Isn't it funny the things we remember; the smell of the hospital when my son was born, learning to swim, to ride a pushbike and the first time you were captivated by the flight of an arrow.

As a boy I was raised in Far North Queensland with my grandparents, a time of Banana Fruit Cake and milky cups of tea. Money was a rarity back then as Grandma had two boys to clothe, feed and put through school on Granddad's wage. So things were tight and I'm sure my brother and I account for a lot of their grey hairs.

I can remember when we had no power to the house and being told that the electric company was on strike for a week or two. I found it strange though those other houses in the street had their lights on. On asking Grandad why is this so he paused, and reflected as only Grandparents do and said, "I think those houses have generators little mate". I knew a lot of people were better off than us so that sounded fine by me.

During this time my brother and I spent the evenings playing Chinese Checkers by candle light and watching Dad and Grandad play cards; the winning takings being a fistful of match sticks…bound not to pay the power bill! As you could well imagine Checkers looked rather boring for an eight year old and we were soon hovering around the dinner table, each taking sides. After awhile we were shown the rules and allowed to participate in the game. What game you ask? Pontoon, 21, or more commonly called Blackjack. That was twenty odd years ago and I must confess I was not much of a card shark. But it sure passed the nights away.

I have never been much of a gambler, a flutter on the Melbourne Cup and giving two-up a nudge on Anzac Day satisfied the need twice a year. Even then placing a bet was just something to do. Little did I know that playing cards at such a tender age would come in handy while on operations in war torn East Timor.

Soldiering can be a hard job in peacetime, especially for the infantryman, but when on active operations in a foreign country, things are either 'flat out', or 'deader than disco'. Boredom is sometimes harder to control than the enemies activities.

A bored 'digger' is something to steer well clear of, especially if he is the practical joker type. Such things as, total removal of and hiding of one's field gear, or the simple removal of rank slides from an officer's uniform whilst in the shower was a favourite. These I've seen done…so I had a choice of playing Blackjack or being stuck with guard duty if found participating in those activities, I certainly knew which I'd prefer.

If you have ever seen the painting of the mongrel dogs playing poker around a card table, cigars hanging out of their mouths, bottles on the table in a smoke filled room, you wouldn't find it hard to replace the mongrel dogs with Australian 'diggers' and sandbags in the background and you wouldn't be far from the mark. The rules were simple, if you got twenty-one or close to it and you were higher than the dealer, you doubled your money. The dealer was chosen at the start of the game by whoever drew the lowest card from the deck. As gambling was a big 'no, no' in country we kept all the money under the table and played with matchsticks. One match = one dollar. If you wanted to enter the game twenty dollars would get you twenty matches…simple hey!

We played most nights into the early hours of the morning. Sly grog was all the go and we always had to place a sentry out to spot the Company Sargent Major or any other officer or NCO that would 'rain on our parade'. If we weren't playing Blackjack we were out on patrol, and that is another story altogether. My seven months in East Timor was over and there is no other feeling liken to the one I felt returning to my wife and best friend of seven years, our two beautiful children and my other passion: bow hunting.

It did not take long to adjust to 'normal' life again. Full nights sleep and better food were easy to get used to again. Walking somewhere without my basic webbing and weapon took ages to shake off. Even now I still, for a split second or two, get a dreadful feeling of 'nakedness' that I have left my weapon behind somewhere. Any old soldier would know that feeling all to well.

It was a comfortable feeling having my recurve back in my hand. Before long my strength returned and muscles became accustomed to drawing the weight again. I spent many hours at the practice butt in my back yard tuning in my instinctive shooting after the seven-month absence.

My son Samuel was now coming along well with his shooting at the age of three and a half. I had a hard time stopping him from trying to come on hunting trips. I told him he could come hunting with me when he could sit at the dinner table chair and his feet could touch the floor. At the rate of his growth spurts it won't be long before I'll have a shadow following me through the bush.

One of these hunting trips I had planned was with my good friend and hunting partner, Graham Foster. On this particular occasion we were heading out West to a place called Boulia, a town two hours South of Mt. Isa and on the edge of the Simpson Desert. Graham and I had been invited to a traditional shoot run by a bunch of blokes that called themselves "TRASH". (Translated: Traditional, Roving, Arrow Shooting Hunters!) Let me tell you these boys are staunch traditional bow hunters that come together a few times a year to shoot bows, hunt and enjoy each others company. Graham and I felt honoured to be invited as not just any old Tom, Dick or Harry gets an invitation to a TRASH shoot.

Our seven days in Boulia had been worked out so that we shot the courses set up for the shoot on the Saturday and Sunday, then come Monday we would spend the week hunting throughout the many watercourses that make up the inland channel country. Our list of feral animals we would be hunting included the wild boars, goats, dingos, cats and even a camel or two…we were certainly in the right type of country.

On our arrival I was feeling a little worse for wear. Naturally enough I put it down to the ten-hour trek out. But as I started to experience hot and cold flushes, a ripper of a headache and some light-headedness I began to think I was coming down with a cold or something. But I was certain it was something I'd be able to shake, the sooner the better too as I had a top week of hunting planned.

Little did I know Murphy had pulled out a deck of cards and was eyeing me off for a hand or two.

If you have ever read Murphy's Law it is striking how true to life some of the statements read.

For example, 'If anything can go wrong, it will!' and 'buttered bread will always land butter side down' are two widely recognised lines of the script.

There is even a set of 'Laws' from Murphy in combat operations and they go something like; 'Friendly fire…isn't', 'Recoilless rifles aint', and 'never share your weapon pit with someone braver than you'. All of these are true when in the moment.

