Horrie the War Dog

by Roland Perry

  There was enough air for him to survive and the hole would be less than stifling early in the day, although mid-afternoon, when the sun was at its highest point, it would be a trial for the young dog. With that ‘trick’ accomplished, he was allowed to sleep at Moody’s feet during the night. When the Rebels went to breakfast, Horrie was put in the hole. Featherstone had first watch just to make sure he kept quiet. Part two of Plan A was successful, so far. But it was the beginning of an arduous project that went on for several days, and included spot inspections by officers. Had Horrie absorbed that even when an officer whose scent he did not recognise entered the tent, he was not to make a sound? It would be a tough test, for his instinct always was to protect the Rebels’ territory.

  21

  JOURNEY TO THE

  DESERT’S EDGE

  One late afternoon, Lieutenant Hewitt and another officer, Captain Ken Bartholemew, who had just joined the battalion from Australia, marched into the Rebels’ tent unannounced. They were accompanied by Horrie’s old enemy, Sergeant-of-the-Guard Ross Fitzgerald. The 49-year-old Duntroon-trained Bartholemew was said to be from military intelligence but no one knew why he was in the Middle East. He was short, rotund and with a similar appearance to King Edward VII, the (current) King George VI’s grandfather, right down to the neat beard. All the Rebels were present, either playing cards or fiddling with radio equipment. They stood to attention. The captain had only recently heard about Horrie’s exploits from Hewitt, who observed, rather than took part in, the inspection.

  ‘So you’re the infamous rabble known as the Rebels,’ he said, ‘the little group of signallers with the biggest AWL and brawling reputation of the Gunners.’

  Each Rebel was nervous and most suspicious of Fitzgerald’s presence. Had he come to find Horrie? Had he heard a rumour about the hidden dog and informed on them? Moody prayed that Fitzgerald’s scent would not cause Horrie to growl or bark. The captain began by inspecting kits. He put his nose into Moody’s bag.

  ‘Ugh!’ he said. ‘You’ve had a dog in here, Private, have you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Moody said, his eyes so fixed on Fitzgerald that the big man looked away and began fossicking under beds. ‘Donated him to the local police a week ago, sir.’

  ‘Very noble of you,’ the captain said.

  ‘Be careful, Sergeant,’ Fitzsimmons warned Fitzgerald. ‘I handed in all Private Murchison’s snakes for destruction, but one big asp slipped away. We think he may come “home,” so to speak, every so often.’

  Fitzgerald got off his knees, indicating he was not fond of reptiles. The thorough inspection went on for 18 minutes.

  ‘I must say you lot have come a long way from the slovenly beginning in the Western Desert,’ Hewitt said, pointing to the neat piles of packs and equipment lined up with centimetre perfection at the end of each bed. ‘Must give credit to Sergeant Brooker, and you too, Corporal Featherstone.’

  ‘I think you should know,’ Captain Bartholemew said, hauling himself up straight and eyeballing Moody, ‘that your precious little doggie went AWL from the police station a few nights ago.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Captain. We thought he had such a good home there.’ Moody looked around at the other Rebels, who shrugged and sighed. ‘Perhaps we should organise a search party to look—’

  ‘That’s enough, Private Moody,’ the captain snapped, ‘you will do nothing of the sort. If the dog is lost, it’s a good thing for him, for I am a very good shot at a distance or close range.’ He paused as if for theatrical effect and added: ‘I am told by the Sergeant-of-the-Guard here that the dog—’

  ‘Horrie, Captain,’ Hewitt said, ‘that is his name.’

  ‘Yes, well, whatever you call him, he may well turn up at your tent, so we shall keep a look out.’

  ‘I’m sure Private Moody will hand him in if he does,’ Hewitt reassured the captain with a salute as the three men left the tent. Several of the Rebels fell back on their beds and groaned.

  ‘That bloody Fitzgerald! What the hell was he doing at the inspection?!’ the Shegog asked in disgust. ‘He’s not our sergeant.’

  ‘Poppa is away on assignment for the day,’ Harlor informed them.

