by Roland Perry
The others smiled. Without any discussion, they both knew this dog was the best option they had, and it was their last chance.
Moody and Brooker wandered to another cage, pretending to be interested in an old labrador.
‘That little fella’s not far off!’ Brooker whispered.
‘Body’s not long enough. The snout’s different. Not much, but different. But the ears are not nearly like Horrie’s.’
‘His coat is about right.’
‘We have little choice,’ Moody said, running his hand through his hair. ‘Let’s get a shot of it.’
‘Got a name, has he?’ Brooker said as they walked back to the manager. Moody handed Brooker his camera.
‘Nar, guv. I just call ’em Bark One, Two, Three . . . Dis little bloke is Bark One. Been in ’ere since Christmas Day. Dey often come in den, don’t they? People get careless at Christmas and just leave ’em in parks or streets or any-bloody-where. A bloody disgrace!’
Moody bent down and talked to the dog through the cage’s wire. It approached. It bared its teeth and snarled. Brooker waited until the dog stopped its angry reaction and then took three photos.
‘How old would you say he was?’ Moody asked.
‘Not too old, guv’na. You’ll get a decade outa him, I’d say.’
‘How much is he, mate?’
‘For you, guv’na? Five bob.’
‘That much?’ Moody said, reaching for his wallet.
‘You got a bob discount, dincha? See, Bark One can bite. Only occasionally mind. But he can be unfriendly, awright?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I like him,’ Moody said, keeping his apparent interest to a minimum. He handed the man five shillings. The man put on thick gardening gloves and opened the cage. The dog snapped at him and bit the glove. The man leashed the nervous little creature and said to it: ‘Ain’t you the lucky one, den?’
‘Why is he lucky?’ Moody asked.
‘Bark One has been ’ere for more than two months. Only the holiday break in January has saved the little beggar from a firing squad. They would be coming for ’im and a couple of uvvers on Mondee or Tuesdee.’
Moody and Brooker drove the short distance to Silver Street with the despondent-looking dog on the back seat. It whimpered. The two men talked gently to it. Moody reached the back of his right hand towards it. The dog bit him on the forearm just above the wrist, drawing blood. A few minutes later at their lodging, Moody cleaned the bite and bandaged it. When he buttoned his shirt-sleeve and put on a coat, the bandage was hidden.
‘What are we going to call the vicious little bugger?’ Brooker asked.
‘Horrie, of course!’ Moody said.
‘Sorry, stupid question! It’s just that this one is so temperamentally different to Horrie.’
‘With us, yes, but not anyone in Arab dress.’
‘Good point.’
‘Must have “Horrie” respond to his new name before I hand him over tomorrow.’
26
‘HORRIE’S’ EXECUTION
Moody took the substitute dog to a vet in Rosehill that afternoon. It did not appreciate its examination and managed to bite the gloved vet, Mr Kimber, on the hand and his young female assistant on the forearm.
‘Should be put down for that,’ short, rotund and bespectacled Kimber said as he dressed the wounds.
‘I’m thinking about it.’
‘No, seriously, Mr Moody; has he drawn human blood before?’
‘Once that I know of.’
‘Three bites give them a taste for it. It’s like humans who murder. They often want more.’ When Moody didn’t respond, the vet added, ‘It must be kept off the streets. I can put it down now, easily and quickly. I won’t charge you.’
‘No, I’ll try to set it right.’
The vet gave an ‘as you wish’ shrug and asked Moody to hold the dog while he finished the examination. Moody was relieved to receive a perfect bill of health for the dog. He had this written out for the benefit of the authorities to verify that he had been responsible for a fit and well, rabies-free animal. Even in the short time they had together, the dog had responded a little to Moody’s kindness and manner, especially when he was fed well.
‘At least he has stopped biting the hand that feeds him,’ Brooker observed.
‘For the first, and maybe last time.’
‘They’re not going to put it down, are they? Not with that vet’s report?’
‘I just don’t trust them.’
Moody had a sleepless night and got up on 9 March feeling depressed. He tried telling himself that this was the price that had to be paid for Horrie’s survival. At breakfast, Brooker noticed Moody’s melancholy.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve become attached to the little mutt already?’ he asked, looking around at the dog.
