Horrie the War Dog

by Roland Perry

‘So why would they take in a canine member?’

  ‘I reckon it’s worth a try.’

  ‘It would have to be the Melbourne RSL. Not here. I don’t want all the focus on him in Sydney.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do . . . ’

  ‘I’d feel a lot better if the RSL was with us.’

  25

  RED CROSS, BLACK MARK

  The Melbourne RSL agreed to put Horrie’s application as a fully fledged member to its membership at its monthly meeting on 3 February 1945. Before the vote, which was a jovial exercise, former and current serving men and women debated his suitability. Brooker’s testimony about Horrie saving the life of every single soldier in his battalion, and many more men of the 6th Division on innumerable occasions, caused the debate to take on a more serious, if surreal atmosphere. A combination of humour, flowing beer and many compelling facts about Horrie’s service saw an overwhelming vote in his favour.

  It was the moment that Moody agreed to bring him into the open after Horrie’s three years as a fugitive. Moody was ready to present him to the world, complete with his coat, colour patch, Gunners’ disc and identity tags, and now RSL badge. Angus & Robertson, the book publisher, arranged for press coverage and he was photographed wearing his RSL badge, with Brooker and Moody in papers around the nation. One had the caption: ‘Veteran: Honorary Member of the Melbourne RSL, who has been in five campaigns, poses with his owner, Jim Moody, discharged AIF, and Sergt. Roy Brooker.’

  The accompanying articles were the beginning of what seemed to be a superb public relations exercise. Each piece mentioned his ‘amazing,’ ‘incredible’ war career. There was careful mention of his war wound (caused by the splinter on the Lossiebank) and that he was in fine health, which was a pointer to any quarantine official disposed towards pinning the possibility of rabies on him. A day later, Idriess turned up at the Gill home to meet Horrie and be photographed by the papers. The following morning, the coverage was again strong, with the grinning author snapped shaking Horrie’s paw. Articles focused on Idriess’ coming book.

  The Gill home was flooded with calls from more journalists, many 6th battalion members, other soldiers and well-wishers. The sudden nationwide reaction worried Moody. At the dinner table that night, he discussed with Brooker the need for a back-up plan, should things go awry.

  ‘We’ve had one everywhere for him,’ Moody said, handing Horrie a scrap.

  ‘But that was when we were at war,’ Brooker said.

  ‘We still are, mate.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘A series of safe houses we can put him in. Ultimately he’d end up in Victoria, but not here if they come looking for him.’ Moody thought for a moment. ‘I have had one place in mind for three years.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Cudgewa.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Exactly. No one has heard of it. It’s a one-rabbit town.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Near Corryong in north-east Victoria.’

  ‘What’s there?’

  ‘I have a good mate from the battalion, Eddie Bennetts, who is a dairy farmer and rabbit-trapper there. Eddie reckons Horrie saved his life about four times. He offered to keep him safe if there was trouble.’

  *

  Moody was further fortified by the Kennel Club in Sydney, whose secretary wrote to him on 17 February telling how they would boost publicity further in conjunction with the Red Cross at the 1945 Easter Show to be held from 31 March to 2 April. They planned to put Horrie in a stall at the Lady Gowrie Red Cross Home. ‘A post-card with his photograph and a short history’ would be ‘sold by a bevy of smart girls.’

  *

  On 24 February, a set of press articles on Horrie reached the desk of Mr Ron W. Wardle, the director of the Division of Veterinary Hygiene, in the Department of Health, Canberra. February 1945 had been a slow month in the somnolent capital, which had followed an even more sleepy January. The only news that alerted the isolated federal capital was the health of the Prime Minister John Curtin. His heart attack of late 1944 had worried the nation, but he had been driven by his chauffeur from hospital in Melbourne to the Lodge in Canberra and had pronounced himself fit for work. Few believed him but as Wardle helped look after the health of the animal population, there was little he could do for the nation’s leader. But he could do something about the animal called Horrie, who had been ushered into Australia in 1942. Reading between the quaintly placed lines by journalists, the astute Wardle could sniff the cover-up of an illegality. He told colleagues that the perpetrators of this crime had the gall to make it all public.

