by Roland Perry
Murchison’s circumstances remained unknown.
18
LOVE—DOGGIE-STYLE
Moody was surprised to find that there was another white Egyptian terrier mascot in the 2nd AIF, whose experiences almost mirrored Horrie’s. It was female, a fraction taller with a full tail, which allowed the discerning onlooker to distinguish between her and Horrie. Her name was Imshi, which meant ‘buzz off’ in Arabic, and was so named in a typical cynical Australian manner by members of the 2/1 Anti-Tank Regiment, which was stationed at Khassa. Her master was gangling and moustachioed Bruce (‘Mac’) McKellary, a friend of Moody. She had also been picked up in Egypt and had toured Greece and Syria with the regiment. The two dogs of the same breed got on well, perhaps too well for the army’s liking. Horrie was most stimulated by Imshi, who appealed to him far more than the sweet but timid Horrietta on Crete. Despite his worrying nine-day disappearance from the last camp, Moody, Gill and the other Rebels felt it was wiser to let him roam free, and trust that his judgement might be better after the last time. But a problem developed with the two love-dogs bounding off into the desert, sometimes all night. There was concern about Horrie’s dereliction of his tent-minding and other duties, such as leading marches. He would rather spend time with Imshi.
‘What the hell do they do out there in the dark all night?’ Shegog asked.
‘Horrie reckons they hunt lizards,’ Fitzsimmons replied, ‘but can you believe him?’
The Rebels and the Anti-Tank diggers became increasingly displeased. Their tents were not being guarded. A rifle went missing from the Rebels’ tent when they were away one night. Normally the firing bolt would be removed, but the Rebels had been so sure of Horrie’s defence of the tent that they had never bothered to hide the bolt. Until now, the Rebels were the envy of the entire battalion. All other units had to have a man on duty all day and night to ensure resourceful local Arabs, who were skilled at avoiding guards around the camp, did not take their rifles. Horrie’s AWL activities changed all that. Brooker decided it had to stop. Horrie was chained to the tent pole, a predicament even he could not extricate himself from. But every morning when let loose he would seek out Imshi and they would scamper off into distant dunes until their white coats could not be distinguished from the sunlight on the sand, and they might not return until noon or even later. They built a strong bond, which was even tighter than that which they had with their respective units. The partnership was only broken two months later when the Anti-Tank Regiment was transferred to Syria. Horrie was in a most despondent state when he bounded one morning over to the former site of the regiment only to find it had gone. Moody tried to distract him by playing a mouth organ he had received as a present from home. A few of the Rebels protested at Moody’s enthusiastic yet amateur effort.
‘Can you play “Far, Far Away”?’ Fitzsimmons asked with a frown.
‘I’ll give it a go,’ Moody responded as he tried to remember the tune.
‘Well, it’s that-away,’ Fitzsimmons said, pointing out of the tent to the horizon of sand.
For a while, Horrie looked to the sky and howled and wagged his tail in time to Moody’s modest performance. But once the Rebels’ applause had completed, and the novelty of unmelodic playing and singing had worn off, Horrie slinked off to the former Anti-Tank Regiment site again to see if his friend had reappeared. He only became distracted from his woes for a short time the next day when Moody was tuning in a radio outside the tent. Horrie was curious. Instead of wandering by like a lost soul he sat close to the earphones in much the same manner he did when Stukas were coming, and his ears stood high in his attempt to locate the source. A voice speaking Arabic emanated from the earphones. Horrie frowned, tilted his head and sniffed them. Unconvinced the owner of the voice could be squeezed into such small devices, Horrie scurried around inside and outside the tent growling in every corner and peering under beds.
‘He’s looking for wogs,’ Gill whispered in a barely suppressed chortle. ‘Better calm him down.’
