by Roland Perry
‘This is the moment of your great disappearing trick, my little mate,’ Gill said, scratching the dog’s spine.
The Rebels heard the order for them to fall in on parade. Moody looked at Horrie and then the bag.
‘Sorry, my little friend, but this is it,’ he said. He pointed to the bag. Horrie looked crestfallen as he sauntered over to it. One last pleading look from him was ignored by Moody, who patted him and helped him in.
The thousand men of the 1st Machine Gun Battalion lined up as straight and stiff as terracotta soldiers. Officers began the inspection of each man. The chief officer, Colonel Poulson, who had replaced Hewitt (who was ill with an unspecified fever), was as tall and commanding but with a grim mien that bothered the Rebels. The dog-in-a-kit plan now depended on Horrie remaining silent. The colonel stepped along the line, his eyes darting over each man and his kit. Every ten soldiers or so, he would demand that a soldier remove his kit, sit it at his feet and open it. This act had the Rebels sweating in the early morning heat and glancing at each other. The colonel and his entourage of three other officers arrived at Murchison, who was next to Moody.
‘You could be less slovenly, Private!’ the colonel observed. ‘Kit, down!’
Murchison obeyed with a nervous glance at Moody.
‘What are you looking at Private “AWL” Moody for? He can’t be responsible for your appearance.’ The colonel paused then added the sharp instruction: ‘Kit, open!’
Moody felt a little wriggle from Horrie and prayed he would not bark at the unfriendly commands. The sun was becoming hotter each minute. The soldiers had been stationary for half an hour during this arduous routine that had become a trial for every Rebel as they feared Horrie would be discovered. The colonel looked down at the opened bag. He poked the items with the riding crop he carried.
‘Bit full, isn’t it?’ the colonel asked. ‘Enough equipment for two men. Why so, Private?’
‘I am one of those designated to carry spares for the others, sir,’ Murchison.
‘Hmm. More neat than I expected from you, Private,’ the colonel said with more than a trace of sarcasm. ‘Close kit!’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ Murchison said with a big grin.
The colonel had turned to go. He stood within a metre of Moody.
‘Something amusing you, Private “AWL” Murchison?’
‘No, sir. Just pleased to pass inspection, sir!’
‘I’ll bet you are!’
Murchison’s action had distracted the colonel enough for him to hardly glance at Moody or Gill next to him. Soon he was ten paces away with the other officers. Horrie emitted a little growl of protest as two Arab boys on one rusty old bike circled the parade and were at their closest point to the dog. All the officers glanced back. Gill made a noise like a cross between a growl and a cough. One of the officers doubled back and confronted him.
‘Throat problems, Private?’ he asked.
‘No, sir, I swallowed a fly, sir, I think.’
‘You think? Wouldn’t you know, Private?’
‘There are other insects, sir!’
‘Quite!’ the officer said. ‘Protein will do you good and won’t kill you.’ He eyed Gill before returning to the others. When the order was given to change to march formation, the Rebels all exchanged relieved glances. Command was then given to move off eight kilometres to the Ikingi Maryut rail station across the stony desert. It was going to be a hot, hard mission with full packs, some weighing 50 kilograms and including personal weapons, kitbags and sea kitbags.
Moody could feel Horrie moving. He was restless as the soldiers began to march across the desert, for he dearly wished to lead the battalion as he had on many occasions. Instead, he was a hot dog of despair, the only saving graces being that he was with Moody and moving at last. Moody kept whispering to him. Every time he spoke, Horrie moved a fraction. After about two kilometres, a truck driven by Ron Ford, the mechanic, came alongside the marchers.
‘How’s he doing?’ Ford asked.
‘Could you take him?’ Moody asked. ‘It’s a bit hot for him.’
‘No trouble.’
Moody broke ranks and hurried to the truck. He took the exhuberant Horrie out and handed him through the window to Ford.
‘I have to deliver this load of equipment and weapons to the train. No idea what the next order will be so I’ll tie him to that tree not far from the station.’
