Horrie the War Dog

by Roland Perry

  ‘Shit!’ Brooker exclaimed. ‘That was bloody close!’

  Lightning lit up the area. Rebels ran for trenches, with Brooker warning them not to look for cover under big trees. ‘They’re bloody serious conductors, you know!’ he shouted.

  ‘Yeah,’ Fitzsimmons called back from under a large olive tree, ‘so is bloody Mozart!’

  ‘You won’t be so smart when you’re fried!’ Brooker snarled back. He noticed his little shadow, Horrie. He bent down in the rain, clutching the urgent message and sighed.

  ‘Horrie, mate,’ Brooker said, ‘you’re our only hope with this one.’ He tied the note and handkerchief to his collar. Brooker stood and pointed to the bottom of the hill and reached out to pat him, but he was off and running. Brooker moved close to the edge of the sharp drop and looked down. With the intermittent lightning, he caught glimpses of the small, white flash of Horrie careering, zigzagging and leaping his way on his mission, which was accomplished without mishap.

  HQ reacted to the message and sent a dozen soldiers to the cove where the boat had been spotted. Ten men, including three Germans and two Italians in civilian clothes, were found sheltering from the storm in a cave close to the water’s edge. They were arrested, imprisoned at the town of Chania and charged with espionage activities ‘against the Cretan people’.

  16

  EVACUATION

  On the Rebels’ ninth day on Crete they were informed they would be evacuated the next day on the 10,000 tonne transport, the Lossiebank. It would take them and all others of the 6th Division who were without weapons and equipment. They would not be needed for the big stoush against the invading Germans, which was now imminent. The Rebels were disappointed and not a little guilty about having to leave so many mates in the battalion. Given the option, all would have stayed and fought, even if they only had pistols and knives to battle with. But they had to go. Moody had left the enterprising Horrie to run free on the island and no one, not even the most officious of officers, had protested or told the Rebels they could not keep a dog. But now their arm of the military was on the move again, this time to Port Said, Egypt, Moody could not be sure about reaction to the battalion mascot. It only needed one nasty individual to object to him and he might be left on Crete. Moody did not have the pack that had spirited him everywhere so far. He looked around for something in which to hide him and decided on an ammunition box. The steel frame had small holes punched in the base, but it would be still cramped and challenging for the little animal.

  Just when the men were boarding, a low growl emitted from the ammunition box. The Rebels all glanced at each other. Moody opened the box.

  ‘Not now, mate, okay?’ Moody whispered with a stern look and glancing at the confused little expression as the lid was shut on him again. His growl continued. Then came the muffled bark. Moody sweated. He glanced around to see if any officer was near.

  ‘Hurry it up, you blokes!’ Murchison called. ‘The Huns are coming!’

  All diggers on the shore and walking up gangways looked up to the skies as the seconds ticked down from Horrie’s usual two-minute warning. Just as half the men had boarded the boat, a wave of Stukas rolled over them. Everyone took cover but there was a resolute, almost fatalistic ease to the battalion’s reaction. The gunners knew that there was no use panicking or pushing on board. Orderly movements up gangways at the double did not see anyone break ranks and try to scramble on deck. The Luftwaffe always put nerves on edge and often had ‘hits’ in these strikes, but the element of surprise of them roaring down was not the shock it had been. There was also a strong battery of anti-aircraft guns on board and on the shore, which gave some protection. Horrie’s barks were drowned by the howling planes that careered at the vulnerable Lossiebank. Three bombs landed close, throwing a dozen soldiers into the water. Once on board, Moody headed for the gun deck with the ammunition box, the one place it would not look unusual. He shoved it under a tarpaulin and sat near it. He kept talking under his breath to Horrie, trying to reassure him and also keep him quiet. A ship’s officer, Captain Burke, noticed Moody sitting there, apparently gibbering to himself.

  ‘You all right, Private?’ he asked.

  ‘Arh, arh no, well yes . . . not really, sir,’ Moody mumb led, ‘it’s the bombs, sir . . .’

  Just as he spoke there was an almighty crunch as a bomb landed on the wharf, luckily 50 metres from the last soldiers hurrying on board. Its impact shook the ship and sent several men into the water. The officer lost his footing and his cap went flying.