  ‘What’s so annoying,’ he added, ‘it’s nothing more than a money-making stunt via the publication of a book. Well, we’ll put a stop to that.’

  He alerted officers of the health department’s quarantine station at Abbotsford, Sydney, and ordered them to find Moody and force him to give up the dog.

  A few days later in the late afternoon, three officers turned up at 28 Silver Street in leafy St Peters and knocked on the door of the single-fronted home. Moody looked out a window. His instinct was that these men, two in white jackets, and one in a suit and tie, represented a major problem. He hurried to the back door to warn Brooker, who scooped up Horrie and whisked him out a back-gate and down a lane to a car. Horrie responded to directives to keep quiet. He loved the urgency, the running and being placed under a blanket in the back seat of a car. This was a sudden new ‘game’ and he loved the action. Brooker drove by the front of the Gills’ home and saw Moody moving out onto the porch to talk to the three visitors. Brooker took the dog to another soldier’s home in a pre-arranged plan.

  Moody was told by the men from quarantine that they wished to detain Horrie for ‘observations.’ Moody claimed that the dog was in Melbourne.

  ‘The photos in the paper were taken here in Sydney,’ Mr John King of quarantine said while eyeballing Moody and looking for any ‘deception’ in his expression or answers.

  ‘Yes, but we had to send him home by train.’

  ‘Isn’t he being put on display by the Red Cross in Sydney?’

  ‘That’s not for over a month.’

  King kept staring. Moody held his gaze. After several seconds the interrogator asked: ‘So you intend to retrieve him?’

  ‘Not for a few weeks, but yes, that was my intention.’

  King said the dog had to be delivered to quarantine as soon as possible and warned Moody of the ‘very serious consequences’ if he did not comply with the order. King handed him a ‘Seizure Form’ for ‘1 dog—Egyptian Terrier.’ The department representatives left and a half-hour later Brooker drove back to the Gills’ home.

  ‘I need a bloody beer!’ Moody said, but not before ringing Idriess to tell him of the visit. Idriess was not stressed.

  ‘That’s all good,’ he said. ‘This will generate public support!’

  ‘And draw attention to the book?’

  ‘Of course! Don’t worry. I can tell you from long experience in putting out books that this is a heaven-sent opportunity.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘We can generate a real campaign in support of Horrie.’

  ‘There is no way we can exhibit him now. I have to hand him in.’

  ‘That’s perfect! I’ll let my contacts know. The publisher will back this change of tack for the book’s promotion.’

  Moody and Brooker went to a local pub. They consumed several beers recovering from the shock.

  ‘I reckon they’ll pressure me to produce Horrie fast,’ Moody said. ‘Why would they send three men to talk to me? They wanted to nab Horrie right there and then.’

  ‘We must save him,’ Brooker said.

  ‘Always. I’ll never let them have him, no matter what they threaten me with.’

  ‘So we implement the Cudgewa plan?’

  Moody nodded.

  ‘Must be started tonight. We want him over the Victorian border as soon as possible.’

&nb
sp; ‘You didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to him!’

  ‘I was just becoming used to him being around, just like being back in the battalion.’

  ‘You can catch up with him when all this settles down.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Moody said sadly as he took out his pipe and lit it. He puffed it to life and sighed. ‘But after what happened today, I may never be able to have him with me again. The department will always have spies or checks. If he is ever found, they will take retribution for sure.’ They were both contemplative for a few moments. ‘Besides, he isn’t a pup any more. He can’t be run ragged as a fugitive at his age. He needs a stable home and environment.’

  Brooker lit a cigarette. ‘How will you avoid the quarantine demand?’ he asked. ‘They will send the cops after you for sure.’

  ‘No problem about going AWL any more,’ Moody said with a grin as he held up his glass of beer, ‘at least that’s over for me.’

  ‘But you can’t go on the run either.’

  ‘I dunno. I could go bush and survive taking itinerant work.’

  ‘You won’t receive a war pension.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You can’t cut off all those options by disappearing! What about your soldier settlement entitlement?’

