Horrie the War Dog

by Roland Perry

  ‘We have to reward that lovely woman,’ Moody said. The Rebels then gathered spare stores including food, clothing and blankets, bundled them together and left it on her front-door step with a note.

  The overcast weather may well have prevented a Luftwaffe attack, but it was also thought that the enemy believed that the division’s convoy was still hidden somewhere north of Corinth and south of Lamia. Whatever the reason, Anzac Day 1941 was a fortunate 24 hours at a critical time for the division. The good luck continued well into the evening and night as the convoy started its final run at 9 p.m. and moved at a more leisurely pace with less fear about air attacks. They arrived at Kalamata on the Ionian Sea coast at 2.15 a.m. where the battalion found many other Australian, British, and New Zealand troops, along with Greek and Yugoslav soldier contingents, who were keen to avoid becoming German POWs. Trucks kept pouring in and officers did their best to organise defences, the destruction of as much equipment as possible and the orderly preparation for boarding ships. The main targets for obliteration were the trucks. Soldiers such as Archie and Bash, who had spent their working lives saving and resuscitating vehicles, now had to put those skills into seizing engines. It was a sad business for them and all the other mechanics and drivers who had cared for their vehicles with such diligence. Others were assigned to ram shells the wrong way down artillery gun barrels and fire the charges.

  ‘It’s just like the Light Horse troopers in the Middle East in the last war,’ Brooker observed. ‘They were ordered to turn their horses in and they shot them themselves and it caused great pain for all the men, who’d gotten real close to their horses.’

  ‘I’ve got news for you, Poppa,’ Murchison said, ‘we have to shoot ’em here too.’

  Brooker grimaced in disgust.

  ‘Well they won’t be shooting any dogs,’ Moody said with a glance in Horrie’s direction.

  ‘Oh, we all agree with that,’ Murchison said. ‘I reckon there would be mutiny if Horrie was threatened that way.’

  Archie led the way with the Rebels in the destruction of vehicles. He started the engine and put a heavy rock on the accelerator. Then he slid on his back under the truck and used a spanner to remove the drain plug in the sump. When the oil drained away, the racing engine began to scream. Horrie was alerted, at first perhaps thinking he had somehow missed the whine of the Stukas, but his ears adjusted. Now he barked in protest as the engine noise reached an intolerable pitch. He ran away and only returned when the white hot motor, oil-less and without life, seized, bringing a sudden silence.

  That done, Archie apologised to Horrie and began shooting holes in tyres or slicing them open.

  ‘Used to do this as a kid in Wellington,’ Archie said with disgust as he slashed another tyre. He put a bullet in another.

  ‘Yeah, but then it was for fun,’ Bash said, while draining water from an engine, ‘now it’s for survival.’

  The two Kiwis became tired of draining the engines. They were soon seen smashing them with crowbars. And when they became fatigued with that, they ran the engines, drove the vehicles to the edge of cliffs and sent them crashing into forest below.

  Instead of getting rid of food and bedding, the Rebels commandeered a truck, filled it with those goods and drove it into the village where it was distributed among the grateful townsfolk, who were worried about what the coming Nazi occupation could mean. In another part of town, a battalion officer, John Bellair, jumped in his truck and shot the lock off a chest that had come everywhere with him. It contained a smart tailor-made uniform that 6th Division had advised all officers to purchase in readiness for the ‘triumphal march through Athens after we have thrown the Germans out of Greece.’ Bellair reckoned he wouldn’t be needing it now, so he gave it to an old peasant who worked in the surrounding olive groves. His beautiful tie was handed over to a ‘skinny nine-year-old boy who used it as a belt to keep up his ragged pants.’

  At dawn, the Luftwaffe began their runs over the countryside, strafing and bombing, causing the thousands of Allied soldiers to take cover but with no concern for their trucks now. The Stukas did their worst but were up against a stronger defence than elsewhere as hundreds of anti-aircraft weapons were lined up in a rough semicircle on the outskirts of Kalamata. This made it less difficult for the British Sunderland flying boats to swoop in, land on water and take off with a load of the wounded for transferring to ships. Some combined intelligence work by British spies stationed near German air bases at Larissa and other aerodromes alerted the pilots of the four-engine Sunderlands on the timing for their dashes to Kalamata.