  ‘Noth—nothing to worry about, Private!’ Captain Burke said in shaky voice. ‘Pull yourself together and get . . . get . . . going!’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Your words are very sustaining, sir,’ Moody said, putting on a trembling act.

  The officer regained his cap and added: ‘You have shell shock, Private Mooney!’

  ‘Moody, sir.’

  ‘Who me?’ Burke snapped. ‘Don’t be insolent!’

  ‘No, Moody is my name, sir, not Mooney.’

  Stukas attacked again and sent Captain Burke dashing below deck. The noise covered up Horrie’s burst of sustained barking. Moody lifted the tarpaulin, opened the box and tried to calm him down as the ship hastened to make its exit from the harbour. But Horrie was agitated. Moody opened his only remaining tin of bully beef and gave the dog a morsel, which distracted and comforted him. A half-hour later, when the Luftwaffe’s interest in the ship had abated for the moment and the Lossiebank was well out to sea, Moody released Horrie. He was safe, at least from being abandoned on Crete.

  There were no more attacks in the next 24 hours and although the ship was on full alert, most on board believed that the Luftwaffe would not attack again. The Lossiebank was moving out of range for persistent attacks, although they were not technically outside the bombers’ range. The conventional wisdom was that the Luftwaffe would not waste fuel on travelling out to sea for a one-off attack. Yet still the Rebels kept one eye on Horrie, just in case. On the second day, he was wandering around the deck when he took up his sitting position. He cocked his head in the familiar pose so seared into the minds of every member of the battalion. His face creased; his head moved into different positions as if he were a mechanical toy. Then the ears began to stiffen. It was enough for the Rebels. Even before the ears stood up without a flicker, they were shouting that everyone should take cover. Horrie’s low guttural utterance developed into a growl. Then he barked and began to jump about. Hundreds of men, who until a second ago had been lounging on the deck, began running. The Lossiebank’s anti-aircraft guns swung into position as directed by those watching Horrie. Moody dashed to scoop him up but he had scuttled away. Moody rushed around but in the confusion Horrie could not be found. Moody scurried to steps that would take him below deck. All the Rebels were there, skulking about, annoyed and frustrated that they had no weapons with which to fight back as they had on board the Costa Rica.

  ‘Where’s Horrie?’ several of them asked Moody.

  ‘He’ll be in a safe spot on deck. Couldn’t find him.’

  They braced for the bombs. They shook the ship but none did damage. They heard the strafing just as the ship’s defensive weapons poured plenty back at the 20 or so Stukas. A 30 second silence was followed by a second run and then a third. Then the squadron of planes disappeared into the sun. Horrie stopped barking. The ship’s guns fell silent. The soldiers began relaxing, rolling cigarettes, smoking pipes, playing cards and swapping yarns. A cricket bat and tennis ball were produced but there was not enough room for a game on the crowded deck. Instead, a rugby ball was thrown around until a digger with huge hands hurled the ball so hard, American football-style, that it sailed into the sea. Soldiers one by one, or in groups of two or three, began to approach the Rebels, asking to see Horrie. No one had seen him. A half-hour later, he appeared limping and bleeding from his right shoulder. Moody, Brooker, Gill and Fitzsimmons rushed to him. The blood was wiped away to reveal a long, thin steel bomb splinter that
was embedded under his skin. He was not distressed and seemed happy at the attention. Brooker held him, while Moody pinched the skin surrounding the splinter and spoke to him affectionately as Gill used a pocketknife to ease the sliver out. The wound was cleaned and dressed. Horrie continued to limp but it did not impede his activity or the enjoyment of so many soldiers wanting to meet him, pat him, shake his paw or be photographed with him.

  ‘All we need is Horrietta to nurse him back to full health,’ Fitzsimmons remarked. Horrie’s ears pricked up at the mention of his ‘lost’ companion.

  Moody put his forefinger to his lips and frowned at Fitzsimmons.

  ‘The “etta” word is not to be mentioned. Makes him nostalgic.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Fitzsimmons said, ‘but remember, nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.’