The traditional shoot went well over the weekend. A lot of good fun was had by everyone, and the first class sledging, which would put the Aussie cricket team to shame, was taken in good nature.

June in central Australia is what you can call cool. It's that time of year with the temperatures dropping to around two-three degrees during the nights, and with the addition of the chill factor coming off the strong winds blowing our eskies stayed cold for days. At times a hot cup of tea looked better than a cold beer, but only sometimes. Taking a bush shower in this type of environment could be entertaining to say at the least. It was in one of these showers after all that I noticed small blotches covering my chest and stomach area. And as I began to investigate I could feel them on my head, and my back.

Murphy had dealt and things weren't looking good.

I am no doctor and the closest thing to me being one was a combat medics course I'd done for a three-week period prior to my deployment to Timor. The diagnosis was simple to deduct. Chicken Pox! Both my children had had it two weeks before I'd gone out on the trip. As I had already had Chicken Pox as a boy I had not been concerned with contracting it from them. Ask anyone who has ever had adult Chicken Pox and watch him or her turn white at the memory. Not only do you feel as though you have just come off second best to a Cape buffalo, but the intense itch that accompanies the spots is so deep no one can scratch it.

There are more serious complications, which can become fatal or just return to haunt you in later life. I know of a gentleman and friend who contracted the virus whilst serving in the Police force. It was such that an infection occurred in his brain stem thus rendering him unable to control his balance and effectively ending his career. The Chicken Pox virus when contracted as an adult is not to be taken lightly.

People begged me to go home and get some rest. I contemplated it, if only briefly, I had spots pretty much all over my body, even in my ears.

Murphy sure dealt a hard hand to follow and only the thought of not giving him the satisfaction spurred me on.

My mate Graham wanted to pack up on the Tuesday and take me home. I almost said yes, but my gut instinct said stay. So to keep everyone happy I told them I'd see how I felt in the morning. Besides, I still had a week worth of hunting to do.

The following day came and I did feel better, the handful of Panadeine Forte and antihistamines had pulled me through and kept the raging itch at a level I could suffer.

We had hunted a couple of days now and some good game had been taken. A few goats, a boar here and there, and even a missed shot at a camel. Things did look promising but not for me. My wife always said I was a stubborn person, however this time I think I learned my lesson. The virus had a hold of me good now and I was quite weak from it. I hadn't eaten either which made matters worse. We walked for miles, in and out of channels, to and from water holes. My mates kept asking me if I was alright and me being the stubborn fool that I am, told them I was fighting fit. Each time they'd walk out of sight I'd collapse on the ground wishing a hole would open up and swallow me. Going home sure would have been better than this. If there were any boars around I'm sure I would have missed them in the state I was in. I was not hunting but purely walking from point 'A' to get to point 'B', recurve in hand and my throbbing head looking at my feet taking one step after the other. I dreamt of a soft bed and decades of sleep.

Mr Murphy, and I call him Mr as I have a lot of respect for him, was now grinning at me as he could see I'd been dealt a two of spades and a nine of clubs, a grand total of eleven! Murphy held a ten of hearts and was asking the question…fold or deal?

Murphy's smile turns into a grin as I tap the table and ask for another card.

It was late afternoon and our local guide Strowie was up ahead one hundred metres checking another watercourse. I was glad the day is drawing to a close and the shadows are getting long. The concoction of tablets I'd taken and the calamine lotion covering my skin made me look a sight and a half.

We had seen a few pigs here and there but the wind was not playing by the rule, that's bow hunting I guess.

Not far from our turnaround point a flash of black bolted from under my feet and raced off to my right. I immediately froze hoping that this good size boar would stop and have a look at what woke him from his slumber. To my utter surprise he did just that…and not a few metres from me. Upon stopping he turned broadside chopping his ivory trying to show who was boss. At this point in our newfound friendship I noticed his tusks looked good, and I also thought if he was to ignore the rules of hunter/hunted and charge me I was sure the boar would have come out the victor. I think Mr Murphy was by now in fits of hysterical laughter!

The boar caught the movement of my hand placing an arrow onto the string; it's times like these that I'm glad I have always hunted with an arrow in my hand. Turning as to quarter away the boar trotted off through the Spinifex brush. All my memory consists of is seeing my six hundred grain, four white fletched chundoo arrow with 145 grains of Ribtek smashing into the boar's shoulder. There was a spine shivering clunk as it penetrated through to stop in the off side shoulder ball joint. I was shocked to say in the least, and I had the 'flash' thought, "Who shot my hog?" I did not believe I could make such a shot on a moving target considering my health.

The boar stopped suddenly and squatted on his hind legs, much like a dog would, then took off at a fast run through the Spinifex. I had seen this before and this looked to be a heart shot, the boar was now running on adrenaline and not much else.

Well now, Mr Murphy dealt me the card I had wished for…a ten of hearts. That made it twenty-one. The look on his face now as he rolled over his unseen card to draw a six of clubs was one of fear…sixteen for Murphy. House rules say he had to draw again until bust or better. Murphy draws another this time a seven of spades…twenty-three, bust!

I was not in the frame of mind to start a tracking job following the spoor and blood trail. Luckily he had only gone twenty metres from where I'd changed his outlook on life, permanently. I found him kicking his last, so I sat off from him and let him have this moment to himself. It's always the dead ones that get up and rip your calf muscle from your leg.

What a roller coaster ride of a day, from near death to elation. This kill sure holds many memories for me. Firstly the boar, he was the first decent boar I had taken with my recurve, and secondly, although I don't hold much for records or record books, this fella's ivory went 29 2/8 DP. My personal best to date and topped with my Chicken Pox it was a very memorable hunt indeed.

21…Or Bust!

By Alan Kidner