Moody didn’t respond.
‘Look, Moods, you know it’s for the greater good.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Think of it this way, the fella at the pound said this animal was “for the firing squad” on Monday or Tuesday. The vet wanted to kill it off at the surgery. You’ve at least given it a couple of chances of a reprieve.’
‘Won’t help if Mr Wardle puts him down.’
‘Has he replied to your letter?’
‘No. That’s what is making me nervous.’
It was another dry, sultry day and Moody was determined to take the dog in on his own. Brooker wanted to come with him for moral support.
‘No,’ Moody told him, ‘they’ll only become suspicious and you’d be implicated further.’
‘But my picture was in the paper with him!’ Brooker protested.
‘That was a few weeks ago. Circumstances have changed.’
Moody, wearing a suit and tie, asked Brooker to take a photo of him walking to his car with the leashed dog, ‘just for the record.’
‘And maybe posterity,’ Brooker said, securing the shot. Then he hailed a neighbour to take a shot of him and Moody with the dog.
‘Why do you want to be in the shot?’ Moody asked.
‘Solidarity. The Rebels are with you all the way.’
Moody was touched. They shook hands.
*
When Brooker ushered a despondent Moody into the Rebels’ surprise party for him on the night of Monday March 12, there was a real surprise: Horrie. The dog clawed at his thigh. Moody was overwhelmed. He held back tears as first Gill, then Fitzsimmons, Harlor, Shegog and Featherstone pressed forward to shake hands. Horrie had never been more energised. He bounced around the group, more pleased than any of them to be with his ‘family’ again.
With a beer in one hand, Moody shook his head and asked Brooker: ‘Why isn’t he at Cudgewa? I thought he was on his way, or at least there by now!’
‘There was a delay in arranging a lift. I didn’t want to worry you about it. Then I heard most of the boys would be in Sydney by now. So I asked that he be held back.’
‘But . . . that’s so dangerous!’
‘Not now,’ Gill said with a grin, ‘Horrie is dead, remember? Brains blown out courtesy of our compassionate government.’
‘Oh, shit,’ Moody said, ‘don’t bloody remind me!’
Gill raised a glass and pointed to Horrie: ‘To Horrie!’ They all saluted him, and cried in chorus, ‘the Mighty Aussie War Dog!!’ Horrie loved the attention. He barked and trotted around the lounge room, much to the glee of the group.
‘He’s still in danger,’ Moody half-protested.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Gill said, putting an arm around his shoulder, ‘I’ll escort Horrie to Eddie Bennetts’ farm myself.’
‘I want to do it,’ Moody said.
‘You can’t, mate, and you know it. The whole country has seen your photo in all the papers every day for weeks! If you are seen anywhere with Horrie, the game will be up. He’ll really be dead meat.’
‘And you, good Private Moody, Mr AWL, will be in jail,’ Brooker added, tapping him on the chest.
‘You�
�re right,’ Moody conceded, picking up Horrie and cuddling him. ‘You and I won’t be seeing each for a couple of months.’
In a ceremonial act, Horrie was presented with a massive bone, even bigger than the one he had been given in Palestine by the ever-grateful Barry the Butcher. To everyone’s mirth, Horrie could hardly drag it. He saw the joke and was not offended. He just barked and wagged his tail. Then he settled down to gnaw on it where it was, his tail a constant reminder that he was enjoying himself on every imaginable level at this ‘family’ affair.
‘You’ll have to build a huge slit trench for this one, Horrie boy,’ Fitzsimmons said, pretending to attempt to lift the bone as if it weighed a tonne.
The Rebels drank on, fuelled by stories of all their adventures. Someone asked about Murchison. Horrie pricked up those magnificent ears at the mention of his name. He circled the room, looking up at the Rebels.
‘He remembers!’ Shegog said. ‘The little devil remembers!’
‘Yeah well, Murchie made an impression on all of us,’ Brooker said, and then, addressing the others, asked: ‘Anyone heard anything about him?’
‘Last I knew, he was in Java,’ Harlor said. ‘I’ve got a mate in 2/3 who said Murchie landed there with a forward contingent in February ’42. A month later he was listed MIA.’
