Horrie the War Dog

by Roland Perry

  ‘Bugger that!’ he said. ‘Are we Rebels or what?’

  ‘I don’t think you boys should go near it,’ Brooker said, shaking his head. ‘The women are really beautiful but dangerous and beguiling. They know how to do the dance of the seven veils in the ancient art of seduction.’

  ‘Dangerous? Why?’ Murchison asked.

  ‘Might have disease; syphilis, for instance.’

  ‘Arh, that’s bullshit. Old wives’ tales from the last war. We’ve all got rubbers.’

  ‘Careful, Murchie!’ Fitzsimmons said in mock warning. ‘You can’t erase syphilis. Stays with you, indelibly for the rest of a shortened life.’

  ‘You blokes are chicken!’ Murchison sneered.

  ‘Okay; don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Brooker said, before his face creased slowly into a wry grin. ‘But perhaps I should come along, you know, in case there’s trouble.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Murchison said, ‘wouldn’t want you to catch something.’

  *

  That evening when it was still light, Horrie was tied to the tent pole again.

  ‘Can’t take you, old mate,’ Gill told him, ‘your prejudice against the locals rules you out.’

  Horrie barked in protest but to no avail as Moody, Gill, Murchison and Featherstone walked to Dier Suneid, almost hidden on the road to Gaza by an orange grove that cactus threatened to engulf. It was surrounded by a two metre mud-brick wall, which had only one narrow, rickety gate entrance. The four ‘tourists’ entered and walked down a lane so narrow that the mud-brick buildings either side seemed to merge into a dead end. They passed several Arabs. Two camels and their minders brushed by going the other way. The lane meandered on until widening under stone archways and leading to homes with small front yards. It ended at a town centre with a square no bigger than two tennis courts. Urchins kicked a mottled soccer ball and dodged and weaved among donkeys, dogs, chickens and two camels. There were about 20 stalls doing a slow trade with a few Arabs and a handful of British soldiers. The still-lingering heat of the day and alien, mingling smells of sewage, dung, food being cooked and other aromas that the Rebels could not distinguish had them screwing up their noses. Locals eyed them with curiosity. Ringing the square was an assortment of shops, all in need of repair and selling unappetising fruit, vegetables and an odd assortment of toys and figurines. Several Arabs sat under the awning of a cafe that sold coffee and cakes. Murchison was first to notice women in long dresses inside the dimly lit cafe.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispered to Moody, ‘those girls are not wearing the traditional head garb. Their faces are uncovered. They’re not the “dusky maidens” Brooker conjured for us. They’re more “mature,” I’d say, but they look pretty sexy!’

  ‘Yeah, not quite as Brooker described,’ Moody agreed, ‘but they’re on the game for sure.’

  Featherstone and Gill warned Murchison not to venture in.

  ‘Just look at the wogs with them,’ Moody said, ‘cutthroat types. We don’t want any trouble. Leave it be.’

  ‘No, bugger it,’ Murchison mumbled, ‘I’m going to see what’s what. I keep thinking of Archie and Bash. You never know when your number’s up.’

  Noticing the hesitation, one of the men in the cafe stood and beckoned Murchison in. He had a short beard and wore a headdress and clean white robes with gold inlay lining. Three other Arabs looked on with vacant expressions, while a couple played a board game in one corner.

  ‘Looks like Lawrence of Arabia wants to offer you a cigarette,’ Fitzsimmons said, ‘and maybe something else.’

  The Arab in well-pressed clothes smiled, exposing one lonely tooth. He motioned his hand at the three women, all in their late thirties or early forties. Murchison wandered in. The others sat down and ordered coffee. One of the women served them. She was tall, with wide hips, and she showed ample cleavage under a green blouse. Murchison offered the Arab an English cigarette, which he accepted. The Arab grinned and asked him in fractured English if he would like to smoke a pipe with him.

  ‘Don’t get too cosy with the boss cocky, Murchie,’ Moody warned, ‘never know what they’re offering.’

  ‘It’s their kind of tobacco,’ Murchison said, and then, addressing the Arab, asked, ‘Tobacco, right?’

