by Roland Perry
‘I’ll meet you jokers at the Greek place tonight as planned,’ Shanahan said.
Shanahan joined Cath Phelan and they walked to her car, a sable-coloured Rolls Royce.
‘Nice car,’ he remarked. ‘How do you get this?’
‘Oh Bob—my fiancé—is well connected. There are plenty of officers running around in them. It’s on loan from the British army.’
‘Nice loan.’
‘I told him I’d move to London or Paris for the rest of the war. Bob got it for me to keep me from getting bored.’ She laughed. ‘But I am still bored.’
Shanahan noticed three dolls sitting in the back seat like silent children.
‘Oh, he got me them too,’ she said when she saw him looking at them.
‘He bought you dolls?’
‘I collect them. He knows I love them.’
They drove on in silence for a few kilometres. A goat herder slowed them to a stop as he shepherded his animals across the dirt road.
‘You used to box,’ Phelan said.
‘Amateur. How did you know?’
‘You won some championship or other?’ she asked, ignoring his question.
‘A couple.’
‘My father used to box. Said you were the best in the state. You didn’t ever lose, if I recall.’
Shanahan didn’t respond. Phelan was finding it heavy going. She persisted: ‘What made you volunteer?’
‘I’d been in the infantry and Light Horse for nearly thirty years. So many of my mates were going in . . .’
‘But you’re not that young.’
‘No,’ he said, smiling genuinely for the first time. ‘I’ll be forty-six soon.’
‘When?’
‘March thirty.’
‘That’s tomorrow! Is that why you’re going into Cairo? To celebrate?’
Shanahan shrugged. ‘My cobbers talked me into it.’
‘You should have fun—you don’t know when . . .’
He glanced at her.
‘Shouldn’t have said that,’ she said. ‘You were lucky to survive Gallipoli.’
‘Plenty didn’t,’ he said softly.
She was distracted by an army truck rumbling behind them. It flashed its lights.
‘Let ’em by,’ Shanahan said, looking back.
‘No, bugger them!’ Phelan built up speed. Dust enveloped the car, making visibility poor, but she continued to accelerate. They were soon well clear. Phelan kept up the speed.
‘Might as well get there in time for dinner . . . and champagne!’
Shanahan didn’t react.
‘C’mon, you’ve got to celebrate with champagne,’ she urged. ‘Cairo’s swimming in it!’
‘Don’t drink.’
‘What, never? Even on your birthday?’
Shanahan didn’t respond. Phelan went to say something but checked herself. There was another long lull as the Rolls purred on its way. Shanahan slumped in his seat and pushed his slouch hat over his face. He was soon snoring. After an hour he sat up, blinked and said: ‘Sorry. Been a long day. Needed a catnap.’
She pointed to the left. ‘See those dark shapes?’
‘Pyramids,’ Shanahan said, suddenly animated. ‘Love them, fascinating.’
‘How were they built and who built them, do you think?
Were they astronomic observatories? Places of cult worship?’
‘Visitors from outer space built them.’
‘You believe that?’
‘More fun if they did.’
She laughed. Perhaps there was humour embedded somewhere, she thought. Or maybe his every utterance was serious.
‘You didn’t really say why you volunteered,’ she prompted.
He remained silent so long she wondered if she was being ignored.
‘It wasn’t one thing,’ he said finally. ‘A few issues flowed together. I wasn’t getting any younger. I’m a carpenter, among other things. Never going to earn enough to travel.’ He brightened, adding, ‘Not to see the pyramids and all this beautiful sand.’
Phelan laughed. ‘So, travel . . .’ she pressed.
‘It was a part of it. Like I said, some mates were going. I had all that training, and it wasn’t going to be a pissy little show.’
‘Like the Boer War?’
‘Right.’
‘You wanted to help save the Empire?’
He shrugged and replied: ‘I believe in what Brigadier Monash said. He is the most brilliant commander in our entire Anzac force. He gave a lecture at Anzac Cove. His parents were German Jews. He’s been to Germany. He reckoned it boiled down to the world accepting military dictatorship or democracy. If the Germans win, they will destroy democracy everywhere. Monash says British dominions will become German colonies. They will want our mineral wealth. That’s why we must be here, must contribute, must fight.’
This loquacious outburst was even more encouraging for Cath Phelan. There was something working very well inside that handsome head, she thought. After watching him handle Bill so patiently, skilfully and thoughtfully, she felt he also had to have something different in his make-up, something admirable; perhaps, at least, something compassionate.
They arrived at the Savoy at 9.30 pm. A military policeman parked the car. Phelan asked Shanahan to join her for dinner.
‘No, thank you,’ he said.
‘Going to meet your friends?’
‘I did promise them.’
‘Will you be in Cairo again soon?’
‘In a week. Got more leave. Going to have another crack at Bill at Moascar and then come here for two nights.’
‘Could we have dinner then?’
He considered her, making rare eye contact, and said: ‘Yeah, why not? It would be good.’
They shook hands. Phelan kissed him on the cheek. Shanahan moved off into the humid Cairo night.
12
A TERM OF
ENDEARMENT
There was more than just genuine affection in Shanahan’s mind in his reacquaintance with Bill. Like all the troopers, he wanted the best horse possible for what lay ahead: battles in the desert under the most trying conditions imaginable. The Walers were doing well but they had not been tested in the heat of conflict, nor had they been extended on the sort of rides—sometimes seventy to eighty kilometres in a day—they would be required to do in the dry, hot desert. The contention from everyone in the British command was that the camels would always be a better bet on the long marches. They could go days with little or no water. They had been bred in the desert for thousands of years. The Walers had been bred into semi-desert or arid regions of Australia for barely a century. Yet with all that, almost all troopers opted for the Light Horse regiments rather than the camel units. The reason was simple. The troopers to a man wanted to experience the charge. They could do this on camels but not at the same speed or with the same chance of success. The Arabs used camels to charge at the Turks or at each other in tribal wars, but there were rarely more than fifty in an attack, and usually it was in an ambush. The Anzac commanders and troopers had visions of attacks by several regiments— up to 1000 horsemen—in mighty onslaughts that would overwhelm the enemy and win major battles.
