Horrie the War Dog

by Roland Perry

  ‘Got to have that shot for posterity,’ Fitzsimmons said, ‘because otherwise no one would believe Horrie’s capacity for prolonged concentration!’

  That night Horrie tried to take the huge bone into Moody’s bed but it was too big for him to lift. He kept looking at his prime ‘master’ and wagging his tail, ‘trying to enlist my aid in this matter,’ Moody wrote. When Horrie received no assistance, he dragged the bone out of the tent. Fitzsimmons crept behind him to see what he would do with it. Horrie managed to drop it into the slit trench.

  ‘Well I’ll be buggered!’ Fitzsimmons said to Moody. ‘That’s why he was so mesmerised by you digging the trench. He thought you were doing it for him to put his bone in!’

  *

  The next day Horrie went missing. His absence was not noted during the day for he often went AWL during daylight hours, always to return in the evening. But as night fell, the Rebels became concerned. At midnight they went to nearby camps but to no avail. The following day, the Rebels searched every camp within a 20 kilometre radius, showing his picture. Some claimed to have seen a dog like him here and there, but there were no specifics, only vague recollections. After eight days they feared the worst.

  ‘Got to face it,’ Shegog said to the others as he paused from a portrait of Gill, ‘you’ve seen the number of dead animals beside the road. We know how thick the traffic is—’

  ‘And how thick the speed-merchant bus-drivers are,’ Fitzsimmons said.

  ‘You’re suggesting he’s road kill?’ Gill asked with a sigh.

  ‘’Fraid I am, mate,’ Shegog said, sipping from a whisky flask, ‘sorry.’

  A day later Gill went on leave with others from the Rebels’ platoon to the relatively modern city of Tel Aviv on the coast 85 kilometres north of Gaza. Jews from nearby Jaffa, which was populated by Arabs, had built Tel Aviv on sand dunes in about 1910 to give themselves a separate location.

  The group from the platoon had just finished visiting some historic landmarks and was on the way to a fish cafe not far from a rubbish tip on the beach across the road. All heads turned at the sound of a dog’s bark. It was Horrie scampering from the tip in their direction. With little heed for the traffic, he darted across the road and leapt at Gill, nearly knocking him over in his excitement. The group was shocked at his condition. He was emaciated and covered in filth from the tip. His fur was in tufts created by tar and oil.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Horrie!’ Gill said, picking him up despite his condition. ‘You haven’t smelt this bad since you dived into that latrine in Greece!’

  Gill would not let him go until they bought him a new lead and collar. Horrie was then fed with a chicken sandwich and taken to Tel Aviv’s Australian Soldiers’ Club where he was cleaned up. The group adjourned to the bar to celebrate Horrie’s return to the battalion. Two roof fans whirred. A sweating, blind accordion player near an open window was performing ‘The White Cliffs of Dover,’ accompanied by a young female violinist.

  ‘Beers all round,’ Gill said, putting money on the counter.

  ‘Not for the wee doggie, I hope,’ a Scots barman said, eyeing Horrie’s condition. ‘He could do wi’ a wee spot of brandy and a wee cow.’

  The gunners laughed.

  ‘A pot of milk wouldn’t go astray for starters,’ Gill suggested.

  *

  Murchison joined the 2/3 Machine Gun Battalion, with its four companies from South Australia, Victoria, Tasmania and Western Australia, which had only arrived at the Suez Canal in mid-May 1941. He became attached to it when it travelled to Palestine, where it joined Australia’s 7th Division, which was preparing to invade Syria on 8 June. Less than five weeks later in the second week of July 1941, the successful campaign was over when the Vichy French were surrounded and a ceasefire came into operation at midnight on 11 July. Rumours reached the gunners’ camp that the fighting had been fierce and the Rebels became concerned about Murchison. When no word reached them, some thought the worst but did not mention their fears. Brooker had drilled into them his belief that negative thoughts fuelled negative energy.

  ‘Stay positive about young Murchie,’ Brooker advised. ‘You couldn’t kill him with a crowbar. He’ll make it.’

  *

  Horrie’s continued heroics caused the Rebels to give him a special ‘treat’ on their first trip on the narrow but passable road to Jerusalem. He led the team onto a local bus as if he were a veteran on some special mission.

