Squirrel Hunting Days

It was the early eighties and the Falklands war was dominating the news headlines. John Cougar’s gritty Midwestern narrative Jack and Diane was blasting out of the radio and a little known acronym called AIDS was soon to become a household word. But none of these things raised even the faintest blip on my adolescent radar. There were only two important things as far as I was concerned. One of which, was reading my ‘Commando’ comic books. I remember countless hours spent on the top shelf of the bunk bed that I shared with my older brother, reading my latest ‘Commando’ and being lost in another exciting WW2 adventure. Anyone who remembers the pint-sized comic books will no doubt recall with some humor the cries of “Gott im Himmel!” and "Ach, Englander!" from the Germans anytime some brave and crafty Tommy got the better of them, which he inevitably always did. The other constant in my life at this age was my weekly appointment with Vic Morrow and the boys on ‘Combat!’ The 1960’s TV series about a squad of GI’s battling their way across post D-Day Europe. They may have already been worn out re-runs by that stage, but to a young pup like me they were gloriously new and exciting. I remember Star Trek was on right after Combat on Saturday afternoons but those geeks on Star Trek with their phaser guns didn’t do much for me, it was just too fake for my liking. Give me a Garand rifle or a BAR any day for some real firepower, at least it was authentic. Even at that young age I realized that for me at least, factual events were much more compelling than any fictional story could ever be.

By age12 I was already a battle hardened veteran of many military campaigns; backyard military campaigns that is, or ‘playing army’ as most of us would know it. But it was a serious business this ‘playing army’ and not to be taken lightly. When we played, I was always the lone commando, trapped behind enemy lines, tough as nails, my senses honed to a razors edge and nerves as taut as piano wire. Stalking though the undergrowth like a creeping mist the thorns and branches tugging and scratching at my skin; but nothing could distract me from my deadly mission. To seek and destroy my enemy, in this case my best friend, who was also lurking somewhere in the backyard undergrowth ready to pounce in a fury of yelling and mock machine gun fire.


Yes, a serious business indeed, and for that a boy needed some serious equipment. Some jungle greens for starters, expertly altered and fitted by my ever-loving and long suffering mother, with the addition of Dad’s CMF sergeant’s stripes proudly sewn onto the sleeve. A webbing belt and canteen is a must have; and just maybe, if I was lucky a real knife to wear on it. Yes sir, a 5 inch disposal store special with ‘Toledo Steel’ stamped on the blade nestled in the very best black vinyl sheath money could buy; I was really cooking now. Add to that a Vietnam era giggle hat, a little Hexamine stove, throw in a little compass that almost works, and I was ready to dominate any backyard battlefield. Of course all these things were conveniently available from the local army disposal store and mercifully priced to suit Mum’s budget. What a boy would have done without that disposal store God only knows.

But then no soldier is completely kitted out until he’s got his rifle, and it’s got to be a good rifle; he’s nothing without it. I’d had the Thompson submachine gun, its silhouette painstakingly cut out of plywood by my equally ever-loving and long suffering father. Then came the store bought plastic M16 and other assorted cap guns of various makes, but there was just something about them that was lacking. I was looking for something more authentic, more Australian. I studied my war books and taken note of what the Aussie soldier’s favourite close combat weapon had been in the steamy jungles of New Guinea. I’d also seen Dad’s pictures from his CMF days and noted the popularity of this very same weapon. So at age 12 I was a self proclaimed authority on WW2 small arms and had it all worked out. Yes, this time it had to be Australia’s very own home-grown submachine gun the Owen. In no time at all a camouflage painted plywood Owen gun with its distinctive vertical magazine materialized from Dad’s workbench. I’d never want for anything again, this was it, I had everything now.


As you may have guessed, it wasn’t long before I was yearning for something more; and as puberty crept up on me and childhood slipped away, I started to get a hunger for something more real, and felt a need to expand my horizons. Maybe it was time to leave the childhood games behind and start to grow up and a grown boy surely needs a real rifle. Surely at this age Aboriginal boys and African tribal boys already had their first spear and could be trusted to use it responsibly. Wouldn't that apply to me as well? These were the thoughts that ran through my mind as lay on the floor of my room thumbing the pages of Gun Digest in awe of the bewildering array of firearms that graced its pages. The desire had begun stirring for my first rifle, and in some ways my ultimate rifle, in the way a boy’s first rifle will always be his definitive rifle, as the emotion of the experience brands his young heart with a clear and lasting impression that no amount of time can erase. And as I think back, I’m incredulous at how times have changed in those intervening two short decades. I was only 14 years old and pouring over a Gun Digest, what a wonderful world it was when a young boy could take an interest in guns without being suspected of being the next Columbine high school killer; to have just a healthy sporting interest in a fascinating pastime and nothing more sinister than that. And what a surprise, I never turned out to be a homicidal manic after all.


