DEDICATION
In memory of my grandfather,
Trooper Thomas McGee of the Wellington Mounted Rifles
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map of the Middle East, 1916
Author’s Note
Introduction: The Forgotten Heroes
Chapter One: Leaving Home
Chapter Two: Settling In
Chapter Three: Skirmishes in the Sinai
Chapter Four: Rout at Rafah
Chapter Five: Battle of Beersheba
Chapter Six: Attack at Ayun Kara
Chapter Seven: Jaffa the Beautiful
Chapter Eight: Down to Jericho
Chapter Nine: The Mountains of Moab
Chapter Ten: The Valley of Death
Chapter Eleven: A Sad Goodbye
Chapter Twelve: The Green Grass of Home
Timeline of the Middle East Campaign
Glossary
Arabic Glossary
Appendix
Bibliography
List of Illustrations
About the Author
Copyright
MAP OF THE MIDDLE EAST, 1916
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Since I was a little girl, I’ve loved horses. I also love history and learning all about our past. I was surprised then when I first heard about the amazing story of Bess only a few years ago. It intrigued me that I hadn’t heard about her long before. I had to investigate.
I discovered that her story, and that of all the other Anzac horses, is simply incredible. I knew that far too many horses lost their lives in World War One in Europe, as did their human companions. What I didn’t know was that so many of our horses and men also fought in the Middle East under terrible conditions in a war that is often forgotten.
As I researched and read the many diaries, memoirs and official histories of the New Zealand Mounted Rifles and the Australian Light Horse in the Middle East campaign, a moving story unfolded of the bonds that grew between these men and their horses.
Before sitting down at my desk each morning to write Bess’s story, I spent time with my own horse, Barney. Like Bess, Barney is a thoroughbred. He’s a tall, gangly chestnut with a big heart. As I learned about the conditions Bess and the horses lived and fought under, I marvelled at how they ever coped.
Horses are flight animals — this means that when something frightens them their first instinct is to gallop away as fast as possible. This instinct comes from their days in the wild, when the ability to run fast could save them from becoming somebody’s dinner. The fact that Bess and her comrades faced booming guns and screaming shells with steadfastness and bravery amazes me. Barney is startled by the rustle of a plastic bag, let alone an exploding gun. As I discovered, the horses went through many hours of training and conditioning. But mostly they developed incredible loyalty and trust in their masters.
During the research for this book, I received valuable advice and support from many people. I’d like to thank Bob McNeil from TV3, who first brought Bess’s story to my attention. Thank you also to Steve Butler, webmaster and member of the New Zealand Mounted Rifles Association. The NZMR website is packed with interesting information, diaries and photographs, and I was in and out of the site a lot during my research. Also Terry Kinloch’s books, Devils on Horses and Echoes of Gallipoli, and Richard Stowers’ Waikato Troopers, were invaluable sources of information and inspiration. Both Terry Kinloch and Steve Butler kindly read my text and provided some helpful feedback.
Paul Sanderson has written and produced a DVD called All the King’s Horses, which includes some excellent footage of the mounted riflemen and their horses. Thanks also to Dave Oldham, Jock Phillips, Matt Pomeroy, Mark Rhodes and Richard Stowers, and Eris Parker from Cambridge Museum, for their photographs from the private albums of the troopers. Many of these photographs show the great affection the troopers had for their horses in a way that words cannot convey.
Finally, thank you to Bess and her four-legged friends. Without their courage and sacrifice, many more of our brave New Zealand troopers might never have made it home from that distant desert land.
INTRODUCTION
The Forgotten Heroes
Many books have been written and stories told about the brave New Zealand soldiers who fought and died in World War One. But there is one story that is seldom told. It is the story of their brave horses.
At the outbreak of war in 1914, the New Zealand troops left for the battlefields with more than 3,700 horses. The horses were the first of over 10,238 that were sent to war between 1914 and 1916, serving mainly with the New Zealand Mounted Rifles Brigade in the Middle East.