  ‘Horrie showed a certain aplomb getting on board,’ Moody observed. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting that’s how he reached Tel Aviv.’

  The Rebels took up the remaining half-dozen seats in the bus that held 30 troops. Moody, Gill and some of the others knew no fear when driving at breakneck speed on their motorbikes, but when it came to others driving them, it was a different matter.

  Gill felt that the Arab drivers seemed to send up a prayer for themselves and perhaps the others in the bus and then accelerate. Any other vehicle blasting a horn in order to pass, seemed to be taken as a signal by the drivers, not to give way, but to start a race.

  Much to the dismay of Moody and Gill, the other Rebels and diggers, led by Fitzsimmons, and a drunken Shegog, encouraged the driver by yelling: ‘Let her go, George!’ But it was a superfluous urging. The driver was determined not to let anyone pass, even, it seemed, to the point of crashing, if the remnants of a score of smashed vehicles on the side of the road and down steep embankments were any guide. At one point a same-sized bus drew level with them. They were close enough to graze each other and it left no room at all for any oncoming traffic. With diggers in both vehicles shouting at the drivers to ‘win’ the race, Moody and Gill were more afraid than they had ever been doing motorbike somersaults.

  It seemed that the adrenalin rush was needed at every opportunity for men at war. They lived on the edge and liked the game of chance, even if a loss could mean death. And Horrie, in his own way, was not dissimilar. In the bus, he had his paws on the window and was panting in the heat, but there was pleasure in his snarling and growling as a kaleidoscope of his most unfavoured people rushed by him on the side of the road and in villages. The bus was moving so fast that he didn’t have time to bark before a new blur of local villages and nomads flashed in and out of view. He voiced a low whine of frustration, but in a perverse way he appeared to enjoy it, if the perpetual motion of his tail stump was anything to go by.

  Much to the relief of Moody and Gill, the bus ride shifted from dangerous to hazardous and then hectic as they came closer to the Holy City. Some of the troops in the bus remarked with disgust at the sight of carts loaded with fruit and vegetables pulled by skeletal, struggling horses. In each case, a man rode on the cart and women, bearing loads on their backs, walked alongside or behind, sometimes with children.

  ‘Get over it,’ an older digger told a young gunner in a gruff voice. ‘We saw this in the last war and some of us tried to rectify matters.’

  ‘How?’ the young digger responded.

  ‘We rearranged the seating set-up,’ the older digger rasped, ‘women and children on the cart, man carrying the load.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘Got us into big trouble in Cairo, I can tell ya. See, it’s their way, their tradition.’

  ‘It’s bloody wrong,’ the young gunner replied.

  ‘Get over it,’ the older digger repeated.

  The bus had been slowed by the traffic enough for the Rebels to discuss what they planned for Horrie. After the challenging ride, they first bought him a new harness and lead, the latter being a sturdy mix of wire and rope that he could not chew through, or at least that was the hope, given his needle-sharp incisors. Second, they had made a name tag, or more appropriately in the American vernacular, a ‘dog-tag.’ It was fashioned from a Greek two-drachma coin, which was inscribed with his name, number and unit: ‘Horace, EX.1 2/1 M/G Bn.’

  The EX.1 signified that Horrie was the Gunners’ number one warrior from Egypt, but this could have applied to Greece, Crete and Palestine. The unit colour pa
tch and the coin were attached to the harness. He was fitted with everything in a tailor shop where the entire Jewish family came from a room at the back to witness the cries of approval from the Rebels as Horrie trotted around to each man for a paw shake and pat. They all felt the sheer joy of being associated with this exceptional animal.

  *

  The Rebels kept a tight watch and rein on Horrie for the sightseeing around Jerusalem, and the visit enlightened them further on the dog’s feelings. He was hostile to any of the locals, including the predominant Arabs and Jews, and any other race or nationality, depending, it seemed, on their attire.

  Horrie was undaunted by the numbers of locals as he strained at the leash on the wander through the Old City. He uttered an almost permanent low growl but rarely broke into a bark, and his antics brought reaction from the locals. Some people pointed and laughed; others backed away or sidestepped his thrusts in their direction. One brave young man bent down to pat Horrie, despite his hostility and bared fangs. The man pushed his wrist at the dog, who sniffed it. Seeing the Arab’s courage and confidence, Moody said in his most conciliatory tone: ‘It’s okay, Horrie, mate.’