  Moody and Gill edged close to the beach and allowed Horrie to dash around on his twice-daily exercise, which was fitted in between Luftwaffe attacks. They watched as four Sunderlands wobbled in for perfect landings on a flat, calm sea. Boats carrying up to 100 wounded soldiers were ferried to the planes. The men were stretchered and eased on board, 25 on each Sunderland. The flying boats’ two pilots, engineer and two bowmen all hustled to settle the wounded in. Anchors were barely dropped before being hauled in.

  Horrie caused all heads to turn as he bounced around and then barked out to sea, wagging his tail. But this was not his ‘warning’ about Stukas. He was simply voicing his approval or amazement as the flying boats’ engines roared and they clipped along the water’s edge, hovered for about 40 metres and then eased skywards, aiming to reach British ships. Yet Horrie spent much time doing what he had gained fame for, by barking at the sky as the Stukas attacked six times during the day, which was hell for the weary troops. Locals helped conceal them all around the village and port and in the hills. But the Germans knew they were there in big numbers and they were doing their best to slaughter them. The older Greeks were stoic and few asked to be taken from their villages, but younger people, especially the women, pleaded with the foreign soldiers to allow them to escape. This created more heart-wrenching moments for all the Rebels.

  Fitzsimmons wrote to his family: ‘I spoke to two lovely 18-year-old girls, who offered everything, and I mean everything, they had for us to stow them away. They held my arm; they begged, they cried . . . We all would have liked to have taken hundreds of the Greeks of all ages but it was impossible. Some of us swore we’d return to liberate them. But this was cold comfort for those who wanted to leave right then . . .’

  Moody came to the aid of the girls by finding Australian slouch hats and uniforms for them, and suggesting they stow away with the battalion. The girls toiled with the men in creating barricades, clearing roads and filling in potholes and bomb craters. Moody and Fitzsimmons believed they could be smuggled out on their boat in the dark and rush to leave.

  Thousands of soldiers were assembled on the beach before midnight. The Rebels, and their two Kiwi recruits Archie and Bash, were close together. The stowaway girls, head down and quiet, were nearby. Moody had given away his greatcoat. There was nowhere to hide Horrie but it didn’t matter. There was no inspection in this hurried evacuation; there would be no trouble in getting him on board. The dog remained calm and quiet, now experienced at sea ventures and ‘leaving’ or moving out from anywhere. He was content if Moody and the Rebels were close. They waited in silence for a sign of the rescue ships. At 1.30 a.m. a low ripple of appreciation and relief filtered along the crowded beach as lights could be seen on the water in the distance. Rescue was at hand.

  14

  COSTA RICA CALAMITY

  A flotilla of small craft meandered into the Kalamata wharves and beaches and then ferried the evacuees to troop ships further out to sea. The escape was orderly although the troops were not lined up. Their selflessness and discipline, either drummed into them militarily or otherwise, saw the big assembly ease forward as the seamen manoeuvred their boats efficiently from the beach to the destroyers and back until not one digger remained. The gunners’ battalion was placed on the Defender and slipped to the troop ship Costa Rica, a chartered Dutch ship. Everyone was given a chunky corned beef sandwich garnished with relish, and a cup of h
ot chocolate as a ‘welcome on board.’ It was a gesture appreciated by all who just tolerated their usual food. Horrie received his sandwich and when he wolfed it down and looked up appealingly to the Dutchmen handing them out, he received a second, much to the approval of all in view. More than 3000 soldiers from the battalion and other 6th Division contingents were on board.

