by Roland Perry
All boats headed off for Suda Bay, Crete, the elongated, mountainous Greek island, 272 kilometres long by 32 kilometres wide. The soldiers were thankful that the Luftwaffe, again for reasons only known to it, had held off during the turmoil of a sinking ship. Otherwise there would have been carnage. The escapees had gone just four kilometres when all looked back at the Costa Rica. Its bow went straight up. Then it slid down stern first into the flat sea that had lost its turbulence now that the destroyers were well away. Everyone stared. No one said a word. The captain watched and crossed himself, perhaps wondering if he should have carried on the questionable naval tradition of going down with the ship. Horrie appeared so engrossed in the ship’s dramatic yet graceful demise that Moody took his camera from his backpack and stole a picture of his beloved pet. It did not distract the dog one iota, and Moody wondered what he could be thinking. Horrie’s concentrated expression flitted between confusion and sadness. But Moody, too, was distressed. All his wonderful photographs, diaries, keepsakes and other personal items, such as letters received on the trip, were now deep with the fishes of the Mediterranean. The loss of the diaries hurt him. He had documented the entire trip in them with diligence and in his smooth, stylish handwriting. He vowed to himself there and then he would attempt to re-create the notes, which were so important to him. But the loss of the artistic photographs upset him most. They could not be re-created; not unless he returned to the locations—a thin ray of consolation and hope for the future. Later shots could not match the originals: of Gill and the other Rebels at the Pyramids, in the bazaars of Cairo or in the many quaint towns and villages of Greece; or on Salisbury Plain in England. Some of the gunners had other more prosaic yet more practical thoughts and misgivings about their Vickers machine guns hitting the ocean bottom, too, and being unsalvageable. To men at war, those weapons were precious. Like the mechanics with their trucks, the guns had been lovingly cared for each day with cleaning, oiling and dismembering for inspection, along with their tripods. This valuable equipment, their raison d’être and the lifeblood of the gunners’ battalion, had been lugged up mountains, across rivers and along countless kilometres of dusty, rotten road. With them, these diggers believed they were as near to invincible as soldiers could be. Without them, they were not so sure. The Costa Rica’s sinking left them disgruntled and wondering where they would obtain anything like the weapons they’d had.
15
A CRETAN AFFAIR
The Luftwaffe planes, loaded up with bombs, greeted the battalion at Crete with the same demonic gusto they had when the troops had landed in Greece. But this time the destroyers were able to at least respond to the Stukas’ attacks, and make them less effective. Moody, Gill and the other Rebels were disappointed not to have their rifles, which had allowed them at least token resistance. Instead, they were left with a dash up the beach at Glaros, a few kilometres west of Chania on the north coast. Horrie led the way with leaps and barks. They found cover where they could in rough, half-dug trenches and cuttings. When the German planes had finished and flown off, Brooker led some of the Rebels inland for a ‘transit’ depot near the town of Chania. They moved through olive groves, barley fields and vines on hills. No spare metre was wasted; the Cretans had created giant ‘steps’ up the hills and mountains in order to cultivate more crop areas. The men passed tranquil little farmhouses and were enchanted by Crete. Above them loomed the mountains. The Rebels, the two stowaway girls and hundreds of bedraggled diggers, many survivors from sunken vessels, converged on the depot, which was well prepared. The soldiers were all given a cup of tea and food. Most flopped in nearby olive groves, ate and rested in the shade. Soon the Rebels were reunited, much to the delight of Horrie, who was the centre of attention as usual. They were visited by a battalion gunner, Les Jeffers, who told them he had saved Horrie. Moody was perplexed, knowing that Horrie was somewhere in the grove fossicking around as always in a new territory. But out of curiosity he accompanied Jeffers to another part of the field. From a distance, the dog he was about to meet was like Horrie, but on closer inspection there were a few distinguishing features. For a start, it was female. Her ears were floppier; she had a longer tail and the expression was different. Jeffers had noticed her at the Kalamata beach, and, believing she was Horrie, had taken her on board the escape boats. He had protected her when the Costa Rica went down. Jeffers was disappointed that he had taken someone’s dog by mistake but Moody consoled him by saying that Jeffers had saved her and he should be proud of that. Her owner may have been killed in the air attacks. There was no knowing her history but, Moody pointed out, he had given her a future. Moody volunteered to take the female, whom he christened ‘Horrietta.’ He introduced her to Horrie, who was more than pleased to make her acquaintance.