  The Arab smiled and nodded. The tall woman stepped forward holding a saffron-coloured substance, about the size of a golf ball, in her hands. She placed it on a small table and began preparing a decorated silver pipe with a black mouthpiece. The woman placed the saffron ball on some charcoal in a large bowl on the table. She handed the pipe to the Arab who held the end of it close to the ball and commenced to suck. The charcoal embers glowed; the ball’s edges became tinged with brown as the Arab inhaled the smoke. When it was drawn well, he handed the pipe to Murchison, who nodded and accepted it. Despite Moody’s protests, Murchison was intrigued to try this ‘Arab-style tobacco.’ The woman looked on with interest. As Murchison inhaled, she too smiled for the first time. She sat on the chair next to him, one elbow on her knee and her chin cupped in her hand as if she was fascinated by his reaction. The other two women moved close too. Murchison liked the result. His face relaxed. After a third round of inhaling, his expression lightened further. He had a beatific smile.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said with a delighted, questioning expression, ‘never had tobacco like this before.’ The others were preoccupied with their coffee. Fitzsimmons rolled himself a cigarette, after refusing the Arab’s offer to make his own variety for him. The Rebels sipped the black coffee in tiny cups and it reminded them of the Greek-style offerings that they all liked. They commented on the more bitter taste. They added sugar lumps and munched on the cakes, which tasted like halva, the sesame sweet that they had enjoyed on Crete. Moody smoked his pipe and mulled over a perplexing, pocket-sized book, Arabic for One Shilling. He tried speaking to the other Arabs. One stared ahead as if he had not been addressed. This response made Moody think his pronunciation had to be terrible. He spoke to a second man, who seemed startled and shook his head.

  ‘Is it my bloody accent?’ Moody mumbled to himself as he tried to memorise ‘hello,’ ‘pleased to meet you,’ and ‘good morning.’ Seeing his difficulty, a sultry female with outsized brown eyes wandered over, beckoned to him to give her the book, and then examined it. Without a word, she tossed it back to him with what seemed a disdainful glance and then walked away with a languid swing of the hips. She sat on a bar-stool inside the cafe, lit a cigarette and then smiled seductively at Moody, who resumed his language ‘study.’ He was uncomfortable in this indulgence of Murchison’s whim, and none of the other Rebels could relax. A group of boys gathered in an attempt to sell them other food items. The Arab owner waved a dismissive hand at them, but the boys pressed closer.

  ‘Jeez!’ Murchison muttered with a confused expression after his sixth turn at the pipe. ‘Is this a bloody earthquake or what?!’

  He tried to stand but couldn’t. He fell back in his chair. His face was pale. He made a second struggling effort to stand. His feet wouldn’t obey his brain’s simple command.

  ‘Reckon I’m gunna chuck,’ Murchison uttered as he finally made it to his feet and stumbled into the street and vomited. Moody walked to the charcoal bowl and looked down at the now brown ball, which was almost absorbed into the charcoal. The grinning Arab boss handed him the pipe, with a gesture indicating he should try it. Moody sniffed the end of it and blinked an understanding. The unfamiliar odour made him cough. Just at that moment, Horrie burst into the square at the double, growling and snapping at any local in sight. He made a beeline for the boys outside the cafe.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Moody said before chasing Horrie. The dog latched onto the trouser leg of a boy who tried to retreat and only managed to see the fabric ripped away. The Arab at the cafe gesticulated, indicating the Rebels had to pay for the food, drink and smoke. Horrie ducked away from Moody and turned his attention to the Arabs in the cafe, who backed inside as the dog barked and snarled. In the commotion, Gill and Fitzsimmons h
ad helped Murchison out of the square and down the tight alley to the gate. Moody managed to grab Horrie, tuck him under his arm and hurry with Featherstone after the others. Urged on by the Arabs in the cafe, the boys followed, throwing stones at the Rebels, who hastened out the only gate entrance and away down the road.

  Moody dared not let go of Horrie. His eyes were on fire. The hackles on his back were up. He wriggled, growled and kept glancing back at the boys who had followed them a short distance, still urged on by the Arabs from the cafe, who stayed near the gate. But with a number of other diggers and English soldiers walking past in both directions, all the village locals soon disappeared back through the gate.

  ‘Saved by Horrie yet again,’ Fitzsimmons exclaimed and when everyone, except the dazed Murchison, patted Horrie, he calmed down. He had gnawed his way through the rope attached to the tent pole, an act they assumed he had performed on Crete.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Gill asked Murchison. ‘Something you ate last night?’