  With that, Horrie relented and licked the man’s wrist. His tail wagged, just. It was an oh, all right, if you say so reaction. Horrie would reserve judgement.

  ‘I can be your guide, troopers,’ the man said with a big grin. ‘My name is Mohammed. I am the son of a trooper from the Great War, Sandy McKenzie.’

  ‘Oh, are you now?’ Shegog said. ‘And how old would you be, son of Sandy McKenzie?’

  ‘You know him, my father?’ Mohammed asked.

  ‘Of course we do,’ Fitzsimmons said, ‘everyone does.’

  Mohammed’s eyes flicked to each of the Rebels.

  ‘I know you joke with me, but I am his son.’

  ‘How old are you, mate?’ Gill asked, repeating Shegog’s question.

  ‘I have 21 years,’ Mohammed said.

  ‘Born in what month and year?’

  ‘August 3 of 1919.’

  Gill pulled a half-believing face.

  ‘Your mother met Sandy McKenzie during the war here, right?’

  ‘No, just after the Armistice of 31 October of 1918.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Gill muttered, ‘could well be right. That all adds up. I reckon he can be our guide.’

  The delighted, laughing Mohammed led them to the Wailing Wall, the best-known Jewish shrine in Jerusalem.

  ‘Built by King Solomon in 1000 BC,’ Mohammed informed them.

  ‘I was told 1001 BC,’ Fitzsimmons said with a frown as they watched worshippers bend low and kiss the ground in front of the Wall, and then the Wall itself.

  ‘You mock me!’ Mohammed said.

  ‘I think he really is the son of a trooper,’ Fitzsimmons said to the others, ‘he doesn’t miss a beat.’

  ‘And Horrie approves of him,’ Moody said with a wink to Mohammed.

  He next directed them to the Old City’s labyrinth-like maze of narrow streets encaged as arcades lined with endless shops. The group lingered at jewellers’ shops and watched the deft work of cutting, polishing and engraving. Moody was preoccupied with the sound of people attempting to bargain over stall items. It created a cacophonous high pitch lifting from the many retail places that sold a variety of goods wrought from copper and brass to gold and silver. Intermittently for a few seconds, a Chopin polonaise could be heard coming from a gramophone record in a tiny office at the back of the shop.

  ‘I love a good haggle,’ Moody whispered to Gill and then began bartering with a jeweller over the price of a pendant he wished to be crafted from a small piece of marble he had taken from a cave at Ikingi.

  ‘Who’s that for?’ Gill asked.

  ‘Me.’

  The jeweller held the marble up to the dim light shafting through roof-slits. He said he would create the pendant for no cost if he could keep the rest of the marble. Moody agreed but at that moment let Horrie’s leash slip in the shop. The dog darted off with Moody and Gill in pursuit, baulking past locals, donkeys and a long line of Christian worshippers and pilgrims who were following a priest with a wooden cross on his back. The chubby priest was re-enacting the crucifixion of Christ.

  ‘God! Where is that little four-legged bleeder?!’ Moody exclaimed as they stopped to catch their breath outside St Mary’s, one of several Christian churches.

  ‘Don’t think God can help us right now,’ Gill said, eyeing the surging crowd of mainly women in black outside the church. ‘He’s a little preoccupied with pilgrims.’

  ‘Food stalls!’ Moody said, snapping his fingers. ‘Butchers!’

  They hurried to the main food arcade and a large butcher’s shop. Horrie was there fighting hundreds of flies that were vying for the bone a Jewish butcher had given him.

  ‘Such a nice little doggie!’ the butcher said, in a northern English accent.

  ‘When he’s asleep,’ Moody said, rolling his eyes. ‘He loves all butchers. Makes them his new best cobber wherever he is.’ He picked up the leash and led Horrie, bone in mouth, back to find Mohammed and the others at the jeweller’s shop.

  *

  Later, on the return from Jerusalem, the Rebels enjoyed exploring the camp area, especially the ruins of the ancient city of Ascalon. Moody, as ever, took photographs and notes, and referred to a guidebook: Ancient Palestine: Lost Tribes and Civilisations by Angus Trollope. He tried to enthuse the others by reading passages, including reference to the Crusaders fighting many battles in and around Ascalon, and that during one in about 1170 BC, the city was destroyed.