Moody switched off the radio. With that, Horrie waddled out of the tent and continued on his downcast meanderings. This apparent ‘depression’ went on for days as he maintained his pining for his lovely companion. Just as the ‘H’ word was not to be used on Crete, the ‘I’ word was now forbidden in Palestine. But every now and again her name came up and Horrie would wag his tail in furious anticipation of a reunion. Then early in September 1941, he went missing again and the Rebels concluded that he was looking for Imshi. For a second time, they embarked on searches in the immediate area, and then the region. Five days later, some members of the battalion were travelling back from Palestine one evening when they came across Horrie limping towards Jerusalem. He had come 80 kilometres and this time his condition suggested to the Rebels he had not slipped onto a bus. His paws were in a bad state and once more he had lost weight. Yet the experience seemed to have convinced him that there was no use searching for his lost love any more. He stayed close to camp and did not stray again and Moody and Gill did their best not to leave him alone for too long. But he was not the only soul saddened over a broken relationship. Moody himself received a ‘Dear John’ letter from his wife, the term used for the all-too-common occurrence of a woman waiting too long for a soldier to return from war, and becoming involved with someone else.
His six-year marriage was over. His wife wanted a divorce. Moody was not devastated. His relationship had been rocky. Yet it left him dispirited and added to a sense of helplessness and uncertainty about his future. His mates did what they could to lift his spirits. Fitzsimmons told him about a fellow gunner who had written his wife a ‘Dear Jane’ letter in which he had decided to divorce her because he’d fallen in love with a Greek girl he planned to marry after the war. Moody appreciated the support but it was not enough to salve his feelings. Gill decided to attempt to go one better. He had just met a short, plump Adelaide nurse, Louise Swift, working at the British Servicemen’s Hospital in Jerusalem. According to Gill, she had a stunning, tall ‘flame-haired’ friend from Fremantle, Bonnie Maitland.
‘I fancy Bonnie myself,’ he told an uninterested Moody, ‘but I want you to meet her. Believe me, she will take your mind off your wife.’
It took days of cajolery before Moody agreed to meet Maitland on a blind date on the condition that they could bring Horrie. The women agreed. The two Rebel privates took them by bus on a day’s outing to Jaffa and an overnight stay at Haifa. Horrie was scolded for growling at Arabs in bus seats nearby. The locals looked uncomfortable. They were not used to such a coddled little aggressor.
‘What a lovely little doggie you are,’ Bonnie said, having heard of his now legendary heroics, ‘and a lance corporal as well!’ She saluted then bent across Moody to pat him. Horrie snarled and bared his teeth. Bonnie sat back in her seat.
‘Not such a nice little doggie,’ she said, startled.
‘Sorry about that,’ Moody apologised, ‘but he is a little nervous with all the . . . er “locals” on the bus.’
‘Also we think he dislikes your clothes,’ Gill said from his seat next to Louise behind them.
‘Oh, he’s fashion conscious, is he?’ Bonnie asked.
‘No, I meant your civvies. He just will not accept anyone who is not in Australian uniform. He is a fair dinkum digger’s dog.’
‘He’s not a misogynist is he?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Gill said and asked, ‘What’s that?’
‘A male who hates women.’
‘Oh, good God no! He had a girlfriend who he was most gracious and polite and attentive with—’
The women laughed at Gill’s earnest defence of Horrie. But they kept a discreet distance from the dog on the rest of the outing. His behaviour became a point of contention when the two couples booked rooms at a hotel. Horrie had to remain with Moody, who had to convince Bonnie that he would behave in the bedroom.
‘As you will do,’ she said with mischievous smile.
When they approach
ed the front desk of the Hotel Sea View, the overweight Arab proprietor eyed the women. His aquiline nose bent when he asked the men in halting English, ‘I think you require a room “without,” yes?’
‘No, no definitely “with,”’ Moody replied, assuming he was speaking about a bath.
‘“With”?’ the Arab said, surprised. His eyes flicked to Gill and the women and then back to Moody. Then a knowing smile creased his tanned, wrinkled features. The men nodded and were distracted by Horrie, who jumped at the counter, unhappy with the Arab. They calmed him down, and apologised a second time in the day for his ‘ungracious’ demeanour.
‘Do not be troubled,’ the proprietor said, ‘but I charge you extra for dog too.’
The hotel had been recommended by other diggers lucky enough to make ‘romantic’ ventures to the picturesque coastal town. The second-floor rooms were spare yet spacious with superb views of the water and coastline. Moody and Bonnie were disappointed to find there was no bath, just a large wash-basin, with a small tub next to it.
‘I’m sure he asked if I wanted a room “with,”’ Moody said, puzzled.
