Horrie the War Dog

by Roland Perry

  ‘You can call him that,’ Murchison said, ‘but I won’t.’

  ‘Think of it as standing for Worthy Oriental Gentleman,’ Fitzsimmons proffered and drew grins all round. Someone asked for a typical Aussie name and several were suggested. Just one stuck. Every one of them knew a ‘Horrie,’ and all agreed that anyone so named was a good bloke.

  ‘Okay,’ Gill concluded, ‘he’s Horrie the Wog Dog.’

  ‘Just Horrie for me, thanks,’ Murchison interjected.

  Each man got the dog’s attention by motioning to him and calling ‘come ’ere Horrie!’ The pup bounded from one bunk to another. And when he was exhausted he plonked himself in the middle of the floor, glancing at each man as he called to him. His sharp-nosed little face was a twitch of interrogation, as were his oversized ears that fell and rose at different angles, and not always in unison, as the cogs of his instinctive brain tried to comprehend what was going on. He didn’t mind the cry of ‘Horrie,’ but he seemed to bristle if it was accompanied by a laugh, especially if the mirth seemed to be aimed at him. When Murchison guffawed at his every reaction, Horrie leapt to his bunk and grabbed a sock. He then bounded to the tent flap as if intent on running off with it, which stopped the tormentor’s derision. The dog led the now irritated Murchison on a clumsy dance around the bunks.

  ‘Okay, all right, Horrie, mate,’ Murchison said, as if contrite, ‘I won’t laugh at you again, promise.’

  The dog waddled over to him. Keeping his eyes on Murchison, he lowered his jaw to the floor and let the sock slip out.

  ‘My God,’ Brooker exclaimed, ‘I have never seen a dog behave like that! It’s as if he understood every word!’

  The others applauded and made approving noises.

  ‘Goodonya, Horrie!’ ‘Atta boy, Horrie!’

  ‘If he’s as game as he is intelligent,’ Shegog observed, ‘he is going to be a real Anzac.’

  As he spoke, Horrie leapt on to Murchison’s bunk where he had hauled his kerosene tin from under it. Horrie was agitated. He charged at the tin and barked, knocking off the lid. In a flash, he was snapping at the snakes inside it. The tin clattered to the floor. The biggest of the reptiles, a half-metre long asp named Cleo, slithered out, causing a couple of the men to ease away. Horrie jumped from the bunk and snapped at her. Cleo coiled as if ready to spring, just as three other snakes eased and undulated in several directions. Murchison grabbed at them, taking his mind off the confrontation between Horrie and Cleo. The dog lay flat without taking his eyes off his would-be quarry. Cleo looked ready to thrust her fangs into her four-legged foe. For a moment the room fell silent. The only sound came from Horrie as he emitted a low growl, his ears straight up and unified. He was blocking out all other noise.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Murchie!’ Shegog whispered. ‘Do something before—’

  The asp’s head darted at Horrie, her fangs bared. The dog was a fraction quicker as he leapt sideways one way, then the other before grabbing the snake high on the neck. Horrie shook her in a frenzy of growl and saliva. His razor-like teeth pierced deep and high on the reptile’s neck and held on. Murchison, in shock, had forgone his other pets and was reaching for Horrie. But the dog was too quick. He backed to the tent flap, shaking and growling for another thirty seconds before, as suddenly as he had begun his frenzied attack, he stopped and let the snake fall from his mouth. It lay on the sand, as limp as a rag doll.

  ‘A bloody good thing!’ Featherstone said. ‘I can’t sleep with that in here!’

  Murchison looked aggrieved.

  ‘It had to be,’ Gill said, ‘there is no way you could have them here with Horrie. He may be a pup, but he must have spent his eight or nine weeks in the desert. This was not his first encounter with a Cleo.’

  ‘He is un-bloody-believable!’ Fitzsimmons said. ‘I grew up on a farm. I saw brownies and tigers kill quick, strong dogs with one strike. But I never saw anything like that. He is so quick and gutsy.’

  ‘Horrie is an Anzac for sure,’ Brooker said.

  *

  Fitzsimmons accompanied a grumpy, but not overly distressed Murchison as he took his tin full of snakes out of the tent and marched into the desert with the aim of letting his pets free.