‘The one that looks like it might be a gum tree?’
‘That’s the one.’
Horrie stuck his head out the window, tongue hanging out and panting. He whined and wanted to be back with Moody and the Rebels. Ford poured water into his food pan and Horrie lapped it up. Then Ford drove off, sparing the dog an arduous trek under a boiling sun. At the station, the thousand men milled around in groups, waiting for the order to embark. Moody slipped away out of sight and ran beyond the station to the solitary tree. Horrie was there, standing and looking towards the large group of soldiers. When he spotted Moody he jumped and twisted high, nearly throttling himself on the rope. Moody had no time to placate him. He bundled the little fellow back into the kitbag. Horrie stayed stock-still, perhaps thinking that his wriggling before had caused him to be separated from Moody and the Rebels. Moody hustled back to the station as the other began to move aboard. Once the train was moving, Moody removed him from the kitbag.
‘Where’s Fitzgerald’s guard mob?’ he asked.
‘Other end of the train,’ Murchison said. ‘Anyway, Horrie’ll be okay. That prick wouldn’t turn him in with so many witnesses and mates.’
Horrie dashed around the carriage and to anyone who beckoned him. He brought smiles to the troops, who all patted him. The greetings done, he jumped to a window. Standing on his hind legs, he watched the passing parade of villages and country. No soldier was as intrigued or captivated by the sights as much as he was. He hardly turned his head away. Whenever he spotted an Arab he voiced his distaste, making the Rebels grin and discuss again what may have happened to him early in his life. He was agitated by Arab boys flogging food at stations, and when they laughed at his snarling, snapping face from the safety of the platform, he was beside himself with annoyance. A bold older Arab at one stop sidled to the Rebels’ carriage and through an open window offered them whisky.
‘Top Scottish! Top Scottish!’ he told Murchison with a gap-toothed grin while stroking his grey beard and then glancing around to see if there were any military police watching. Murchison asked to see it and, satisfied with the label (‘Glenfiddich single malt’), the sealed cork and its general look, bought it for 12 shillings. The Arab baulked away through the crowd as police spotted him. The train pulled out of the station. Murchison uncorked his purchase and found it was weak, warm tea. Brooker suggested that the only way it could have been dressed up so convincingly was to have poured the tea in through the bottom of the bottle. On close examination it was found that a small hole had been bored in the base. Once the real whisky was drained out and replaced with tea, the hole had been sealed up.
‘You’re lucky it wasn’t camel’s piss,’ someone said with a laugh. Horrie took his eyes off the sweeping vista of rock and sand to examine the bottle. Murchison took his dish from Moody and poured the liquid into it. There was a roar of laughter as Horrie twitched his nose at the offering and backed away with an expression that said thanks but no thanks.
The train was pushed off to sidings on several occasions to allow other trains packed with troops to pass by. After several hours they reached Alexandria’s outskirts just after noon.
‘I’d like another night there one day,’ Murchison said with a wistful gaze at the city, diverting the conversation from his duping by the old Arab to his cavorting with the two black prostitutes.
‘In love, are we?’ Brooker asked.
‘You couldn’t have coped, old man!’ Murchison replied. ‘But to answer your question, I did fancy one of them very much and I saw her several times. She was sweet and she liked me.�
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‘Oh, sure, and your wallet.’
‘No. She didn’t want money.’
‘Oh, just a donation to the local mosque?’
‘She was Christian. If you must know, I did give her something for her sick mother in Cairo.’
‘And for her cat too, I hope.’
‘We both gave donations to sick family members,’ Fitzsimmons interjected, deadpan, and brought laughter that miffed Murchison, who acted as if his reputation for virility had been damaged.
Seeing his irritation, Brooker said: ‘Don’t worry, son, every woman in these parts has to provide for family members. You’ve done a great service to the community.’