  The soldiers disembarked at Port Said, on Egypt’s Mediterranean coast, built in 1859 for the construction of the Suez Canal. There was no inspection but just in case, the Rebels crowded around Moody carrying Horrie, but no officer noticed. The soldiers were herded onto a train. Moody let Horrie run free, but he could not move too far in the crowded carriages. Yet he didn’t seem to want to. His wound troubled him. He stretched his neck in an attempt to tear off the dressing. Moody removed it. Horrie began to lick the wound, and just when he seemed preoccupied with it, instinct had him alert. He jumped over Fitzsimmons and Harlor to bark and growl at Arabs by the side of the track. The wound was forgotten. Horrie was more interested once more in displaying his attitude to the locals in Middle Eastern garb.

  *

  They changed trains at Kantara on the canal and began to cross the Sinai Desert. It brought back memories for Brooker. He commented on the effort of the Anzac troopers in the desert in World War I as the train passed through the village of Romani, telling them: ‘The 1500 troopers under Harry Chauvel defeated a 25,000-strong Turkish army right here in the Battle of Romani on 4 August 1916.’

  ‘That’s odds of 17 to 1,’ Murchison said with a trace of scepticism

  ‘What were you,’ Fitzsimmons asked, ‘supermen?’

  ‘Not really. We had horses. That made the difference. For what it is worth, that Anzac victory saved Egypt as a British Empire mandate.’ Brooker paused, looked out the window as Horrie barked a short disapproval, and then added with a sigh, ‘Not worth much today, I’ll grant you, because here we are in the same bloody desert fighting the same bloody enemy, essentially. But it was big then.’

  ‘I thought you were on the Western Front under Monash?’ Fitzsimmons said.

  ‘No. I just know the history, you callow youth, you! We all ended up here in 1916 after Gallipoli, before the Australian army was split from the Light Horse, who stayed here and defeated the Turks. I was in one of the regiments. By 1918 we’d knocked them out of the Middle East for the first time in 400 years.’ He poised to stare at Murchison before adding with emphasis, ‘for what it’s worth today.’

  ‘You’re living in the past, old man,’ Murchison said.

  ‘But it’s a past that fortifies me, inspires me,’ Brooker said, ‘and it should do that for you too. But you are pigignorant of it.’

  Brooker and Murchison tended to be fractious in their disagreements but it was all in the interests of the favourite digger pastime of ‘knocking,’ or abrasive, good-natured ridicule, which an individual had to counter verbally or accept with a grin.

  ‘Is this where Bill the Bastard . . . you know, won a horse VC or something?’ Harlor asked as he tinkered with a piece of equipment.

  ‘Correct,’ Brooker replied, ‘go to the top of a rather average Rebel class.’ He looked down at Horrie. ‘Pardon me, Horrie. Gordie goes to second place after you, of course!’ The dog wagged his tail, more for being mentioned rather than comprehension. ‘Bill was a grand Waler, biggest by weight, and the bravest of the 200,000 neddies we sent here to fight the Turks. He didn’t get a VC, although he should have. His rider, the legendary Michael Shanahan, got the DSO for his efforts in that battle. But if you were looking for one individual standout performer in six hours of fighting on that fateful night of 4 August 1916 it was Bill. When some troopers were going through ten horses, he just ran on and on. Shanahan said he covered the equivalent of 20 Melbourne Cups, with one break to bring five troopers on his back out of the front.’

  Most of the Rebels had heard Brooker tell his story before. But no one interrupted him. They were captivated as their train rattled slowly on, especially when he pointed out the mountains of sand around which the Battle of Romani took place. The tale came to life.

  ‘Has the area changed much?’ Moody asked.

  ‘Yes, a lot,’ Brooker said, pointing to vines and crops cultivated on neat farms. ‘Never saw that sort of thing then. It was just rough, inhospitable desert. Now you’ve got towns and this train running through it, along with a water pipeline that admittedly was begun in 1916 because of the war then.’

  ‘Makes you think we should do it back home in the north and the outback,’ Moody observed. ‘There is a worse desert here than in Australia.’

  The others nodded their agreement. The train rumbled on through the Sinai and into Palestine and a camp at Dier Suneid, which appealed to the Australians. It featured orange groves, whose green foliage contrasted with the one-spectrum yellow sand. The groves were surrounded by deep green cactus, which was clipped and under control in contrast to the growth nearer the coast at the ancient fortress city of Gaza where it grew wild and created substantial ‘walls.’ On arrival, Brooker talked of the final battle for Gaza, and the Australian cavalry charge of 31 October 1917 at Beersheba, 70 kilometres further inland.