  ‘The dog wins,’ Murchison said. ‘He and my babies can’t cohabit. Besides, I was getting sick of ’em anyway. But I’ll keep one—Doris—for fun and well way from you lot of bloody dyslexics!’

  ‘What did you call us?’ Fitzsimmons asked.

  ‘You’ve all got dyslexia,’ Murchison said. ‘I know because I have the condition. I can’t read properly. I get words and letters mixed up.’

  ‘Why do you say we have this—?’

  ‘Dyslexia? Because you worship D—o—g, instead of G—o—d.’

  Fitzsimmons returned to the tent where a few of the others were making a fuss over Horrie’s ‘performance.’ ‘Must give him a proper feed,’ Fitzsimmons said, picking him up, ‘he’s earned it.’

  Fitzsimmons carried Horrie to the cook’s kitchen and gathered some meat scraps. The dog sniffed the offerings, circled the several bits of meat and then one by one buried them in the sand outside. Fitzsimmons remembered Gill’s suggestion that Horrie could have belonged to Italians. He found some olive oil in the kitchen and sprinkled it on another piece of meat and offered it to Horrie. The dog sniffed it, walked around it again and then attacked it as if it might run off. Then he easily brought his jaws around it and wolfed it down. He wagged his stump and cocked his head, wanting more. Fitzsimmons found him another sizeable scrap, repeated the oiling up and watched him down it too. He then led a leaping, happy Horrie back to the tent to report his clever thinking about a dog with a possible Italian background needing oil for his meat.

  As the afternoon wore on, Horrie was bathed. At first he protested and didn’t want it, but as Gill and Moody jollied him into it, with lots of praise and ‘What a good boy, Horrie!’ and ‘Isn’t this fun, Horrie!’ the dog began to enjoy the attention. Later he watched ‘as intently as any human could,’ Featherstone wrote to a relative, while Moody and Gill constructed a miniature bunk for Horrie. ‘I reckon he knew this was for him,’ Featherstone added. ‘I might be getting carried away here, but I swear he knew what the lads were saying to each other as they hammered and fitted, fitted and hammered like professional carpenters.’

  Featherstone wasn’t so sure when Horrie would not settle into the bunk, even when some enticing straw was matted down for him. He wanted to be close to his new set of eight mates. He jumped from bunk to bunk, disturbing readers and writers and those chatting and smoking. At night it was very cold in the desert, dropping from more than 40 degrees to as low as 2 or 3 degrees within a couple of hours after sundown. Horrie waited and sat on the floor near his new sleeping place until it was dark. Then he leapt onto the bunk of a snoring man. At first he was kicked off but on his second attempt at bedding with a human, this time Murchison, he was not dislodged. The former snake-charmer was quite happy to have this hot-water bottle at his feet.

  4

  BARDIA ‘CELEBRATION’

  The Ikingi camp was abuzz from 3 to 5 January 1941 with the news that their 6th Division was engaged in the first Allied military operation of the Western Desert campaign. It was against Italian forces and effectively an Australian battle commanded by the experienced, controversial yet genial Lieutenant-General Savige. It was at Bardia, a small town west of Alexandria on the Mediterranean coast of Libya and about 30 kilometres from the Egyptian border. Bulletins filtered into the Ikingi camp from the afternoon of the first day of the engagement and had all members of the Machine Gun Battalion perched over radios and transmitters in several tents. Even Horrie sat near his unit watching for any emotional signs as if he knew what was going on. The scene in the dusty camp was like that of a remote outback mining camp awaiting reports on a far away Grand Final, when sometimes just the scores could cause elation or despondency.

  This first conflict for the Australians (or any Allies) in this region
brought good reports every few hours. On the morning of 3 January, 6th Division’s 16th Brigade attacked and broke through the western face of the defensive perimeter, while the 6th Battalion mounted a diversion in the south. The mere act of starting the battle had hats being thrown high. Two-up games were stopped as men gathered in tents hungry for any snippet. Then it was gleaned that troops of the 17th Australian Brigade had joined the fighting later in the morning to clear the southern portion of the Italian defences. A further cryptic message in code informed the signallers that the 16th Brigade was advancing towards Bardia itself. The Machine Gunners went to bed excited and the nervous energy passed to Horrie who took time to settle in his bunk after barking at everyone, his tail wagging, indicating that he was happy if everyone else was. The news saw him with more pats and attention than even on his first day. Reports from despatches the next day, 4 January, were that Bardia had been captured from the Italians. This brought tremendous reaction at Ikingi. When it was learned that all resistance had been mopped up it was decided that the resting Machine Gun Battalion would march into Alexandria late on the 5th. Murchison was inspired. He spoke of going AWL and joining his countrymen on this ‘historic’ occasion.