Of the more than 10,238 horses that served in the war, only four ever returned home. One of these was Bess, and this is her story. Through her eyes, it is also the story of all the other Anzac horses that served with such great courage but never returned home to a heroes’ welcome.
The jet-black mare galloped wildly across the scorching white sands, the guns and shells exploding around her with a deafening roar. Her master spurred her on, his legs tightly gripping her heaving sides. With foam-flecked lips and ears laid flat, she thundered on through the flying bullets and choking dust.
Alongside the black mare, horses squealed and fell as the bullets thudded into them. Still the long line of war horses charged on ahead. Suddenly her master hauled her to a stop and leapt from her back. He grabbed her reins and ordered her to lie down on the burning sand beneath the blazing sky. Fear pounded in her heart like a hammer, but she obeyed the man she trusted with her life. She dropped to her knees and rolled over in the searing sand, the stirrups stabbing her side.
‘That’s my Bess,’ her master murmured through gritted teeth. Using her body as a shield, he crouched behind her and steadied the butt of his pistol across her burning back. He began firing. She could feel the gun’s recoil wrack her body. All about her, the bullets hissed and the shells crashed. But she remained deadly still, just like her master had trained her to do. As she lay on the screaming, scorching sand, she longed for the peaceful green fields and gentle cool rains of home.
CHAPTER ONE
Leaving Home
On 4 August 1914, Britain declared war on Germany. From all over New Zealand, excited young men rushed to the recruitment centres to volunteer to fight. This was their chance for adventure and to see the world. They also wanted to serve their ‘King and Country’. None of them could know of the horrors that lay ahead.
Many who owned a horse joined the Mounted Rifles Brigade. Others were given a horse so long as they could prove they were expert horsemen. This was not difficult in a land made up of rugged farmers and hardy townsmen.
In the convoy of twelve ships that transported the New Zealand troops to war, eight carried 3,700 horses. Conditions on board were terrifying for the horses, despite the troopers’ best efforts to care for them. During the seven-week journey across the ocean to the other side of the world, twenty-five horses died on one ship alone.
On 3 December 1914, the combined New Zealand and Australian fleet steamed into the ancient port of Alexandria in Egypt. The troopers and their horses were here to train and prepare for war.
Crowds of cheering people waving Union Jack flags jostled against the ropes leading up to the gangplank. ‘Stand back!’ the trooper holding Bess’s lead rope yelled. ‘Horses coming through!’ Bess tugged anxiously at her rope. She stomped her foot on the gangplank. It echoed hollowly back at her and she snorted with fright. She could smell salt water and the sweat of nervous horses lined up behind her.
‘Walk on,’ the trooper said.
Bess stepped hesitantly forwar
d. The gangplank felt firm enough, although she sensed nothing beneath it but air and a drop to the dark, dank water below. She backed off and stood stubbornly.
‘She won’t go on,’ the trooper said. ‘Bring up a quieter horse and see if she’ll follow.’
A sturdy grey walked up beside her. Bess knew him from training camp. They called him Jack. Nothing ever worried him. He plodded up the plank alongside his handler. Bess figured it couldn’t be so bad after all and pranced up behind him. Her shod hooves clattered up the wooden plank. The deck swayed beneath her and she danced behind Jack, shying away from the railings where gaily coloured streamers fluttered in the breeze.
The troopers led Bess and Jack below deck to the makeshift stalls lining both sides of a narrow passageway. About sixty horses were already penned up, and there was room for forty more on this deck alone. The penned horses whinnied out to the newcomers. Bess’s handler led her into a cramped stall between Jack and a chestnut mare. She sniffed the strange mare, who flattened her ears and squealed angrily back at her. Bess chewed her jaw and pawed the floor nervously.