The room went quiet. Brooker poured himself another beer.
‘I’ll believe Murchie got knocked when someone tells me he witnessed it, not just the government saying he is missing,’ he said. ‘I’d want to know that his body was identified properly. Otherwise I’ll never believe it. Murchie is a survivor. And he is just the type to disappear and start a new life somewhere.’
‘Thousands of blokes are missing,’ Fitzsimmons said.
‘Thousands?’ Gill said. ‘You mean tens of thousands.’
Thoughts about Murchison’s fate put the party in a sombre mood for a while. They drank on into the early hours of the next morning. Moody’s sense of guilt about the execution of the substitute dog was temporarily salved, especially when they all agreed with Brooker’s dictum: ‘It was for the greater good, so that Horrie, who saved every one of us, could be an Aussie dog!’
Brooker pointed to Horrie, who sat wagging his tail. His ears were erect for a moment in a way chillingly yet wonderfully familiar to them all. ‘To Horrie and a long, happy life as an Aussie dog! To Horrie!!’
The Rebels raised their glasses and responded in loud chorus: ‘To Horrie!!’
27
HOAX OF THE CENTURY
Ion Idriess was sympathetic when Moody rang to tell him that ‘Horrie’ had been put down. But before the conversation was over, he was whipping Moody into action to take advantage of the incident. Everyone, every institution and the press had to be galvanised for a mass protest. Events began to unfold more or less as Idriess, the book’s publisher and Moody planned. Moody, who had been at least an amateur actor of some accomplishment over his handling of Horrie, went along with the campaign of protest for ‘the shameful putting down of an innocent war hero.’
Idriess wrote a poignant epitaph in his book, Horrie the Wog Dog, which was based loosely on Moody’s reconstructed dairies and recollections:
Well, Horrie little fellow, your reward was death.
You who deserved a nation’s plaudits, sleep in peace.
Among Australia’s war heroes, we shall remember you.
The author was never to know that he too had been deceived in the interests of Horrie’s survival.
The day after the substitute dog’s extermination, the director from the Health Department, Wardle, became another victim of the Horrie hoax. He did not even bother to sign a reply to Moody. But he realised he had opened a Pandora’s box of problems. He passed the issue higher and an indirect letter of response was written on Tuesday 13 March by J. H. L. Cumpston, the Director-General of Health, on behalf of the Commonwealth Minister for Health. They were further removed from the detail of the Horrie story, and on advice sided with Wardle’s decision. Thus the deception over Horrie now reached into the highest political offices of the land, including that of the Prime Minister, John Curtin, whose huge in-box carried letters from Moody and scores of others concerning the dog. He replied to some, saying he could do nothing. Questions were asked in the House of Representatives concerning the ‘Horrie tragedy’ and members of parliament, responding to anger from their constituents, continued to pressure the government.
On 14 March, as directed and dictated by Idriess, Brooker wrote a letter to Sydney’s Daily Mirror newspaper:
As the Sergeant of the Platoon of which ‘Horrie’ was a faithful cobber, I would like to express my sentiments regarding the callous way in which he was done to death. I can scarcely believe that such inhumanity exists in the world, least of all in a country where we boast of our glorious Freedom, (?) and sense of fair play. Realising that space is limited, I am unable to write as my indignation and horror urge me to do, but I hope from the bottom of my heart that those who directed this wanton destruction of a famous and lovable animal spend the remainder of their days as sleeplessly as has been my lot since the passing of my well loved pal.
Faithfully yours
R Brooker.
The press then went into overdrive in milking the ‘tragic tale’ of Horrie’s execution, supported, as Wardle predicted, by the World League for the Protection of Animals, the RSL and many other interested parties. Moody and Brooker organised 6th Division to carry out a funeral for the dog, although there was no body in the coffin. Quarantine had refused to hand it over, saying it had to be incinerated. The press covered the funeral.
Moody gambled on releasing the photo to the press of him walking with the substitute dog on the morning he took it to the Quarantine Station. Gill and Brooker worried that someone would pick the differences in the two dogs.