  ‘Someone should take Gerry out into the desert and shoot him,’ Shegog muttered as he reached for his whisky flask. There was silence for a moment. The others began rolling cigarettes or filling pipes to calm their nerves. Darkness was falling.

  ‘Horrie needs a reward,’ Moody said after lighting up. He slid his bed and the concealing mattress aside. He lifted the boards and Horrie took two leaps and a scramble with his paws at the lip of the hole to hoist himself out. Moody waited until it was dark before wrapping him in a towel and walking to the edge of camp and a scrubby area where he let Horrie down to bound around for some much-needed exercise. Moody relit his pipe and made a mental note to record in his diary that he had just been through the tensest moment of the war for him. This included when bombs were dropping and Stukas were strafing in his direction. Not even the ride through Servia Pass in Greece held more terrors than the inspection. They were events where he could have been killed in any second. But that tent scrutiny of every nook and cranny had had his heart palpitating and his mind racing. He watched Horrie rooting around and then come bounding to him for a pat.

  ‘You are worth it, mate,’ he whispered as he bent down to pick him up, ‘every second of hell we are putting you and ourselves through.’

  Next trick was to train him to stay quiet in Moody’s pack. This took up to two hours and must have been uncomfortable for Horrie. But he was dedicated to Moody and his directives, with complete trust in whatever these moves or games meant. He seemed aware that he just had to put up with them if he wanted to remain with the Rebels. After a few nights’ work, Moody had only to place the pack on the ground and Horrie would attempt to climb into it himself. They practised on a route march, which was far more of a test in the heat of the day than the cool of the night. Despite his stoic efforts to remain still and quiet, Moody knew he had to be suffering, so he shaped a plywood frame to fit inside the pack. This allowed Horrie to sit up and stopped the pack from collapsing in on him. Moody then cut out the back portion of the pack, which rested against his (Moody’s) back, and this allowed Horrie more air. The missing back portion was replaced by crisscrossed string to keep the dog from slipping out. Horrie seemed satisfied with the modified pack.

  When the camp was disbanded early on 10 March 1942, Moody arranged for a friend and devout Horrie supporter, Barry the Butcher, to keep the dog hidden in the canteen until he could be picked up that night. Snug in the pack the following morning, Horrie left with the battalion, which moved to its Gaza embarkation point on the Palestine railroad. A piece of luck occurred when Moody and Gill were able to hitch a ride in the guard van on the train. Horrie jumped out of the pack and stretched his legs for the slow journey to Tewfik near the Egyptian border. He was placed back in the pack when the battalion alighted from the train and lined up for an evening meal. Moody was obligated to leave his pack with all the others. He went to some trouble arranging it so that Horrie was upright. Moody became aware of someone behind him, watching. It was Captain Bartholemew.

  ‘Something precious in there, Private?’ Bartholemew asked.

  Moody thought his heart had missed a beat. He turned to face the captain without responding. The captain broke into a smile.

  ‘I like dogs very much,’ he said, dropping his voice, ‘but keep him well out of sight. Not everyone feels like we do.’

  Moody had never been more relieved. The captain had surprised him after his behaviour at the tent inspection, but he guessed it had been an act in front of Hewitt, who loved Horrie but would have to support his confiscation and killing, and Fitzgerald, who hated the dog and would love to have seen him executed.

  At 7 a.m. on 12 March the Rebels prepared for the 6.5 kilometre march to the port of Tewfik. Moody was concerned that Horrie could wilt in the early morning heat. He had Gill
carry him while Moody marched close behind, encouraging the dog all the way. This worked and the battalion rested in tents for the night, which allowed Moody to sneak him out for exercise again. Then came the final big test on the next day, which was particularly hot, when there was a final 6 kilometre march to the ship, the USS West Point. Gill carried him in his backpack again and Moody stepped close behind once more, whispering words of hoped-for comfort in the blazing heat, which had the dog panting. But he remained motionless. Every few hundred metres, Moody wet his fingers with his water bottle and poked them through the top of the pack. Horrie licked them, and Moody could hear his tail swishing against the plywood.