An hour later, 800 troopers and 400 horses were all on board. The cries of the crowd swelled and the brass band clamoured. Bess nearly leapt from her stall when the ship’s horn blasted across the harbour. The ship pulled away from the wharf, and the troopers yelled their goodbyes to family and friends waving and weeping on shore. The chestnut mare next to her kicked and squealed, and the other horses whinnied with fear. If it wasn’t for the calm and steady Jack, Bess might have joined them. Instead, Jack hung his head over her stall and gently nibbled her neck. She settled down and gave in to the pulsing of the ship.
After several weeks of sailing in the creaking, groaning ship, Bess almost got used to the floating prison and its daily routines. She stopped chewing and worrying the wooden trough across the front of her stall, and even looked forward to the bugle call which announced their feeding times.
Sometimes when the sea was calm, the troopers walked the horses up and down the narrow aisles. They laid coconut matting down on the wooden planks to prevent the horses from slipping on the rolling deck. But mostly the horses had to stand in their cramped stalls day in and day out. There wasn’t enough room to lie down or stretch their throbbing legs. Their legs became swollen and sore from the constant standing.
Poor Jack, who was such a big horse, suffered the most. His legs became so swollen that the skin cracked apart in places. His master spent hours bathing his legs with salt water and massaging them. He was a big, steady man, just like his horse. Bess liked him because he always brought them treats and spoke kindly to them to ease their fretting.
In bad weather, the ship rolled and pitched like a bucking bronco, and the horses struggled to stand. The troopers secured them to their stalls with ropes, but some still fell down and couldn’t get up again. During one savage storm, the chestnut mare alongside Bess fell in a panic, kicking out as she went down. The kick caught Bess in the side, opening up a bloody gash. Bess’s handler called the onboard vet.
The vet muttered as he treated Bess’s wound: ‘I’ve told them, don’t send us the kickers, the biters, the nervous horses; they’re more trouble than they’re worth. That Flame there,’ he said, nodding over to the chestnut mare, ‘oughtta be shot before she causes any more injuries.’
When the ship crossed the Equator and entered the steamy tropics, the horses nearly suffocated in the cloying heat below deck. Although the troopers regularly mucked out their stalls, the stench and heat were horrible. The troopers opened all of the hatchways and portholes, and Jack’s master rigged up a windsail to fan fresh air down into the holds. But Bess and the others still felt like they were burning up.
Night-time was worse. The crew had to screw down iron covers on all the portholes so that passing enemy ships couldn’t spot any light. But this also stopped fresh air from getting in. Bess and Flame lost their hair in patches from sweating through the long, hot, stuffy nights.
One day, the shuddering ship suddenly stopped. A chorus of excited neighs broke out. Bess and Flame tossed their heads and stamped their feet. Jack pricked his ears in anticipation.
One by one, the troopers led the horses up onto the top deck.
Bess yanked at her lead rope, snorting impatiently. Her impatience turned to nervousness when she saw that the troopers were lowering the horses overboard in slings onto pontoons moored beside the ship.
Flame bucked and twisted as the men wrapped a sling around her middle. She struggled so much that she nearly toppled out into the sea below. Bess froze while the men passed the snake-like sling under her belly. They hoisted her up, her legs dangling helplessly in the air, and swung her out over the water and down into the pontoon.
The pontoon ferried the restless horses to shore. The horses sniffed the breeze eagerly. Bess smelt weird and wonderful scents she’d never smelt before. The air was hot and heavy and clung to her body. As soon as they reached the shore, the horses yanked free from their leads and leapt from the pontoons. Finally on firm ground after so long, Bess’s legs wobbled beneath her. She rolled with delight in the sand, scratching the itchy spots all over her body. She clambered back up, shook herself, and rolled again. Flame and the other horses joined her.
Flame was the first to see the strange creatures approaching out of the hazy heat. She snorted and leapt up from the ground. The beasts were tall and knobbly, with long necks and humped backs. They loped towards the horses in a long line, making weird grunting noises. It was too much for Flame. She spun around and galloped off across the sandy hills. Without thinking, Bess and the other horses turned tail and stampeded after her. Only Jack remained, standing steadily as the camel train halted beside the wharf.