‘No, it’ll be okay,’ Moody assured them, ‘the dog is only a small part of the shot. You’d have to know what to look for. Besides, we’ve created an illusion. Everyone believes Horrie was executed.’
Moody had the difficult task of writing to his father, telling him of ‘Horrie’s’ demise. He made several attempts, and it gave him more than an inkling of the depth of the deception he was creating. His final draft was crisp and brief. Henry was distressed when he received it. He collected himself and replied:
I know by my own feelings just how you feel over this business, but remember Jim that time heals most things and do not do anything rash in the meantime . . . I have been inundated with telephone calls, some of them trunk line calls from servicemen both AIF and RAAF, and many from chaps I have never heard of before, and also newspaper reporters. The outrage [over the dog’s killing] with all its contemptible treachery and cunning has caused some considerable stir here . . . Whatever happens [with protests] Jim, I want you to keep away from any active part in it. You have nothing to blame yourself for. You did a splendid job for the little dog while he was alive . . . No doubt you will be a marked man for some time and if any lawlessness occurred you would probably be framed for it.
Henry had remained in control in the letter but despite his advice to his son, could not resist writing a protest letter himself to the Melbourne’s Sun that concluded: ‘It seemed a senseless, malicious act to kill a harmless animal which brought so much joy to our boys.’
Moody was depressed reading his father’s reply to him and the letter to the paper. He felt more guilt for deceiving his father than anyone else but did not have time to dwell on it, such was the ongoing attention on the story. Articles and features continued to appear and the focus of the nation was on the story. It was a tabloid dream for most editors. Sydney’s Daily Mirror ran it from every possible angle, including, for the sake of balance, the view of Wardle and his department. Wardle fell into the trap of defending his position by saying that he was making an example of the animal and its illegal entry, even when it was admitted that the dog in question was in perfect condition. This ran contrary to the much-vaunted Australian
philosophy of a ‘fair go.’
Wardle also tried to justify his decision in letters to key government and military officials. Typical was one written to Lieutenant-Colonel K. S. McIntosh in which he noted that:
During March and April [1942] there were 19 vessels carrying troops and on which were animal mascots, mainly dogs. 21 dogs, 17 monkeys, 1 cat, 1 rabbit, 1 pigeon, 1 duck, 3 squirrels and 1 mongoose were destroyed; so it is quite possible that a small number of animals were surreptitiously landed . . . Since July 1942, when the worst of the troop movements were over, many animals were destroyed or died on overseas ships at Australian ports; some were seized, others destroyed at the request of Masters, who were not prepared to enter into bonds for the security of the animals. They included: 5 cattle; 45 sheep; 14 pigs; 9 goats; 185 dogs; 136 cats; 142 birds and 18 miscellaneous animals.
Just to show that he was a proud bureaucrat doing his diligent duty, he concluded the letter with: ‘You will see from this that our Quarantine Officers are on the job.’
Wardle continued, perhaps deliberately, to misconstrue Horrie being called a ‘Wog Dog,’ as if this implied he had disease and not the fact that it was an Australian colloquial expression for Middle Easteners.
Wardle would have escaped vilification if Horrie had not had such a remarkable war record in army service. For the sake of bureaucratic intransigence, he misjudged public reaction. His stubborn adherence to understandable, necessary ‘regulations’ overruled a rational, fair and appropriate response to an individual case of overwhelming merit. Had Wardle served in war, or done a minimum of homework on the case, he would have been aware of Horrie’s importance to the thousand fighting men of the 2/1 Machine Gun Battalion. He had gone after Horrie and Moody with a fervour only outweighed by the opprobrium heaped upon him for his decision. Wardle released a statement that said: ‘It is directed that the Deputy-Crown Solicitor should be consulted with reference to launching a prosecution against the person who illegally imported the dog. Approval has been obtained to prosecute.’
But public pressure was so strong that no moves were made against Moody or any of the Rebels. Yet attacks on Wardle stepped up in outbursts in letters to him and the press, some which threatened physical violence. One typical message, unsigned but for a serviceman’s serial number—NX31236—said: ‘a few of us would like to see the photo of the one responsible for this masterpiece of red tape [over the dog’s killing].’