seeing this beautiful bird, because I had seen wild turkeys many times during my rides through the woods. A day or so later, while climbing the same hill, I saw him again. I stopped, only to see him disappear over the side of the hill.

He vanished so quickly that I thought of a ghost turkey or some type of phantom bird. One minute he was there, standing proud, atop the tall steep knoll. Then with a flash, he was gone – vanished into thin air. I couldn’t even hear the sound of huge wings that one hears when a wild turkey becomes airborne. It was as though he had faded into the ground.

As I sat there, astride my trail bike, I remembered that in two more days spring hunting season would be in and I could come hunting this fellow, legally.

Several days passed before I really got a good look at the old warrior. I had tried to call him with a mouth caller or yelper. This was done in the early morning hours when normally a gobbler will answer with a gobble, and when they come close enough, you can hear them strut and drum the ground with their wings and feet. Phantom Tom, the nickname that I had given this wise old gentleman, would never answer my calls. The only way that I knew he was around was the sound of him running through the leaves and pine needles, down the side of the hill.

One evening, just as the sun was casting its last rays, I sat down in my usual place at the bottom of the hill and slowly eased myself into a shooting position.

I had grown to admire and respect this cunning old bird from my past acquaintances. I eased my yelper from an aspirin box, placed it in position in the root of my mouth and yelped three times.

Gently I called, trying hard to sound like a young turkey hen beckoning her lover. That was when I saw him; he came out from behind a bush with wings spread and tail feathers flattened. His long beard touched the ground. He pranced and strutted; he drummed the ground. I sat looking at the most magnificent sight that I had ever witnessed. Here before me after many hours of waiting was the old master himself.

I became aware that I was looking at this beautiful wild creature, in all his splendor, over the sight of my rifle. I lowered it. I just couldn’t destroy such a beautiful creature. I whistled a loud, shrill blast through my front teeth and Phantom Tom was gone.

Throughout the spring season I would hunt the wise old turkey every evening. Only I didn’t carry a gun. I would sit behind the same bush and call him at sundown. Nearly always he would come out into the small opening in the brush and strut, drumming and showing off like the king he was.

The spring gobbling season passed and I continued to tease the old gentleman with the mating calls. We both grew tired of our game after a while, and I didn’t see the big Tom for several days. One afternoon as I climbed the steep hill on my trail bike, I saw my old friend standing right in the middle of the trail, with wings spread and tail feathers flattened. I slid the bike to a stop, and in the process of stopping I fell to the ground, skinning my knee.

I looked up and there he was, still standing as though he would jump me at any moment. I was angry, because of my skinned knee and torn trousers. I swore aloud, “Old man, if it’s a fight you want, I’ll catch you and wring your neck.” I started after him, down through the pines and underbrush, jumping, running, dodging and falling.

The old gobbler stayed just out of reach; never once did he try to fly to safety. I ran until I was exhausted. I fell down on my hands and knees gasping for breath. I looked up and directly in front of me stood the big Tom turkey, looking as if to say “you should have known better.” Then he was gone.

Three weeks passed after my foot race with the Phantom. I rode out that way several times expecting to see my friend. Each time I topped the steep hill I would expect to see the crafty old fellow standing in the usual place beside the trail, but he was never there.

On Saturday morning, I slipped away from the chores that my wife had carefully and firmly suggested I do and headed down through the cool woods for a few moments of relaxation. I decided to make a quick run up the hill, maybe I’d see the old gobbler. Sure enough, as I rode over the top of the hill, there he stood beside the trail. As I slide to a stop, I thought to myself “here we go again.”

But something seemed to be wrong. My old buddy wasn’t running. I had my hands around his body in about three or four strides. As I grabbed for his feet, so he wouldn’t sink one of those long spurs in my arm, I saw that Old Tom had been shot, just under the wing.

Instead of the fine, healthy turkey that I had chased before, I was holding a dying old warrior of nothing but bone and feathers. The smell of rotted flesh emerged as I raised his left wing. His whole side was a working mass of maggots, eating away the remaining flesh from his bullet ridden breast.

The old Tom stood very still, too weak to resist. I knew that there was nothing I could do now. I watched his stout old heart grow weaker, through the opening in his side. I reached over across his back and picked up a short stick that was lying there and ended for all time the agony and suffering with a sharp blow to the back of his head. Without a struggle, Phantom Tom was dead.

I buried the old Tom just off the trail a ways, at the top of the hill. His grave was a deep stump hole with heavy pieces of timber lain across to keep out wild animals. If I were to write an epitaph of a wild turkey, it would sound something like this:

To Phantom Tom

Loved and feared by his own kind,

Respected by one who wasn’t.

Gallant and Fearless;

King of the hill; in this life,

And probably too, in the next.

On another page of the May 25, 1972 edition of The Monroe Journal there was another story about Singleton that ran under the headline, “Does one salute a mister?”

For 22 years, Sgt. George Singleton, who heads the National Guard detachment here, has been known as “sergeant” or just “sarge.” So it’s understandable that he’s become sort of accustomed to the title; so accustomed that he probably answers to his rank more than his actual name. But now his rank has changed and that presents a problem.

The dilemma is that Sergeant Singleton is still called Sergeant out of habit when he really isn’t a sergeant anymore. He was recently promoted to the rank of warrant officer, and after 22 years that takes some getting used to.

Now it’s supposed to be “Mr. Singleton.”

But change is ever so slow, as Sergeant, er, Mr. Singleton found out when he was sworn in as warrant officer at Camden. Said Major Stanley Bonner in congratulating Singleton: “Well, Sergeant, I’m proud of you.”

(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)