  ‘Greatest cavalry charge in history by our boys,’ he said.

  ‘Hang on,’ Gill challenged him, ‘what about Napoleon? He had many thousands of cavalrymen in his charges. There were only 800 in the Australian 4th Brigade at Beersheba.’

  ‘I stick by what I said,’ Brooker retorted. ‘Napoleon only had to outnumber his opponents with men, horses and swords—the Austrians or whomever—and he won. The bookies wouldn’t take bets on him! But our boys charged against 4500 entrenched Turks, artillery, machine gunners, snipers, not to forget the Hun air force rolling out bombs on them. They were the longest shot bet of that war. Their charge took courage of the highest kind and they triumphed.’

  ‘I agree with Poppa on that one,’ Moody said. ‘I want to take photos at Beersheba.’

  The Rebels were united for the first since the Western Desert when Bill Shegog turned up at the camp having recovered from his motorbike accident. Big Jim Hewitt, who’d been ill, was also there. The reunion called for a celebration. Both men had heard about Horrie’s exploits and they thought he was skinnier.

  ‘We tend to think of him as “athletic,” ’ Fitzsimmons said deadpan as he patted a very pleased Horrie, who seemed happier than anyone that all his team was back together. Hewitt made sure that he was given a big feed of scraps from the officers’ mess. He feasted on them, much to the envy of the Rebels, who were adamant that the officer ‘left-overs’ were far superior to their own monotonous food.

  The Arabs in the region seemed friendly enough but the Australians were forewarned to chain their rifles in the tents as they had in Libya, and told not to leave valuables there. If anything the locals were bigger thieves than in the Western Desert. The diggers in both wars never adjusted to the Arab way of claiming anything that was not bolted or chained down as theirs. On their second day at this camp, a pucker, lean visiting British officer with a trim Hitler-like moustache lectured the Australians about ‘tolerance’ and remembering to appreciate that Palestine was the Arabs’ land and that ‘you are all seen as invaders, whether British or Hun or Italian.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Murchison interrupted him, ‘but how do Arabs deal with other Arabs who steal things? Do they show tolerance?’

  ‘That is not the point, Private!’ the officer snapped. ‘And don’t interrupt again!’

  ‘No, sir, of course not, sir, but w
e have been told that the Arabs chop off the hands of fellow Arabs who steal—’

  ‘And they chop off something else if they thieve their wives!’ Fitzsimmons chimed in, much to the mirth of the assembled gunners.

  The seething officer put them both on charges of insubordination (which were later dismissed after Hewitt’s intervention).

  Without having to be told, Horrie took it upon himself to guard the Rebels’ tent. One evening when they were all absent and in the mess hall, he patiently sat outside the tent roped to a pole, his head resting on his paws, and one eye on the passing parade. As darkness fell, two young Arab youths sneaked up on the tent. Horrie leapt and caught one by the leg. His needle-sharp teeth bit deep into the youth’s calf. He screamed in agony and just managed to crawl clear of Horrie. The youths fled, leaving a trail of blood. Horrie was furious. He tried to bite his way through the rope, but gave up. He was still agitated when the Rebels returned, but his mood changed to one of joy. Later, they were told of his defence of the tent by other battalion members who witnessed his efforts.

  ‘I wish we had him for our tent,’ one gunner remarked, ‘we’ve had two damned rifles stolen in a week!’

  *

  News reached the Rebels in mid-May 1941 that Murchison’s mates Archie and Bash had been killed at one of the key battle-points on Crete, Maleme airfield. They had been fighting in a New Zealand contingent against the incoming waves of German paratroopers. Murchison took it hard. He had survivor’s guilt for not staying on the island with the courageous Kiwis. They had been set to leave but at the last minute decided to stay and join the several thousand New Zealanders still on Crete in what may have been last stands against the enemy. Murchison’s mood changed from his usual cheerful self to one of solitary anger. Often he only wanted Horrie’s company. The dog gave him unconditional affection without trite conversation, which was ideal for Murchison’s state of mind. After a few days of this, he sprang to life when the group was told that the village of Dier Suneid was off limits.