  ‘Doubt I’ll get anything like that now.’

  The two men drank and smoked in silence. They watched as the pub began to fill with patrons.

  ‘There is something else I could do,’ Moody said. ‘I could find a Horrie look-alike and present him to quarantine.’

  Brooker looked stunned.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll comb all the pounds in Sydney.’

  Brooker’s expression brightened. ‘Could you do that?’ he asked in admiration. ‘That would be brilliant!’

  ‘If I do this,’ Moody said, the cogs of his shrewd mind working overtime, ‘we tell no one, only the Rebels.’

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘What about Idriess?’ Brooker asked.

  ‘No, can’t risk telling him. I appreciate his keenness for the book to do well, and he certainly knows all there is to know about publicity. But he would probably want to put our “switch” of dogs in the story!’

  ‘He would! That would make it a bestseller. A real twist in the tale!’

  ‘Or t–a–i–l,’ Moody said, indicating to the barman that they wanted two more beers.

  ‘And your dad,’ Brooker probed, ‘will you tell him?’

  ‘No. He won’t go along with it. Only your tight-lipped Rebels should ever know our little scheme, Sergeant Brooker.’

  ‘Agreed, Private Moody.’

  *

  The next morning, Friday 2 March, the pressure mounted. Quarantine’s Mr King rang Moody to order him to produce Horrie in seven days.

  ‘That should give you ample time to bring him up from Melbourne,’ King said, ‘if he is in Melbourne. If you don’t comply with this directive, Mr Moody, you will be charged with several offences under section 68 of the Quarantine Act, 1908 to 1924. Do you want me to read them?’

  ‘Yes, you can read them, but to yourself after we finish this phone call.’

  There were a few seconds silence on the line.

  ‘This is not a laughing matter, Mr Moody.’

  ‘Do you think I’m laughing over an order to leave my dog with you? What are your plans for him, anyway?’

  ‘He’ll be put through a routine quarantine inspection.’

  ‘And then, you will return him to me?’

  ‘That is the normal procedure, if the dog is healthy. But that decision will be up to the director.’

  ‘The director?’

  ‘Mr Wardle.’

  After the phone call, Moody found Brooker reading another article about Horrie in the Sydney Morning Herald.

  ‘The bastards are going to put Horrie down,’ Moody said.

  ‘They said that?’

  ‘No, but I can spot deception a mile off.’

  ‘Because you are an expert?’

  ‘Probably,’ Moody said, picking up his car keys. ‘C’mon. We are going on a search for Horrie’s look-alike today. I’m taking my camera. We are going to document this.’

  A few minutes later they were driving to a pound, Brooker at the wheel. Moody had a list of nine Sydney pounds and dogs’ homes to visit.

  ‘Why do you want photos?’ Brooker asked. ‘You haven’t changed your mind about telling Idriess, have you?’

  ‘No, he will never know if we can pull off a switch. But some day, maybe long after I’m gone, I want the real story told. Otherwise people will never forgive me for not doing everything to save Horrie, especially after what he did for us in war.’

  ‘You’ve always been a real documenter!’

  ‘We’ve had a lot worth recording, wouldn’t you say?’ Moody said, glancing at a map marking the pounds. The first visit was to one in Chatswood, north Sydney. They were shown around by an uninterested old man wearing a grubby green beanie and slippers that had seen better days. No dog resembling Horrie was in the line of filthy cages. Only mournful animals with searching, sad eyes watched as the two men peered in at them. Some growled; others cringed in corners; a few wagged tails in vain hope. They’d seen it all before: humans inspecting and then leaving without taking one of them; or the manager pushing another of their own into a cage.

  ‘Most seem to look as if they are on death row,’ Moody observed.

  ‘They are,’ the old man muttered without making eye contact.

  ‘How long do they have?’

  ‘On average six weeks, tops.’

  ‘How are they . . . ?’