At Alexandria’s wharf, Moody beckoned to Horrie, who, looking resigned to his fate in the kitbag, hopped in without complaint. Moody gave him a last look and put his fingers to his lips, telling him to be very quiet. They lined up on the wharf with the others, who were in ranks of three. Their ship, the 3000 tonne Chalka, was in port waiting for them. It was pockmarked with shell and bomb hits from artillery and planes. The English crew was leaning on the rails and already passing the odd comment down to them.
‘Any Don Bradmans amongst you Aussies?’ one called and tossed an orange to the troops. When it was dropped, he added, ‘Nar, didn’t fink so!’
There was good-natured banter, and the crew looked pleased to be having them aboard. To the Rebels’ relief there was not to be an inspection. Moody relaxed a fraction, and let Horrie poke his head out of the hole in the bag. Just as Moody’s name was called, the dog was distracted by an Arab on the wharf. Moody raised his voice and shouted: ‘Present, sir!’
Horrie growled. The officer glanced at Moody and his gaze lingered as he paused. It was a tense moment. Most officers didn’t care about a few animals in the camps but with the prospect of combat they were frowned upon. Perhaps this officer was one of the few who turned a blind eye to such things. Maybe he didn’t care, given that the men would soon be on a ship, where dogs and cats were tolerated depending on the captain and his crew. The Chalka had its own dog mascot, Ben, who much to the surprise of the Rebels was also an Egyptian terrier-cross. The Machine Gun Battalion very soon appreciated the friendliness of the English crew, who as they claimed ran ‘a good and happy ship.’
Ben and Horrie were introduced and after several circles and examinations, decided they liked each other. A distinguishing factor was their tails. Ben had a proud, unclipped ‘mast,’ compared with Horrie’s stump. Ben had been picked up in the recent battle for Benghazi between Commonwealth and Italian forces on the Libyan coast.
‘Ben was left by the Eyeties,’ a sailor explained, ‘so he was one of the spoils of the victory and we couldn’t resist the little blighter.’
Horrie was taken onto the deck in the afternoon. He was most unsure of what he was experiencing, with the moving deck and the blue and emerald water that undulated. Horrie stumbled to the railing and when he saw the drop, backed off. But his new ‘best mate’ Ben led him around the ship, helping him, it seemed, to acquire his sea legs. They even moved down steps to the ship’s galley and the kitchen, where a delighted, podgy-faced Yorkshire cook found big bones for both of them. Horrie stumbled up the steps with his ‘prize’ but wished he hadn’t when he reached the deck again. The boat began to roll and pitch. Horrie could not stand up and was at a loss over why. Every time he looked at the swells that appeared as if they might engulf the rugged, overcrowded boat, he shivered. The bone was forgotten. Moody noticed his distress and took him to their cabin, which provided little respite. Moody himself threw up and felt sick for the rest of the day and night. Day two was calmer and he spent three hours making a life-jacket for Horrie, but when he scampered off to play with Ben, he fought his way free of it. Moody had to keep a careful eye on him for the rest of the unpleasant journey.
7
PIRAEUS TO PAY
While the Chalka sailed on, the Germans attacked 19 Greek forts of the Metaxas Line in northern Greece, which resisted courageously but were overwhelmed by midday on 9 April 1941. This encouraged the Luftwaffe to attack the beautiful Athens port of Piraeus in the south, which was packed with shipping and the arrivals of British Commonwealth troops. German planes struck at dusk on the evening of the same day the Chalka steamed into Piraeus Harbour. Unaware of the coming Luftwaffe onslaught, it was an uplifting moment for all members of the battalion, after the bland rock and sand of Libya’s barren Western Desert. Here at last was a vista that had been nourished by water with a vivid, dark green predominant in plants, particularly ferns with large fronds, and grass around neat, sloping rows of sandy-coloured villas and houses. The battalion disembarked and Moody lowered his kitbag, with Horrie in it, onto a small boat and into the arms of an unsuspecting, smiling Greek. He found he was holding a writhing ball of terrier. Before the local sailor toppled over, Moody relieved him of the kitbag and tried to placate Horrie, who was barking and growling. Moody soon realised why. The little boat was driven erratically as German planes swooped low from nowhere, bombing and strafing the new arrivals. The dog’s antennae were working well, but were of little use now as the boat had to linger for several hours on the water during the persistent attacks. After the frustrating and nervous stay on the water, the boat darted its way to the shore. Once there, Moody let the dog free. He bounced around but was soon terrified as Greek anti-aircraft gunners opened up nearby. Moody grabbed Horrie and followed other Rebels towards the mouth of an open drain, where they ducked for cover. From that precarious vantage point 40 metres from the water, they watched as Luftwaffe planes careered down with a whine of engines and dropped bombs on the shipping, the big boats being the main target for sinking. As dusk fell, searchlights roamed the skies and German pilots flew daringly down the beam firing their machine guns. The darkening evening sky was now a fireworks show as tracer bullets, bombs and bursting shrapnel illuminated everything to the horizon.