As anyone who has studied the pages of a Gun Digest knows, the catalogue of guns is interspersed with feature articles on all sorts of gun related subjects from target shooting to hunting and various other topics. It was one of those articles that captured my 14 year old imagination and set my excitable young mind burning with possibilities. It was an article about squirrel hunting in the US state of Pennsylvania. To my young mind I could think of nothing more enjoyable than walking through a glorious Pennsylvanian hardwood forest on a cool New England autumn day picking off squirrels with my trusty little 22. It had to be the closest thing to heaven I’d ever read about, a boys own adventure par excellence.

It was around about this time that I spied a beautiful little Marlin 22 semi-auto loitering in the pages of that very same Gun Digest. It was everything a boy could want; a handy little semi-auto carbine, gold plated trigger and a shiny nickel plated 7 shot magazine complete with a gaudy safety oriented red follower. And as I read on, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest when I learned that the ‘Deluxe’ model had a squirrel engraved on the pistol grip. Oh the unbridled joy! That had sealed it; I had found my holy grail. From that moment on I was a boy on a mission. I would beg, borrow or steal but mostly pester my parents to the very edge of insanity until I got my grimy little mitts on that Marlin Glenfield Model 70 ‘Deluxe’ 22 semi-auto.

I really don’t know how I did it but I must have hocked every meagre possession I owned and promised to forgo all birthday and Christmas presents till I was 21 to make my little dream a reality. Being the youngest of five children in a single income household, the term disposable income was little more than a quaint notion. I could never say we were poor, just that frivolous purchases were at the bottom of a very long list. To this day I don’t know how my parents managed it but they did. Being a parent now myself I’m starting to understand the many sacrifices, big and small, that parents make for their children. But whatever planetary alignments or voodoo magic may have been working in my favour I’ll never know, but the fact remains that Mum and Dad somehow made my freckle faced little dream a reality.

To say the arrival of the Marlin was eagerly awaited would be a understatement of mammoth proportions, and to that end I was counting the hours till Dad arrived home with the hallowed package. Seeing as Dad worked in the State Health Department in the Brisbane CBD he was saddled with the job of purchasing the said item with a quick dash to Humfress and Co in his lunch hour. That night I sat at the window, my breath fogging the glass as I watched him emerge from the car with a slim triangular shaped box. It was finally here, my quest was fulfilled! Unfortunately the memory of lifting the lid of that box and unveiling the rifle has become a little foggy. The memory has obviously been obscured by the moment of ecstasy; either way the unattainable had been attained, the universe was now in balance.


Now I had a job ahead of me to find a scope to complete the package. Buying one just wasn’t an option. There was a 4 power Nikko Stirling scope and dovetail mounts sitting lazily on one of my older brother’s air rifles and I made the executive decision that my need was greater than his. How I got away with it I’m not sure but I obviously survived to tell the tale. My next challenge was being able to afford to run it on my meagre pocket money. Of course there could be no other ammo for my rifle but Remington Yellow Jackets and CCI Stingers; the latest, greatest and most powerful ammo on the market at the time. Accuracy! - well, it wasn't the greatest but raw power was all I needed. The blowback operated bolt worked more reliably with high velocity ammo but the truth is, to my impetuous young mind, power and velocity were all conquering.




I must have been the proudest kid on the range that day sporting my very own repeating rifle. I remember sideways glances from others at the range as if to say “is he really old enough to be shooting that rifle”. As far as I was concerned, I had my very own little M1 Garand; the only thing it lacked was the distinctive Garand ‘ching’ when the magazine was empty. The benchrest at the time consisted of a house brick with my great uncles well worn RAAF blanket draped over it. Real hi-tech stuff, but all that mattered was that I had my dream rifle and I was there shooting it, everything else was inconsequential. My curly headed big brother was there beside me with his Ruger 10/22 enjoying the day as much as I was. As it is with most younger brothers I looked up to him and followed in his footsteps with many things I did. Thinking back on it now, part of the reason for wanting the Marlin was probably driven by a desire to replicate what my big brother was doing. Naturally in order to demonstrate my independence, I couldn’t possibly get a Ruger like his, it had to be something different. The Marlin with its squirrel engraved pistol grip was just distinctively different enough to set us apart while still allowing me to quietly imitate him.

I went on to enjoy a couple of years with the Marlin, learning to shoot it and operate it adeptly, in anticipation of the day it accompanied me on that much longed for squirrel hunt. How I thought that was going to happen I don’t know. Even so, I spent many nights lying awake in bed scheming a way to bring it to fruition but it was one dream that at age 14, was far beyond my means. And with the flippancy of the teenage mind I was soon dreaming of grander things and bigger calibres, but then that’s another story.


So who knows? Maybe one day I’ll take that trip to the land far over the waters and walk in its cool northern forests, rifle in one hand and an adolescent dream grasped tightly in the other. And if one day you should happen to see me wandering through the oak and hickory groves of Pennsylvania, the hillsides all ablaze with the russet yellows and reds of autumn, it won’t be me that you see, but a blond haired 14 year old boy with a gleam in his eye and a skip in his step, carrying his beloved rifle and living a dream of long ago.

Special thanks to Dad (the inveterate photographer) for always being there with the camera to capture the moment and in turn, my imagination.