  As dawn broke, several troop ships were steaming away from the Greek coast with the Costa Rica on the left flank, the City of London in the centre and the Delawarra on the right flank. The Costa Rica’s escort was comprised of three destroyers—Defender, Hareward and Hero—along with the cruiser Calcutta. Everyone braced themselves for an attack from the Luftwaffe. Soon after first light, Horrie was on deck with Moody and Gill, and all heads turned to him as he became unsettled. He sat; he stood; he sat again. Then those now-famous ears began to straighten and face beyond the sea to the north. The cry went up that Stukas were on the way. Even before his first growl, gunners were moving fast to set up their Bren guns. Gill lined up with them and countless others. He readied his rifle. This caused Moody to carry Horrie to the sun deck and tie him up, much to his disapproval, as the Stukas began to whine their way towards the vulnerable troop ships. Moody grabbed his own weapon and, lining up next to Gill, began firing at the planes. Soon hundreds of men were crouched on deck, firing machine guns, rifles and revolvers. This was more than a useful back-up for the anti-aircraft guns on the destroyers. The Luftwaffe, which had long ago defeated any British fighters, for once would not have a battle all its own way. The chances of them being shot down increased a few percentage points, a situation that caused German pilots little moments of hesitation in their attacks. They were not suicide bombers and they had not had such concentrated, strong retaliation before in the Battle of Greece. The planes jerked and zigzagged in. This caused bombs to be dumped with a muffled explosion or none at all as they missed the boats and hit the water. One brave or foolhardy pilot dipped low over the Costa Rica, aiming his guns and bombs at the City of London. Some bullets of the deafening volley from the Costa Rica deck hit their mark. The Stuka stuttered in the air, coughed and then nosedived into the sea. A huge roar erupted from the two ships. Soldiers on the City of London acknowledged the hit with waves and cheering to the 1st Battalion gunners and the hundreds of riflemen.

  Moody glanced at Horrie, who was barking another warning, and then up to see the ‘gamest man’ on the ship. He was perched in the crow’s nest on the tallest mast. He was waving his arms like a demented conductor as he noticed another wave of Stukas climbing down from the sun. Bullets caused chips to fly off the mast and to fray its rigging.

  Moody was in awe of the bravery of the man in the swaying crow’s nest as he seemed to be right in the centre of the cross-fire coming down from the planes and up from the ship’s deck.

  When the squadron had departed, a bizarre scene developed in the saloon where one of the gunners, who could not secure a weapon, began belting out a tune on the piano. Other soldiers without guns gathered around and could be heard singing. This prompted Horrie to lift his head and bark and howl, which he always did when the men turned to song. His lyrical accompaniment caused the entire deck of gunners to roar with laugher. But then he stopped mid-song. He sat. His ears began to dance and quiver. Warnings were called along the deck. The gunners and riflemen were soon preoccupied with another Luftwaffe attack. All weapons aimed high. Another Stuka was hit and went twisting and shrieking hard into the sea, where it broke up. The deck of gunners cheered as one. Horrie had watched the incident and he barked as the Mediterranean devoured the broken bits of the plane, and the pilot who was never seen. The dog’s apparent approval brought cheers and clapping from the gunners, whose adrenalin was flowing. Yet the euphoria was short-lived. The German pilots, twice bitten by the battalion’s gunners, now shied away from the Costa Rica and concentrated on the not-so-well protected City of London. But enough defence ripped back at the planes for them to fly high and away to lick wounds and reload with more bombs and bullets. The third, fourth and fifth Stuka attack waves each lost a plane. By midday, the count was five down.

  The City of London sent a signal to the Costa Rica congratulating them on the weight of their small-arms fire in support of the gunners, and encouraging them to keep it up as spare ammunition was passed around the deck, ready for the next inevitable encounter. Using the blinding sun as a backdrop better as it reached the peak of its arc, the Luftwaffe returned. One bomb came close and rocked the boat. Some men were knocked off their feet as a tsunami-like wave swamped the deck, brought down rigging and stopped the boat’s engines. The captain was informed that the ship had been holed. The engine room was engulfed in water. The engines were moved off their mounting and the ship ground to a halt. A silence enveloped the ship.