  ‘No,’ Moody informed them, ‘that smoke Lawrence of Arabia gave Murchie was opium.’

  *

  Murchison was in a state of ‘wellbeing’ as the effects of his ingestion lingered for more than two days. When he recovered he told the Rebels he wanted to go back to the village and ‘shoot bloody Lawrence of Arabia.’

  ‘Aw, c’mon, Murchie,’ Fitzsimmons chided, ‘you just want a big packet of what went into that special pipe. You’ve been smiling benignly ever since.’

  The others laughed.

  ‘Yeah,’ Featherstone agreed, ‘never seen you so generous and with such bonhomie.’

  Murchison managed a smile of resignation. He had no response, for he admitted that the opium had relaxed every muscle, and thought.

  ‘Can see why the bloody stuff is so addictive,’ he said with a rueful look, ‘a few of the diggers have succumbed over here.’ He frowned. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking—’

  ‘A very dangerous side-effect of opium,’ Fitzsimmons said.

  ‘No seriously, I want action. I can’t stand sweating in the heat here, getting listless and bored. The whisper is that some of the battalion are putting in for transfers to the 2/3 Machine Gun Battalion. They are set for action in Syria. We are set to fight the Vichy French any day now. Our General Stan Savige is having a big say in that affair. The Allies don’t want the Nazis using their control over the Frogs, who have a mandate over Syria and the Lebanon, as a springboard for attacking Egypt. So it’s on in Syria, boys.’

  ‘Stan is a fine commander,’ Brooker said with an approving nod. ‘He looks after all his boys. You’ll be in good hands. Stan’s one of our greatest soldier-commanders.’ He shook his head and after a pause added: ‘To think we are going to fight the French after all the blood we spilt for them in the last war! I’ll never get over it.’

  ‘You must forgive them, Poppa,’ Moody said, ‘it was either collaborate with the Nazis or see Paris smashed and millions more Frogs die.’

  ‘Would you turn-coat like the Vichy French under Premier bloody Marshal Petain?’ Brooker asked.

  ‘No, but we don’t know all the circumstances.’

  ‘Bulldust!’ Brooker said.

  In late May 1941, a few days later, Murchison managed a transfer to the other Machine Gun Battalion (the 2/3), which was bound for Syria and a battle there in June 1941. This move did not herald a major splitting of the group, but it was a sad day when he was about to march out. Murchison made a fuss of Horrie. The dog knew something was up. He bounced around Murchison, who tried to ignore him as he prepared to leave the tent.

  ‘When we’ve cleaned up the Frogs,’ he said after shaking hands with each man, ‘I’ll be back. I am already looking forward to that reunion.’ He paused to look down at Horrie, whose head was at its enquiring tilt, ‘especially with you, mate.’ He moved out. Horrie followed him for a few paces before sitting and watching him depart with nearly the intensity he demonstrated when he heard German planes in the distance. The dog whined a little and would not move from his vigil for an hour in the hope that Murchison would return.

  *

  The Germans defeated the Allies in Greece and Crete in May and June 1941 but, in a Dunkirk-like operation, 43,000 Allied soldiers were saved, although much heavy equipment, including artillery guns, was captured by the Germans. Most analysis blamed the loss on the enemy’s all-round superiority in tank and aircraft numbers. The Allies had about a quarter of their numbers in each field, in a situation made worse by the British not having access to airfields, which rendered the air force impotent.

  The 2/1 Gunners suffered. They had 104 casualties including 77 men who were taken prisoner, and the Rebels realised how lucky they had been to escape capture, wounding or death.

  17

  NUMBER ONE WARRIOR

  One night early in June 1941, Horrie became agitated as he lay under the blanket at the foot of Moody’s bed. Thinking he was having a dream or nightmare, which the dog often did, Moody rolled over and tried to return to sleep. But a second later Horrie was up and growling. The entire tent stirred.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Gordie asked, annoyed at being disturbed. ‘There are no bloody Huns flying around here!’

  Moody got out of bed and noticed Horrie’s ears. They were focused.

  ‘Stukas!’ Moody exclaimed. ‘Everybody for the trenches! Quick!’