‘He did, I heard him,’ Bonnie said. ‘Mind you, his English was so poor . . .’
They shrugged off the apparent misunderstanding. Moody made Horrie comfortable on a little makeshift bed of cushions and pillows in one corner. He tried to jump on their bed, but was admonished and gave up with an ill-mannered growl at Bonnie. After lights out Moody whispered that they should wait until Horrie had dropped off to sleep. A few minutes after the light was switched off, they heard the dog’s familiar low whistle punctuated by short, uneven grunts.
‘He’s dreaming,’ Moody whispered.
‘Aw, so cute, when he’s asleep,’ Bonnie said.
Just as they embraced there was a soft knock at the door. Horrie leapt off his bed and barked. Moody pulled on trousers and ordered Horrie to ‘back off!’ He opened the door and popped his head out. A beautiful, brown-eyed Arab girl of about 20, wearing a bright red-and-green floral summer dress and no shoes, had already retreated down the passageway.
‘Yes?’ Moody said.
The girl hesitated.
‘You wanted a girl, no?’ she enquired in a Frenchtinged accent.
‘Well, no, I have—’
Horrie barked again, breaking Moody’s concentration.
Then it struck him. The proprietor’s question about ‘with’ or ‘without’ was in reference to a prostitute. After a garbled explanation to Bonnie, Moody hastened downstairs to rectify the matter with the proprietor. Moody restrained himself from explaining to the bemused Arab that this misunderstanding may have ruined his evening, just as Gill came down with the same complaint about another young woman at his door. The discussion heated up and the flustered proprietor asked: ‘Not without, no?’
‘No,’ Gill said, ‘we have women with us!’
‘Not without, no?’ the proprietor repeated.
‘No, sport,’ Gill said, raising his voice, ‘we have two women with us. We don’t need four!’
‘Okay, okay, okay,’ the proprietor said in an understanding tone. ‘Arh! Very good, very good.’ He grinned. ‘You Aussie!’
‘Yeah,’ Moody said with a relieved grin, ‘we Aussies are not greedy!’
The proprietor laughed. ‘No, no, you Aussie not greedy!’ He waved his hands flamboyantly. ‘It is good for business.’
The two men were puzzled but returned to their rooms. Moody was shocked to find Horrie had cornered Bonnie on the bed. She was standing on the pillows, her hands up as if the little dog had a gun. He was on his hind legs, front paws on the bed, and snarling as if ready to jump up at her. Moody gave him a slap on the behind and placed him back in his corner. Moody had some explaining to do to the distressed Bonnie. She got down from the bed, sat in a chair, then folded her arms and crossed her legs, while keeping a nervous eye on the still-growling Horrie, who stared at her. Louise came to the door and asked if she could speak with Bonnie in private. They chatted in the corridor and then put an ultimatum to the men: either they slept together in one room without the men and Horrie, or the men had to take them by bus back to Jerusalem. It was after midnight. The men agreed to sleep in one room: Moody on a couch, Gill in the bed and Horrie still in his corner. The two women took the other room and locked the door.
Not a half-hour later, there were knocks on both doors. The proprietor had directed four prostitutes to visit Moody and Gill. Again, Horrie made a ruckus. The men dismissed the prostitutes and again confronted the proprietor, who had for a second time misunderstood their conversation. But the damage was done. Bonnie and Louise assumed the men had ordered the sex workers, and they were furious. No amount of explanation was accepted and the night ended in a frosty gender divide with no appeasement at breakfast the next morning. The women sat together on the bus, well away from Horrie and the men, and hardly addressed them on the journey back to their Jerusalem hospital. The four parted with perfunctory handshakes, but not before Bonnie had looked down at Horrie, who eyed her with distrust.
‘You are a misogynist,’ she said to him with an accusing point of her finger, ‘and I know where you learnt it from!’