‘Must be a breed of them,’ Fitzsimmons remarked as the Rebels watched the ‘dance’ of introduction. ‘There was Ben on the Pommie merchant ship, who could have been Horrie’s brother. Now this one could be his sister. And a couple of us saw the type in the Cairo bazaars.’
‘They’re a breed all right,’ Brooker commented, ‘a Gypo terrier. And what a fine breed. Intelligent, resilient, loyal and yet good watchdogs.’
‘Not Horrietta, I’m afraid,’ Moody said, ‘Les Jeffers reckons she’s incredibly timid. She didn’t handle the Stukas at all well.’
‘No one does!’ Brooker said.
‘We must look after her,’ Moody said with a shake of his head, ‘but the next few weeks may not be fun if Gerry hits hard.’
‘Oh, our Nazi friends will come after us for sure,’ Brooker said. ‘Gordie has already picked up German intelligence comments about an airborne attack of paratroopers.’
‘Nice, when we haven’t got all our weapons!’ Murchison said.
‘Which reminds me,’ Brooker remarked with a snap of his fingers, ‘all our rifles are to be commandeered for combat troops. You can keep your revolvers and knives but the rifles have to go.’
Moments later, Horrie began growling and barking at the sky. Less than a minute later, a wave of German bombers scorched the skies and strafed the area, causing the Rebels to scramble for any cover they could find. Horrietta froze in terror. Horrie bounced around her and all but nudged her in the direction of a foxhole, into which she eventually cowered.
‘What was wrong with Horrie’s hearing?’ Murchison asked as several lay protected in a large water pipe. ‘They were on us much quicker than normal after his warning.’
‘How’s yours when you are concentrating on a lovely young woman for the first time?’ Moody asked. ‘Don’t worry; once they are firmer friends he’ll be as alert as ever.’
*
The two dogs became good companions and both led the details by walking out in front of the platoon when it was detailed to dig trenches, prepare fortifications and other chores in readiness for the Luftwaffe and what might follow. Then the air strikes intensified in the softening-up process that preceded the German tactic of paratrooper raids. Horrietta could not cope, despite Horrie’s admirable entreaties to follow him into the foxhole. She froze, trembling and unable even to whimper. Horrie managed to coax her down the foxhole on occasions but sometimes it was impossible, which led to one or other of the Rebels dashing out from cover and carrying her shaking little body to safe ground. The men were concerned and Brooker said they would have to put her down. He suggested drawing straws to decide who would shoot her. The Rebels all had some rural experience, which included the killing of disabled animals. But none relished the job, especially as she had been such a pleasant addition to the Rebels and for Horrie, when the bombs weren’t crashing around her.
Harlor suggested they find a local farm family to take Horrietta, which everyone agreed was a sensible solution, especially as none of them wished to play executioner. In the meantime, between Stuka attacks, she became enchanted with Horrie, the brave one, who knew how to handle every situation, especially in finding food. But she had one trick that he could not manage, which was to beg by sitti
ng back on her tail, with her paws held limply in front of her. Moody was challenged to teach it to Horrie but he refused, saying it was demeaning to the animal.
Horrie often strayed from the camp but always returned at meal time. One night he did not turn up. All the Rebels searched in vain for him around their camp area. Moody was concerned. The next morning they would have to move to another part of the island and there was a chance Horrie would be left behind. The Rebels and other sections of the 1st Battalion did not have weapons and therefore would not be needed for the coming German invasion. They expected to be evacuated before serious hostilities. The Rebels were packing up at dawn when Horrie came whirring into the camp, more thrilled than anyone had ever seen him before. His behind gyrated so much that he moved in swirling circles in and around the delighted group. Moody examined a rope that had been tied to his collar. Horrie had chewed through it. Perhaps some well-meaning digger or local had found him running around. They may have believed he was lost and had tied him up.