  That led to a mad scramble. Horrie was first out, scuttling for the nearest slit trench. But he almost skidded to a stop en route near the butcher’s tent. He barked, whirled around and barked several times more, and then darted off. The burly butcher came stumbling out. He heard the warning cries from the Rebels and saw the battalion in chaos as gunners raced for cover in every direction, and decided that he too should take evasive action. Then the Stuka ‘siren’ was heard above the warning beeps from the camp’s tannoy system. A minute later three bombs thudded to ground, creating asymmetrical craters. After the Henkel-escorted Stuka had done its damage, the shaken butcher returned to his tent, but could not find it. Confused in the dark, he wandered around until his torch shone on the area where he swore his tent had been, close to the trees where the soldiers’ mess was located. In its place was a deep hole where one of the bombs had struck. Little pieces of torn tent fabric were all that remained. The butcher felt he was still in some weird nightmare as his jumbled mind retraced the events of the previous 12 minutes. He had been woken by Horrie, whose bark had been so urgent and loud that he seemed to have been in the tent with him. This led to the butcher rolling out of bed, when he became more cognisant of the situation and the potential peril from the night sky. On reflection, he was in no doubt that his special little mate, who visited the kitchen often looking for meat scraps, had saved his life. From then on, he dedicated himself to making sure Horrie was the best fed soldier in the camp.

  During breakfast the Rebels put Horrie on a chain purloined from the transport section to stop him from biting through rope and making a nuisance of himself in the cook-house. They brought him back cooked meat scraps so that he would never go without, but soon discovered that he was chomping into some raw meat that none of them had given him.

  ‘How did the little devil manage that?’ a bewildered Gill asked. No one had an answer.

  ‘Perhaps we should rename him Horrie Houdini,’ Fitzsimmons remarked.

  Later in the day, Moody visited the cook-house and spoke to the butcher.

  ‘I gave it to him,’ the butcher, Barry Bain, admitted. ‘During the day when you blokes are on a detail I visit the tent with a decent cut. That little bastard saved my life the night that rogue Stuka hit us. I’m gunna repay him every day. I love him!’

  ‘You say you give it to him every day. When exactly?’

  ‘Aw, ’bout lunch time, why?’

  ‘Not at breakfast mess time?’

  ‘No, I’m always flat-out preparing your meals.’

  ‘He’s always chewing on meat when we get back from mess . . .’

 
‘You know why, don’t you? Horrie wants to be one of your team, even if he can’t accompany you to the mess. He must bury the meat that I give him close to the pole where you tie him up. Then he must dig it up to have a feed when you are having breakfast.’

  Moody just shook his head in amazement.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the butcher said, swinging a cleaver into a side of beef, ‘he’s the smartest animal you’ve ever come across.’

  ‘That is what I was thinking!’

  ‘I swear he is smarter than half the battalion. I really do.’

  Moody was about to leave the tent kitchen when the butcher wiped the cleaver on his apron and said with a frown: ‘I don’t know if I dreamt this or not. But it felt like Horrie was actually in my tent just before those bombs hit the other night. His bark was so loud and close. Is that my imagination playing tricks or what?’

  ‘Not really. I was following him after he gave his usual warning. He hesitated at your tent, did a kind of spin and then he raced on. He jumped close to your door. I know him better than anyone. He was singling your tent out for a special warning!’

  The butcher had played first-grade Rugby League. He was big and solid, befitting a man whose speciality was prop, and who dealt in slaughter and meat. His eyes welled up. He tried hard to hide his feelings and mumbled: ‘That little bastard!’ he said, holding back tears and clearing his throat. ‘I’d take a bullet for him, I really would.’

  ‘Mate, you and all the Rebels too . . . and plenty more . . .’

  ‘I’d put my money on nearly the whole fuckin’ battalion defending him.’ The butcher paused and added the verbal tic that punctuated half his utterances: ‘I really would!’

  The next day Horrie was seen with his biggest ever bone, which was a reward from the grateful butcher. The dog decided not to bury this one and only let it alone for an hour to watch Moody digging a slit trench near the tent. He sat eyeing every shovel movement with intense interest as if he approved of the idea of more protection and cover after the surprise air attack of the night before. Fitzsimmons was so taken by Horrie’s fascination with the digging enterprise that he took a picture of him overseeing Moody’s excavations.