The two men and Horrie were left feeling glum and misunderstood. Moody was despondent, admitting that Bonnie had indeed taken his mind off his wife. But his failure to capitalise on the opportunity with her depressed him further. They sauntered a little way down the street from the bus depot and found a cafe. They ordered beer, and milk for Horrie, and sat in silence, Gill rolling a cigarette and Moody filling his pipe, while watching people getting on and off buses. Quite a few diggers were among them. One large digger alighted and seemed to be in some push-and-shove with a group of unhappy Arabs. Moody and Gill stood, ready to go to his aid. But the digger, whose considerable girth matched his height, seemed unconcerned by his tormentors. He staggered to their cafe, with about six Arabs following him, hurling abuse and gesticulating. The big man sank down into a chair on the sidewalk near them. He rubbed his large nose that was gnarled and askew from perhaps another hostile encounter at another time.
‘You all right, Dig?’ Moody said, still standing.
‘Yeah, Dig,’ he mumbled, clearly inebriated, ‘abused a bus full of wogs. Do it all the time. Shouldn’t, I know, but I couldn’t give a fuck! They’re all bloody bastards!’
Moody and Gill resumed their seats but were disturbed by the indignant Arabs, who seemed to be cursing the digger. One held a knife. Moody noticed blood on the digger’s army shirt, which was slashed.
‘What’s your name, mate?’ Moody said, staying cool in the tense atmosphere.
‘Ray Wallace,’ the big man said, shaking hands with them.
‘Better have that cleaned up,’ Moody said, indicating the seven centimetre cut on his right arm. ‘There’s a hospital just down the road . . .’
‘Nar, Dig; it’s just a nick.’
‘Did one of them do it to you?’ Gill asked as he also noticed the Arab with the knife.
‘Yeah, that prick there,’ Wallace said. He was having trouble focusing as he nodded towards the thin man with the weapon. Horrie started seething at the Arabs. He barked and jumped forward. Moody restrained him.
‘You!’ Wallace said, reaching for Horrie. ‘I know who you are! You are a fuckin’ legend! A fuck-ing legend!!’
‘How’d you know about his sex-life?’ Moody quipped.
‘Hey?’ Wallace asked, not quite understanding the joke, but laughing anyway. He eyed Horrie and added, ‘You’re with the 2/1 Gunners. You’ve saved about a million lives, I hear . . .’ Wallace’s sudden switch to a friendly demeanour had Horrie change his mood also in an instant. Wallace picked Horrie up and cuddled him. The dog licked his face, sniffed his cut arm and licked the congealed blood on that too. Two of the Arabs moved a few seats closer. Horrie struggled to get free. His fur was up, his eyes demonic.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ Wallace yelled, ‘you wog bastards!’
The Arabs, al
l fit-looking and in their early twenties, hurled abuse back.
‘This has been going on all the way from bloody . . .’ Wallace began, and then frowned in a struggle to recall the town, ‘I dunno . . . Arar . . . bloody rat . . . I dunno . . .’
‘You’ve certainly riled them,’ Gill said, making eye contact with Moody. Both were concerned there could be real trouble any moment. They tried to placate the big man.
‘I told ’em what I thought of them,’ Wallace said, turning to curse them again, ‘but they don’t get it . . . they don’t know what rat-infested . . .’
‘Now, Dig,’ Moody said, ‘hadn’t you better lay off? Who’s your unit?’
‘My unit? What do you want to know my unit for?’
‘Just want to get you home in one piece, Dig, that’s all,’ Gill said.
‘I know yours . . . you’re the 2/1 Gunners. I know because of the colour patch and the dog.’ He looked down at Horrie again and grinned. Horrie forgot about the Arabs for a second and wagged his behind and tail. Wallace looked into the cafe and waved a heavy hand at the owner, who seemed reluctant to come out to the sidewalk. ‘What’s a bloke gotta do to get a beer around here?’
‘Where are you based, Dig?’
‘Somewhere out there in the desert,’ he slurred, then turned to hurl more vitriol at the Arabs in Arabic, which in translation was roughly sons of whores and bitches. This ranked high in the list of local insults, and only a rung or two below insulting Mohammed. It guaranteed the recipients would return verbal fire and even something more life-threatening.
‘Better to lay off that language, Ray, mate,’ Moody said in a placatory tone, ‘only going to cause trouble.’
‘No, bugger it! Bugger them!! We come here in the last war and an uncle of mine had his throat cut in the night by a gutless wog! He was bloodiwell asleep and one of these bastards’ relatives did it!’