  The destroyer Defender cruised alongside and enquired about the problem with a loudhailer. Several wags called out responses: ‘Just taking a breather!’; ‘Forgot the batteries!’; ‘Run out of petrol!’; ‘Run out of coal!’ The officer with the hailer called that his boat would start taking troops off the Costa Rica. Moody dashed for the sun deck to rescue Horrie, but the boat was slanting to starboard already. This ship was going belly up from what at first seemed a minor ‘bump’ from a bomb. He reached Horrie, who was struggling to keep his feet but as soon as Moody appeared he wagged his tail as if this was just another odd event on the sea to which he had to adjust. Moody was on edge as men began leaping down on ropes to the destroyer. He looked up, concerned that a new sweep of Stukas would return for a big ‘kill’ now that thousands of soldiers were in danger. Moody held Horrie and looked down to the destroyer, which disappeared out of view with the rise and fall of the water’s swell. There was a seven metre drop. Moody had a small backpack. He would need two hands free to slide down a rope. There was only one thing to do. He would have to throw his little mate overboard. He called down to deckhands on the destroyer that Horrie was coming. He held him up. Two deckhands grinned and gave him the thumbs-up. Moody waited until the boat’s rise was at its lowest and then heaved Horrie, who did something akin to a double somersault with pike right into the two pairs of sturdy hands. Once righted, he looked stunned for a second, then wagged his tail and licked his catchers. Horrie’s first afterthought was to look up for his master, who waved, relieved, before leaping for a rope and landing close to the dog, who went into a licking frenzy as if it was a game. Moody looked around for a good place to tie him up and decided on one of the destroyer’s lifeboats. Moody then hurried back to help other soldiers as they dropped in by rope. There was a never-ending cascade of them hitting the decks and he broke the fall of man after man. But it was a dangerous operation. Moody saw one man drop too high in the sway between the boats. He hit the side of the destroyer and was thrown into the sea. The man did not surface and disappeared under the destroyer. Moments later another soldier tried to make the leap without using a rope when the boats were at their closest. But his timing was out. He hit both boats, struck the water hard and also did not surface. Small boats moved in and around but could not find the two men. With others falling into the water, the rescue flotilla had no choice but to help those they could reach.

  Moody noticed a lifeboat slipping down from the Costa Rica and heading for the lifeboat harbouring Horrie. Moody dashed across the deck, untied Horrie and leapt clear a second before the lifeboat cannoned into the one on the destroyer. Moody looked back to see the two boats splintered in half by the impact.

  ‘A close call, Horrie, mate!’ Moody mumbled. ‘A very close call!’

  Seconds later Moody witnessed another incident that would stay with him for life. Bill McMillan, a quartermaster sergeant with the battalion’s C Company, ducked when hit by what he thought was a piece of debris. But it was his cat, the half-Persian Ooboo, who had jumped ship. The cat clung to his shoulders. McMillan grabbed Ooboo and kissed him.

  ‘You little darling!’ McMillan said, steadying himself in the bobbing little boat. ‘I looked for you
everywhere! How many lives is that you have left?!’ He gave the watching Moody the thumbs-up. Ooboo, like Horrie, was known to most in the battalion. Similar to Horrie, he was a mascot and had travelled as such with C Company through Egypt and Greece. But the cat had had a different route into the battalion. Ooboo had survived the evacuation of Allied troops from Dunkirk in 1940 and had been given to the gunners by a British contingent as a gift.

  Moody tied Horrie to a pole centre-deck and returned to help others coming in. It was precarious. More men slipped and fell into the water. They had to be fished out of the sea in a frantic yet this time successful bid to get almost everyone on the destroyer and another that manoeuvred to help take passengers. Murchison, Gill and Brooker had stayed on board the doomed and listing Costa Rica with the last group of men, all officers, including the short, rotund captain. The three had combined with Moody to guide and help hundreds of men on the leap from boat to boat. The captain approached the Rebels and others with his most vital papers and some boxes tucked under his arm. He struggled to maintain his feet on his now acutely sloping ship. But he had the presence of mind, and eccentricity, to hand the boxes—containing long Uppmann cigars—to the Rebels and others who had stayed to near the end. All except the captain made the leap to safety. He was left standing on the deck and looked as if he might go down with the ship. The Rebels and a hundred other soldiers and sailors urged him to jump. He appeared torn, but at the last moment grabbed a rope, papers still under one arm, and swung out over the destroyer as its engines started up. Horrie craned his neck to see the captain hovering high over him. Then the skipper dropped, and without losing his feet landed centre-deck a metre or so from the dog. Horrie wagged his behind as if applauding his effort and final decision, and the captain made a special fuss of him as if what he’d just done was all in a day’s work. But everyone knew it was tragic for the captain to lose his serviceable and hardy old tub. He had been with it 17 years and a decade of this was as captain.