  ‘Save it,’ Brooker told him. ‘That was a good start but a chickenfeed battle.’ He reminded them all for the umpteenth time what a real battle occasion was.

  ‘Try Amiens in northern France in August 1918,’ he always told them. ‘Monash lined up three armies on the Somme with 102,000 diggers in the middle; the Tommies on his left flank and Canadians on his right. He demanded 400 tanks, 800 planes and 1000 pieces of artillery. We smashed two German armies and dislocated two more inside 48 hours. The enemy never recovered.’

  ‘That’s bloody history!’ Murchison responded.

  ‘Sure,’ Brooker replied, ‘but we’ve just cleaned up one little town on the bloody coast! The first AIF liberated 116 French towns and villages in a hundred days after Amiens in 1918. You must have a perspective. Believe me, we are going to be in for a tough time in this sideshow war. Okay, the Eyeties might be soft, but if Hitler gets worried and sends his crack troops here, well then you’ll learn what war’s about.’

  The results at Bardia came in a few minutes before the late afternoon march into Alexandria began. They were posted in chalk on a board outside the adjutant’s office. The 6th Division had lost 130 men with a further 326 wounded. Everyone was concerned that a mate, or a mate of a mate, may have been ‘knocked’ (killed). Yet the scoreboard, in callous war terms, looked good. More than 40,000 Italian prisoners were taken, along with an impressive cache of arms, rations, equipment and alcohol, with the last item causing mirth among the Rebels. They imagined their fellow gunners hitting the grog that night when they, too, would be raising a glass to the success at Bardia.

  Horrie became animated when he saw the men lining up. Moody had trained him already in three short marches to trot along in front of the column. He first tied string to his collar, coaxed him out front and marched with him. After one effort, Horrie knew what was expected of him, and now on this fourth time, he was running around waiting for the Rebels to hurry up and get ready.

  Some marvelled at Moody’s way with dogs.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said as they sat around on bunks carrying out last-minute polishing of equipment. ‘I’ve taught all the dogs I’ve had to do tricks.’

  When asked if Horrie was his favourite animal, Moody hesitated before answering: ‘No, he’s not. I once had a red setter called Rudyard that was truly one of God’s creatures. The most loveable living thing I ever knew.’

  ‘Was he smart?’ Gill asked.

  ‘Super-smart.’

  ‘Smarter than Horrie?’

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ Moody said with a wry smile, ‘but Horrie is a pup with unfathomable potential. You never know. But I will say this: Horrie, at maybe ten weeks, is the cleverest animal, at that age, I have ever known.’

  ‘Hitler reckons the German shepherd is the most intelligent canine of all,’ Gill commented.

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he?’ Moody replied, ‘he’s got them. But a lot depends on diet, environment and the attitude of the owner in opening up the dog’s mind. Brains in dogs, cats and humans are pretty well the same. If they are exercised and tested and pushed and rewarded, they will grow and develop. They must be given lots of respect, affection and communication. Deprive them, or leave them to wallow without communication, and their minds will not expand; they will wither and rot.’

  ‘I agree with the respect bit,’ Murchison proffered, ‘I respect my pets…’

  The others laughed.

  ‘No, no, Murchie’s right,’ Moody said. ‘Watch Horrie. Because Horrie is so clever, he is also very sensitive. We learned early when he was catching lizards that he did not like being laughed at. Just be careful and don’t tease him. He has my permission to take a chunk out of your leg if you do.’

  The others howled Moody down and threw socks at him.

  ‘Just mark my words,’ he warned with a grin.