Horrie was mortified and in complete capitulation to these conditions. He trembled and whimpered. Seeing his terror, Moody regretted bringing him. He did his best to soothe his fears, but all he could do was hold and stroke him and prevent him from running off. But when a bomb thumped hard close by and sent up a spray of rocks and dirt, Horrie’s demeanour swung to the opposite extreme. He wriggled his way free from Moody and dashed into the open. He looked up at the planes and barked and barked, only taking a breath to growl before barking again. Having adjusted to the cacophony and ear-splitting noises, he was his defiant self, ready to take on the Luftwaffe. When the horror subsided, the battalion marched five kilometres to the little village of Daphni, erected tents and settled in for a few precious hours sleep, although the German attacks did not abate. Their bombs kept the ground shaking. The close hits sent dirt and stones spraying over the camp area. It showed that the Luftwaffe had managed to pinpoint the Machine Gunners’ movements, which meant spies were passing coordinates and locations to the enemy. It told, without a word being spoken, that there would be no real respite or escape from attacks from now on if the weather held. This was the air arm of the mighty German war machine at its most menacing and deadly.
Horrie’s bravery subsided in the night as he settled on Moody’s bunk, looking to him for solace. Moody’s responsibility to the pet meant he was disinclined to show fear so as not to trigger the dog’s reaction, for like most animals, they sensed when humans were frightened. Moody was as on edge as the next Rebel, but his fatalism allowed him to adjust quicker than most to these dreadful conditions of real war. He took the attitude that he should not worry too much about events out of his and others’ control. This sense seemed to transmit to Horrie, who gathered his wits against the new mind-numbing threat of bombs that left craters around them. Instead of barking at the ‘eggs,’ as the Rebels, to lessen their psychological impact a fraction, called them, Horrie growled every time one hit near to them. He remained shaken but not as much as when he was first on the shore.
*
Murchison was the first Rebel
up in the morning, just before dawn on 10 April. The bombing had stopped two hours earlier at 4 a.m. and the other Rebels were snoring. Horrie heard movement, jumped from Moody’s bunk and trotted out after Murchison, who stretched and looked to the horizon as light was beginning to distinguish the first glimpses of rural Greece. Murchison could make out sheep in a distant field with a shepherd herding them as if nothing had happened in the night. Despite the odd pockmark left by bombs, the fields were still green and inviting. In the paddock close by, the shapes of hanging grape vines were becoming visible, while the colour of poppies, red and purple, in the weak light, was brightening the entire area. Murchison encouraged Horrie to make his mark on the nearest tree, and then a second followed by a third and fourth. Just as he was marvelling at the little dog’s bladder, he realised that the trees were gums, which could have been transported straight out of the Australian bush. Murchison felt good, despite a wary eye on the horizon, always half-expecting to see the Luftwaffe return, especially now that targets were visible. Then again, his worry was allayed in the knowledge that even German pilots suffered from fatigue, especially after hours of diving on Piraeus and its surrounds. And the visibility that would help the attackers would also aid the defenders with their anti-aircraft artillery. Any attacks in daylight would see Luftwaffe casualties increase.