‘Had a chain been used,’ Moody noted, ‘Horrie would have been left behind.’
The Rebels moved camp closer to Suda Bay and that morning the Luftwaffe menaced shipping in a continuous, intense bomb barrage. It was too much for the terrified Horrietta, who vomited in fear. This was enough for Brooker, who ordered that she be taken inland to a local family. Murchison created a diversion for Horrie by taking him on a romp through the fields and along a donkey track. Moody and Gill then went in the other direction, where Harlor had the day before come across a family nestled in a valley well clear of Suda Bay and insulated to a comfortable degree from the sound of exploding bombs on the coast. The Cretan family—a couple and three children—were delighted to accept Horrietta. Moody and Gill stayed for some coffee and with limited communication were more than satisfied that Horrietta would be well treated. They returned to camp before Murchison and Horrie. The latter bounded about in search of his little companion but, when he couldn’t find her, did not appear to be disturbed by her absence.
‘It was a useful time to separate them,’ Harlor wrote in a letter to friend in Australia. ‘They only knew each other a few days, and not long enough to be pining for each other. Besides, we could only really attempt to get away with carrying around one dog with us, and that has to be in secret. That one choice would forever be Horrie.’
The Rebels’ new camp overlooked Suda Bay. Below were several locations of British and Anzac troops on rocky hills. They were there to defend against any sudden arrival of airborne German paratroopers. More intelligence reports picked up by the Rebels’ radio transmitters revealed they were doing intensive air-drop training on Greece’s coastline. The Allies were expecting the biggest ever assault of this kind. There was a nervous wait for all defenders, and communications were vital. The Rebels’ job in part was to keep messages flowing between the scattered troops and HQ, located at the bottom of the hills and not far from the beach. In daylight hours they used a white shirt attached to a stick to signal Morse code. At night there was a problem. Any flashing by night of torches or lamps would be easily spotted by local spies, and even those out to sea already doing fifth-columnist work for the ubiquitous and efficient Gestapo. Urgent messages were coming through to the signallers more frequently now, and these had to be transmitted to HQ at ground level. The hills were too steep or rocky for men to negotiate. Brooker held a meeting to decide what to do. Horrie sat down and listened to the chatter as he often did, turning his head to each Rebel as if he was following the conversation.
‘Horrie’s our man,’ Moody said. ‘All you have to do is to tie a message to his collar and tell him to run to me. I’ll camp at the base of the hill near HQ.’
‘Nah,’ Murchison objected, ‘I can make it down the hill faster than Horrie.’
‘Not at night, mate,’ Gill said.
‘Any time!’ Murchison retorted.
Some of the Rebels agreed with him. Fitzsimmons suggested that Horrie was more likely to be injured hurtling down the hill at night than Murchison.
‘One way to settle this,’ Brooker said, ‘we’ll have a race in daylight. Horrie versus Murchie. The winner gets to be the runner.’
Bets were laid by many of the battalion on the outcome for the following day. Moody gave Horrie one training run in the early afternoon. He and Gill took him down the hill to Moody’s camping spot near a hollow olive tree 20 metres from HQ. Then Gill returned to the main Rebels camp halfway up the hill and sent Horrie down again with a message directing him to ‘take it to Moods, there’s a good dog!’ Horrie leapt off like a hare and took the note attached to his collar straight to his master. Moody made a fuss of his effort. That was enough training for him. A few hours later, hundreds of gunners and diggers turned out at points along the steep route down to HQ.
Murchison and Horrie took their positions at the starting position in the Rebels’ camp. Gill squatted next to Horrie and pointed down the hill, where Horrie had been with Moody a few hours earlier. He attached a message secured inside a handkerchief to his collar, saying: ‘That’s a good boy, Horrie. You take the message to Moods, all right?’
The dog looked animated at this game. He glanced up at Murchison who remarked in a tone of mock indignation: ‘Hey! That’s cheating! He should not get coaching like that!’