  *

  Lieutenant ‘Big Jim’ Hewitt, the Gunners’ broad-shouldered officer, bellowed to Brooker and spick-and-span Corporal Featherstone, whose boots were like mirrors, to hurry the Rebels out on parade. They formed part of the last unit to line up with their platoon. Horrie darted in and out of the lines as Lieutenant Hewitt, accompanied by Featherstone, inspected each man from his kit to his boots. Horrie was joined by a stray dog and it was treated with barely disguised disdain for being with his platoon. Horrie stood or sat just to the rear and out of eyeshot of Hewitt and Featherstone, and his interest in the shortcomings of each man seemed intent. The other dog sniffed around, less enamoured with the inspection, but nevertheless staying close by Horrie. This went on for 15 minutes. Another platoon marched by to a steady sergeant’s cry of ‘left—right—left . . .’ Horrie watched it and wanted his team to move off too. He barked. The other dog did the same. In his exhilaration, Horrie came up behind the preoccupied Featherstone and cocked a leg on his boots. The other dog, also perhaps miffed that there were no trees in the desert, followed suit. Featherstone did not notice, but the soldiers on parade did. A titter ran through the ranks. The second effort by the stray dog brought outright laughter. Big Jim Hewitt and Featherstone wheeled around.

  ‘Steady the men,’ Hewitt ordered Featherstone.

  ‘Quiet!’ Featherstone bellowed, oblivious to what had happened.

  The men laughed again.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Hewitt said. ‘Each man stand like an oak; an oak, I say!’

  ‘That’s what Horrie thought the corporal was, sir!’ Fitzsimmons called out.

  That brought a roar from the ranks.

  ‘I think Horrie wet your . . . um—’ someone began but was interrupted by Fitzsimmons, as quick as ever, who called: ‘Your appetite, sir . . . whet your appetite for the march.’

  ‘Any more comment and you’ll be in the brig for a week!’ Hewitt snapped in reference to the camp jail.

  Horrie was pleased to hear the order to ‘march out.’ He dashed to the head of the column without being instructed. He trotted along, keeping a few metres in front of the platoon, and occasionally looking back. Horrie only deviated after about 500 metres when he spotted some young Arab boys trailing to the side of the platoon. He growled and looked like he might bolt for them. But several sharp cries of ‘No, Horrie! No!’ from the ranks, and particularly Moody, had the dog returning to his straight-ahead movement.

  After five kilometres of slogging in the heat on the 30 kilometre route to Alexandria, a sergeant called: ‘Okay, halt and smoko, ten minutes, lads!’

  Six Arab boys in raggy clothes, whom only Horrie had been able to spot in the distance, sprang from the dunes offering food and drink including dates, watermelon, dark grapes, eggs, meats and Bedouin-made lemonade. Horrie growled and snapped at them, causing a hurried retreat.

  ‘He hates wogs, doesn’t he?’ someone observed.

  ‘They probably
kicked him around wherever he was in his first weeks,’ Gill said. ‘Why else would he be so dark with them? He has never so much as yelped at a digger, except for one notable shit.’

  The urchins kept a wary eye on Horrie and mingled with the soldiers at the other end of the platoon as they slouched and smoked.

  ‘Very clean,’ they informed the gunners, holding up bruised-looking apples. ‘Washy today, washy today.’

  The soldiers were wary and even more so with the clever use of phrases the boys hoped would resonate with the Australians: ‘Fresh! Hygiene!’

  The food was inspected and mostly rejected. The bitter lemonade was bought by a few thirsty men wishing to supplement their water ration in the heat, which had climbed to more than 40 degrees. Horrie took the moment to move about ten metres from the platoon to do his business. He used his paws to cover his deposit with sand. The boys laughed as he buried it in a few inches. They pointed: ‘Dog, very hygiene! Dog, Aussie dog, very hygiene!’

  Some of the soldiers laughed. Horrie looked around at everyone, unhappy at being the centre of ridicule. He fixed on his Arab tormentors. Then, like a shark intent on one victim, he tore at a boy, who ran off. It brought more mirth to the platoon. Horrie tracked him and then flew at his leg, collected his trouser and shook it as he had Cleo, tearing the fabric and shearing it off. The boy stumbled and fell, kicking at the aggressive Horrie, who seemed to be in a frenzy. Moody and Gill ran to the scene fearing Horrie might do some serious damage. Moody called him to heel. At the second command, the dog gave up his would-be victim.