  ‘Killed? Depends on which quarantine place bumps ’em off. Abbotsford does it the old fashioned way and shoots ’em between the eyes. The newer, fancier depots give ’em a cyanide pill in their food. They reckon it’s more humane. I don’t. A bullet is always quick and clean if you can shoot straight. Them pills can make it a much more agonising business, especially for the big, tough beasts. They can be in agony for an hour.’ The old man then half-whispered, with a scintilla of compassion, ‘Not right.’

  Moody and Brooker drove on, looking for the second pound.

  ‘He was a barrel of laughs, wasn’t he?’ Brooker said.

  Moody examined the map before saying: ‘Just like those poor condemned creatures.’

  Brooker glanced at him. ‘Bet you’d like to save ’em all, eh, Moods?’

  Moody nodded: ‘If I could afford it and give them all nice homes, yes.’

  *

  They saw three pounds on that Friday but the only dogs like Horrie were both Scottish terrier-crosses with long whis kers. One was black and male, the other white and female.

  ‘They are about the same height,’ Brooker noted, ‘but it wouldn’t work with them, even if you trimmed their whiskers.’

  Moody lingered over the white dog. It wagged its tail and was friendly, without being demonstrative.

  ‘I love this little girl,’ he said. ‘Just gorgeous!’

  ‘C’mon, Moods. It’s female. Forget it.’

  ‘I know. I have something else in mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just something.’

  That night Moody rang Idriess to tell him of the department’s demands but without mentioning his attempt to find a Horrie substitute.

  ‘You must write this bureaucrat Mr Wardle a letter,’ Idriess said. ‘Be contrite and polite. Accept responsibility. Tell him you saw a vet in Palestine and that Horrie was given a clean bill of health then admit you smuggled the dog home. Make sure he knows I have written a book about Horrie and that it will be published soon. Mention the Red Cross and how you offered the dog to them to raise funds. Point out that you could have kept the dog a secret but that helping this most worthy of causes seemed important enough to risk the consequences of exposure. Finish by appealing to him to spare Horrie, especially as he could still be used to raise funds for the Red Cross. That will put pressure on our Mr Wardle
. Who knows? He may be a dog owner and a compassionate one at that!’

  ‘I am not confident about his response,’ Moody said, ‘not the way his people have “attacked” so quickly with such vigour.’

  ‘Oh,’ Idriess said, ignoring him, ‘also write a letter to the Prime Minister asking him to intervene.’

  ‘Do you think there is any chance of that? Curtin’s a busy man.’

  ‘And a sick one. But even the fact that you write to him will be useful propaganda for the cause. You have to stir this up at the highest levels and keep the press interested.’

  That evening Moody wrote a two-page letter to Wardle, and then another to Prime Minister Curtin. On Monday, 5 March, Moody and Brooker resumed their search for the replacement dog.

  ‘There’s a pound at Marrickville, the next suburb,’ Moody said, ‘but I think we should avoid it. It’s the first place the authorities will check, if they suspect anything.’

  They continued their search in south and west Sydney and ventured over the Harbour Bridge for another pound, but again without luck. After their search failed on Wednesday, they were becoming concerned. Moody had just one full day to find a dog before the Friday deadline.

  ‘Marrickville is our last resort,’ Moody told a despondent Brooker. ‘We’ll have to risk it.’

  Early on Thursday, they set out for the pound, which was less than a kilometre from their Silver Street lodging. Moody asked the middle-aged, limping man in charge if he had any small dogs, ‘like terriers.’

  ‘We got one, guv’na,’ the man said and Brooker engaged him by guessing correctly he was a cockney immigrant.

  ‘Yeah, guv’na,’ he replied with a big grin, ‘fort on Gallipoli wiv you lot. Liked the Aussie style and decided to come art ’ere, didn’t I?’

  The stench of urine and dog hair was overwhelming in the heat. They reached a cage in a large shed which, unlike some of the other pounds, gave some shade in the hot early March weather. In it was a forlorn, small white dog. His face was furrier than Horrie’s, but his body was not dissimilar, although it was not as long.

  ‘What breed is he?’ Moody asked.

  ‘Dunno, guv,’ the man chuckled, ‘hardly ever come in ’ere well-dressed and wiv any papers, do dey?’