The battalion group gathered around was amused. Fitzsimmons said in cheeky voice: ‘That’s a good fella, Murchie. Take the message to Moods. Go on! You can do it!’
The onlookers roared laughing. Brooker fired his pistol and they were off. At first Horrie seemed to think he should be running with Murchison and he kept pace, but with onlookers urging him on, he soon bolted downhill, dodging branches, leaping down from rock to rock, and skipping in a rush along the meagre path. He was soon 10, 20 and 30 metres in front. Murchison hurried his climb down but lurched forward, his fall only broken by a fir-tree branch that snapped under his hurtling weight. Bruised but unhurt, Murchison clambered on in an uneven descent that was marked by stumbles, curses and painful yells as he hit rocks or received head bumps and scratches from branches. He ended up outside Moody’s tent a few minutes later than Horrie, who was lying on the ground chewing on a bone.
‘Horrie got the prize, mate, sorry,’ Moody said with a sly grin. ‘The bone would have been yours, if you had been a tad quicker.’
‘Okay, he’s quicker,’ Murchison agreed with a rueful grin while he struggled to regain his breath, ‘but I needed a few goes to get it right.’
‘Horrie couldn’t blow out a candle,’ Moody said, pointing to the dog. ‘I’d say he was fitter too.’
‘Still reckon I’d be more reliable.’
‘Not at night you wouldn’t be. Never.’
‘What if there’s a verbal component to a message? There have been, you know.’
‘I’d teach Horrie to bark it,’ Moody replied.
‘Bullshit!’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Moody said, reaching down to pat the dog.
Murchison was not sure if Moody was kidding or not. But such was Horrie’s reputation, he would not have been surprised if he was capable of doing it.
That night at about 2.45 a.m. Brooker attached a real note to the dog’s collar and off he dashed, as sure-footed as if it had been fully daylight. Brooker then fired two pistol shots. This let the patrol at the top of the hill know that their message was on its way to HQ. Horrie found Moody asleep in his tent and licked his face until he stirred and sat up.
‘You little ripper, mate!’ Moody said and took the note to the sergeant on duty at HQ. Horrie was patted and congratulated and given a titbit of bully beef, which he swallowed in a second. He wanted more.
‘He’s lost a bit of weight,’ the sergeant observed, reaching for a piece of biscuit.
‘He has been his stoic self,’ Moody said, ‘even seems aware that we are doing without and he doesn’t complain. He’s an inspiration to the Rebels.’
‘To all in the battalion!’ the sergeant insisted. ‘There is
no question he saved my life on Greece. I was in my tent asleep. I heard him barking and left, wearing just my underpants and dived for a trench.’ The sergeant became a little emotional. ‘Those bloody Stukas flattened our area of the camp.’ He picked up Horrie and cuddled him. ‘Gotta be a monument to this animal put up back home. Must be!’
The sergeant entered a large HQ tent and two minutes later returned with a message to be taken to Brooker. Moody bent down and attached it to the collar. He pointed up the hill and ordered Horrie to ‘Find Poppa . . . Go on!’ The dog scampered off, then looked back to see if Moody was following. He cocked his head in a questioning pose, ears erect. ‘Up to Poppa! . . . Up to Poppa!’ Moody repeated. With that, Horrie was away, charging up the hill.
Horrie sent ten messages this way until a few nights later there was an electrical storm accompanied by a powerful wind that blew over tents and caused minor chaos on the island. An urgent message came in from a patrol at the top of the hill at 3.30 a.m. concerning a small boat, possibly containing German scouts and spies, landing further round the coast. This had to be sent to HQ. Brooker judged that Horrie would be blown off the hill and killed, and decided not to send him. But no Rebel could be sent either for the same reason. While Brooker wandered around cursing and trying to secure his tent in the rain, Horrie followed him around, oblivious of the lightning and thunder that normally would worry dogs. He had seen a courier bring the message in and this normally presaged him being ordered down to Moody. Horrie sat in front of him. Brooker looked at him just as lightning struck nearby with a tremendous thunderclap.