  To his surprise, Shegog commented: ‘Yeah, King Herod the Great was born there.’

  ‘Where’d that come from?’ Featherstone asked in surprise.

  ‘The Gogg’s family knew the Herods well,’ Fitzsimmons chimed in, ‘even when they weren’t so great.’

  ‘Yes and his dad played for the Ascalon thirds,’ Featherstone said.

  They also explored Gaza and swam at a nearby beach. Horrie kept guard over their clothes, watches, cameras and wallets. He had a torrid time defending the pile from some local lads, who were intrepid enough to attempt to steal items by circling him and moving in. But Horrie was equal to the task that exhausted him over more than an hour’s ‘defence’ under a boiling sun. When the Rebels had finished their swim, Moody and Gill took him into the water to help him cool down and later at camp erected a shelter for him to stay out of the heat, which he appreciated. He always had his tongue out in the conditions but never showed signs of stress.

  Jerusalem became a favourite haunt and the Rebels stayed at the ancient and famous Fast’s Hotel, which in World War I had been used by General Harry Chauvel when he used it as a decoy to make it appear as if the British Expeditionary Force would have its HQ there. In 1941 it had been taken over by the Comforts Fund and then transformed into the Australian Soldiers’ Club. The rooms were cheap and the management allowed Horrie to stay, which enticed the Rebels to make several visits.

  When they returned to Dier Suneid after one of their sojourns in Jerusalem they were greeted with the news they would be breaking camp again, this time relocating about 15 kilometres north to Khassa near El Majdal, still in Palestine.

  ‘Why do they move us about so much?’ a disgruntled Featherstone asked Brooker.

  ‘Because they don’t want you pampered lads getting too cosy,’ Brooker replied, ‘or building up too many possessions, like the travel books that Moods buys everywhere; or The Gogg’s collection of whisky bottles and those paintings when he has them framed.’

  ‘Gosh, Sarg, you’ve deeply disappointed me,’ Fitzsimmons said. ‘There I was believing that our moves were all part of some grand strategic plan by Churchill and Tom Blamey!’

  ‘Nope,’ Featherstone said, ‘I’m beginning to think we are the forgotten battalion, or at least the invisible one; stuck out here in the flaming desert doing bugger all but playing Rugby and hockey.’

  ‘Yeah, but we nearly always win,’ Fitzsi
mmons replied. ‘And look at the surf-lifesaving team. It won four events in a row at the Gaza Surf Carnival.’

  This was to be their first move since Murchison broke away from the group and it caused another discussion about him. Horrie was alerted at the mention of his name.

  ‘Wonder what’s happened to him?’ Shegog asked Brooker as they packed up. ‘We haven’t heard a peep. You don’t think he bought the farm, do you?’

  ‘It is a bit of a worry,’ Brooker admitted for the first time.

  Censorship on the Syrian campaign left the Rebels in the dark. It was months before they heard unconfirmed whispers that he may have survived the torrid battles in Syria. Rumours suggested it was possible that he remained in Syria with the 2/3 Gunners as part of the occupation force. But no one could check the truth because not even Gunner officers knew any details about individuals on the front-line in the Syrian campaign. They could only guess how long the occupation would last. The Rebels calculated that if Murchison had survived, he would have stayed on with the Australian 7th Division in the hope of more action. The Rebels realised he wouldn’t fancy the prospects of even less action with his former battalion that had seemed to have done its dash in North Africa, Greece and Crete. This scenario was what they all hoped and prayed for. But they had no real idea of his fate. Although he was a careless communicator who was too lazy to write much home to relatives, they believed that if he were alive, he would get word to them. But they had not even received his speciality of a scribbled postcard. Yet if he had written anything it would not have squeezed passed the censors. Any description or mention of the Allied Syria–Lebanon campaign was suppressed. Press reporting was limited because some Allied commanders and politicians believed that knowledge about the Allies fighting the French could have a negative impact on public opinion, especially after the huge effort and sacrifice of Allied countries including the UK, Canada, Australia and most British Commonwealth countries, made on behalf of the French in World War I.