CHAPTER TWO
Settling In
The troopers rounded up the horses and settled them into camp where their training began. The desert was a harsh training ground and they quickly learned many lessons.
The job of a war horse had changed since the cavalry days of old. The riders no longer charged their horses directly into enemy lines to fight on horseback with swords and lances. That would have been suicide against modern weapons such as the machine gun. Instead, they used their horses to move as close as possible to the battlefield.
When they neared the enemy, the troopers dismounted and attacked on foot with rifles and bayonets. In these attacks, every fourth soldier became a horse-holder and retreated beyond enemy fire with his own horse and three others. They had to be ready to gallop forward to collect their riders at any moment.
After months of training, excitement grew among the troopers as word spread that they were finally heading for battle. They were disappointed when they found that their horses were not going with them. The steep cliffs and narrow beaches of Gallipoli were no place for horses. In May 1915, the New Zealand Mounted Rifles and the Australian Light Horse left for Gallipoli without their horses.
Bess galloped after Flame across the desert sands even though her legs felt like jelly. She’d never before run on such a soft surface that sucked at her feet and sapped her energy, and she was stiff and sore from weeks on board ship. Eventually she stopped and plodded back to the troopship and the men who fed and watered her. Only Flame raced on.
The troopers soon rounded up the strays, Flame included. They loaded them onto rattling trains bound for Zeitoun, a training camp on the edge of the desert near the bustling city of Cairo. Bess had travelled on trains before, but not across stretches of sand that clogged her eyes and nose with fine, choking dust. When they arrived in camp, a town of tents greeted them. The troopers led the horses to makeshift shelters shaded with rush matting. They tied Bess up alongside her shipmates: steady Jack on one side, fiery Flame on the other.
Bess had rested up for a few days when she heard a familiar, friendly voice. ‘How’s my black beauty, then?’ It was her master, Major Guy Powles. Her previous owners had gifted Bess to the Wellington Mounted Rifles at the outbreak of war, and she’d been allotted
to the Major. They’d gotten to know each other at training camp back home. He had a soft voice and gentle hands. Bess nickered and stretched out her neck for a scratch behind the ears.
From that day on, training began. First, the horses had to get fit and healthy after their long, gruelling sea voyage. They also had to get used to a new diet of barley and straw called tibbin, and a corn mash called mealies. Bess turned her nose up at it at first. She was used to grazing on fields of fresh green grass. ‘Sorry, girl,’ her master said. ‘There’s no grass around here.’
The first time Bess’s master saddled her up, she flinched at the heavy weight. A rifleman’s horse had to carry more than 130 kilograms on long marches over many days. As well as the saddle, there was a rolled blanket, groundsheet, nosebags with feed, picketing ropes, grooming kit, and canvas water bucket. Then the trooper hopped on lugging a rifle, bayonet, haversack stuffed with tins of bully beef, mess tin, water bottle, spare boots, clothes and ammunition.
When Flame’s master first kitted her up and leapt on with his heavy haversack, Flame bucked and twisted all the way across camp. Luckily, her master was a rough rider who knew all of Flame’s tricks and stayed on for the ride.
Months followed with long treks across high sandhills that were tossed up and moulded by the wind. The horses had to practise galloping at full speed over the soft sands. Sometimes they sank up to their bellies in the deep drifts. Other times they had to scramble to the top of steep slopes only to slide down on their haunches through the deep sand on the other side. It was exhausting work weighted up with rider and gear.
For Bess and many of the horses, the worst part of training was gun practice. Bess dreaded it when her master leapt from her back and passed her reins to the horse-holder. He then knelt down in front of her, took aim with his pistol and shot round after round at distant targets in the sand. All along the line-up of horses, the other troopers crouched and fired from their heavy rifles, the stink of cordite hanging in the air. The noise was ear-splitting. Bess’s every instinct told her to flee, but the horse-holder made her stand. Several times, Flame managed to break free and bolted across the dunes. Only Jack stood steady, unfazed by the noise.
Brave Bess and the ANZAC Horses Page 1