  They reached the wharf and looked up at the mighty ship, which had been the USA’s answer to the UK’s Queen Mary. It would carry about 8000 Australian troops, mainly from 6th Division, including more than 600 from the 2/1 Machine Gun Battalion. Horrie was still panting when Gill placed him on the dock in the face of a light breeze that gave him some relief.

  ‘Now for the biggest worry of all,’ Moody muttered to Gill, ‘the final inspection.’

  But there wasn’t one. Moody picked up the pack for the small boat ferry to the USS West Point manned by American sailors. By some judicious manipulation and promises of alcohol, which was forbidden on this ship, Moody and Gill commandeered a cabin with a shower. The six beds in it would be taken by Rebels. There was still much covering up to do and no risk could be taken, but Horrie could run free in the crowded cabin among close friends.

  ‘You are a very lucky little fella,’ Fitzsimmons said, tapping his nose, ‘you are on the way to Australia!’

  22

  THE FAST TRIP HOME

  There was some concern that a German U-boat or Japanese submarine might attack and sink the USS West Point. It was meant to sail without escort south through waters that the Axis powers wished to dominate. But after cruising out of the Gulf of Eden it changed course and headed south along the east coast of Africa. Then it swung east towards Fremantle. Lights were forbidden at night to avoid the big converted carrier being spotted by the enemy. But concerns were fewer on the sail across the Indian Ocean, although the eccentric American Captain F. A. Kelly caused a little apprehension among the troops by deciding to run his gun crews through some exercises. These included throwing targets overboard and circling them while firing for hours at a time as well as following a course away from Australia.

  ‘He is showing us gunners how it’s done,’ Brooker observed, ‘an impressive waste of ammunition.’

  ‘And wasting precious hours in taking us home,’ Harlor remarked.

  Jut-jawed and aggressive Kelly did not endear himself to the diggers by decreeing that alcohol was forbidden on board. He claimed to Australian officers that he wanted everyone to be battle alert, and that booze would not allow this. But his dictatorial approach was no deterrent for the diggers, who had smuggled on board a range of alcoholic drinks, from quality champagne and Scotch to cheap beer. Even some Americans disobeyed the directive. Kelly, who strutted his ship like a maritime Caesar, also did not want any bad behaviour or brawling on board between the diggers and the American crew. He knew of fights on the Australian mainland between the two nationalities. But on the ship and in this situation of support, the Australians appreciated the Americans, including the number of African-Americans, for their friendly nature and music, especially jazz. In turn the Americans fitted into the spirit of things and played two-up with the diggers.

  Rumours reached the Rebels that Kelly wanted a ‘clean’ ship with no pets on board. Captain Bartholemew took Moody aside on the deck one morning and confirmed the rumour.

  ‘Kelly’s a fastidious type,’ the captain said, ‘a bit inflexible and a strict disciplinarian. It’s not like being on a Pommie ship, which is always a little slack. Kelly does not want to be second to anyone in terms of following laws, no matter how draconian, not just to the letter, but to the final syllable. He has heard that the other troop ships are about to take action against pets, so now he is too. If you hear of anyone with an animal, tell them to make sure it’s not spotted.’

  ‘Thank you, I will, Captain,’ Moody said. ‘If I may ask: the boys were wondering what your role is?’

  ‘Let’s just say the Curtin government wants a smooth liaison between the division and the Americans on the trip.’

  ‘So you’re a liaison officer?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Bartholemew replied, and then asked, ‘Have you heard of anyone with a cat on board?’

  ‘No, can’t say I have,’ Moody said with a reflective frown.

  ‘Kelly hates cats. Says he will personally grab it by the tail, swing it over his head and launch it overboard, if one is found.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Moody mouthed reflectively, ‘how does he feel about dogs?’

  ‘Let’s just say, not like us.’

  This discussion kept the Rebels on alert. Horrie had to remain locked in the cabin with a minder, even during the heat when crossing the Equator. The Rebels fanned him and kept him cool with wet towels through the ordeal, but he seemed to take it all well, especially with the perpetual attention. The trip was easy compared to the trials he had been through in the pack, the hole in the ground and in Stuka attacks. He was allotted the best spot in the cabin at night, underneath the inlet that supplied fresh air. Horrie had no trouble with the daily morning cabin inspection. He was even keen for the game of concealment in the pack, especially now that it was for no longer than five minutes.

  With Horrie appearing safe, at least for the moment, Moody began to worry about Imshi, who was travelling back with the Anti-Tank Regiment on another ship. He spoke to Harlor in the Rebels’ cabin.

  ‘Could you get a message to another ship?’ Moody asked him, knowing that if anyone could it would be Harlor.

  ‘We’re not allowed that luxury, I’m afraid. They say the Japs might pick up stray messages and pinpoint our location. I doubt it myself because we can create our own rogue codes, ship to ship, and the Japs wouldn’t be able to work out what was what. But those are the rules.’

  ‘Could you cosy up to some of the Yank signallers and push messages to and from McKellary? I’m concerned that he may not know Imshi is in danger.’

  ‘I am already acquainted with the top signallers on board. They want me in the Signals room to talk engineering and radios all the time. Even I get bored!’

  ‘See what you can do, mate, please.’

  A few hours later, Harlor reported back to Moody: ‘I got through, and received an odd response. Mac sent a strange message saying that Imshi had “disappeared.” ’

  ‘Sounds ominous.’

  ‘I sent a message back asking him to clarify, but there has been no further response. It could either mean that Imshi has been destroyed, or that Mac is covering his arse with the message, indicating that Imshi has been well hidden.’

  *

  On 23 March, Brooker was walking up the steps to the top deck when he noticed Sergeant Fitzgerald and Captain Bartholemew in earnest discussion deep along a corridor. Brooker informed Moody, who went to see Bartholemew in his cabin near the sergeant’s quarters.

  ‘Yes, Fitzgerald came to me,’ Bartholemew admitted, ‘but I can’t disclose the substance of the conversation.’

  ‘But does he know about Horrie?’ Moody asked.

  ‘No, he only suspects Horrie is on board. He has no proof, and nor do I.’

  ‘So he was urging you to—’

  ‘As I said, Private, it was a privileged conversation. But I will say that Captain Kelly is set to assert his authority over pets on board. My advice is to stick to your story, and don’t change it.’

  After 12 days at sea, Kelly summoned Lieutenant Jim Hewitt, Brooker and Moody to his office in the captain’s cabin. Already there and looking distraught was Sergeant Bill McMillan, the owner of Ooboo the cat, and the Americans in charge of onboard discipline: the ship’s adjutant, Major Harrison, and the ship’s master-at-arms, C. P. O. Radcliffe. Kelly began w
ith a lecture about cleanliness, animal diseases, particularly rabies, and Australia’s strict quarantine laws for flora and fauna. He ended with a tirade about him having strict orders to destroy all animals on ‘my ship before disembarking anywhere in Australia.’

  Just as he finished a sustained burst of warnings about ‘the dire consequences for disobeying me,’ Captain Bartholemew slipped into the office.

  ‘Having said all that,’ Kelly continued, his face flushed and pointing at McMillan, ‘I am giving you two hours to round up your cat and hand him in. If you don’t do this, I shall not berth in Australia. How will your fellow Australians feel about that? Deliver one stupid cat or they don’t go home!’

  McMillan began to say something and stopped himself. Instead he saluted and backed out of the cabin.

  ‘All this trouble over one goddamned cat!’ Kelly fumed. He turned his attention to the new arrivals. ‘Now I know there is a dog on board. I want it produced, otherwise, gentlemen, this ship will not dock. I mean it!’

  ‘Captain Kelly,’ Bartholemew said, ‘none of those gentlemen seem to know if there is a dog—’ ‘I have been told about it!’ Kelly snapped. ‘Horrie . . . the er . . . Wog . . . or something. What’s a “wog” anyway?’