Shanahan saw the huge potential in Bill and his bastardry. His courage was evident in all circumstances. He was afraid of no man and no man was his master. His reaction when fired on and hit twice on the despatch run at Gallipoli had demonstrated a will to ride on even though disabled. He was also stronger than any other of the 200,000 animals that would pass through the British horse depots on the Western Front and in the Middle East. He had been loaded with more than 400 kilograms and it made little difference to his capacity to plough his way along a track, up a gully, or down a ravine. Endurance was a further asset. He also had remarkable speed over long distances. His seven-kilometre gallop was recorded as the fastest time by any horse in eight months of ‘runs’, and this was despite being hit and interrupted by his desire to remove his rider. Admittedly, he did not have the 80-kilogram Captain Bickworth fo
r much more than a mile (1600 metres). But Swifty Thoms clocked his first 3200 metres (two miles) at just under four minutes, which he reckoned was ‘bloody good’ considering he was carrying a bigger than average man on his back for about half that distance before he ‘shed him like a lizard’s skin’. ‘The Bastard wouldn’t win a Melbourne Cup,’ Thoms added, ‘but he’d give any horse alive a run for his money over twice that distance [four miles].’
Spirit, intelligence, durability and strength—these factors drew Shanahan to the horse. He and thousands of troopers like him did not have to reflect on the value of a proficient animal to their existence in Australia. It was a given. They were essential for survival in the bush. They were still the main means of travel, despite the development of trains and automobiles. In the even harsher climate of the Middle East, and in battle conditions, they were even more valuable.
Without access to intelligence coming into the British Cairo spy centre known as the ‘Arab Bureau’, Shanahan and his men were sure the Turks would be coming at the British forces across the Sinai. The Turks had been victorious at Gallipoli. In March 1916 they had defeated the British again in Iraq in a battle over its central province. The Ottoman (Turkish) Empire may have been on the wane in Europe, but its leaders were determined to hold on to its 400-year dominance of the Middle East. The Turks were confident, even justifiably cocky, after drubbing the British Empire twice. They were not going to stop. Egypt, which was controlled by the British, was now in their sights. Like the troopers in the field, most observers, including the British spies at the Arab Bureau, believed it was only a matter of time before they sent a big army into the Sinai. The Turkish aim would be to smash its opposing empire for a third successive time, perhaps inside a year.
Every trooper, from Harry Chauvel down to the lowliest private, wanted revenge against the Turks, but it wasn’t something spoken with vehemence around campfires at night. Any chat in relation to Gallipoli consisted of grumbles about ‘not finishing the job’, or the fact that so many mates had been left in makeshift graves when the rest evacuated. There were always complaints about the officers, but more vitriol and resentment were directed at the British generals and government for the folly of attacking Turkey with such a poor plan in the first place. Yet unspoken was the feeling that the regrouped Anzac force, which had licked its wounds and re-energised, would like to lash out against the enemy in an effort to at least square the battle ledger. They believed they would acquit themselves far better with what they saw as their major asset in any conflict: their mounts. Yet belief was one thing, reality another. The Walers had yet to be tested under battle conditions in this conflict. Although there was some indication of potential success from their efforts in the Boer War, South Africa was not a desert country.
A problem for the British High Command was judging when a mass Turkish attack on Egypt would occur. The enemy would take their time with this, refitting and rebuilding their own victorious forces. They were not willing to use the three armies already stationed in the Middle East, one in Palestine, another in Jordan, and a third stationed along the Hejaz railway, which ran from northern Palestine to deep into Arabia. The Turks and their German alliance commanders were nervous about shifting these forces south and east just yet. Better, they thought, to rebuild the army that had defended Gallipoli so well and send it on the mission to take Egypt. The Germans and Turks were not going to pass on the chance to knock the British out of the Middle East forever, but they did not wish to make the same mistakes the British had in invading Gallipoli. They would be well-equipped and prepared for protracted battles.
The Turkish delay in sending a force into Egypt in 1916 was not a tactical move, but it had the effect of destabilising the British forces as they waited impatiently for battle. The interlude caused a dangerous lull in defensive thinking. Some of the British forces became slack, which made them vulnerable to sporadic attacks by Turkish patrols seeping stealthily into the Sinai from Palestine where the two enemy armies were based.
Shanahan visited the Moascar depot a week after the rodeo show and asked for Bill again. It was late afternoon. He went through the same routine and build-up for half an hour before mounting the horse a second time. Paterson joined Sutherland to watch once more from just outside their ‘office’ tent.
‘He has asked to take him on a ride,’ Sutherland said.
‘Hmm. I want to see this.’
A trainer, one of a hundred who had been in the yard watching Shanahan exercising Bill, opened the gate and Bill trotted out. Shanahan built him slowly to a gallop. Paterson and Sutherland rushed in to retrieve their binoculars. They hurried to the depot entrance with the group of trainers, who also watched, almost in silence.
Shanahan pushed Bill to a fair clip without letting him do his headlong charge that had ended badly for Captain Bickworth and painfully for trooper Henderson. About 700 metres into the ride, Bill slowed down himself. Shanahan knew this was the precursor to an attempt to unseat him. Bill did as expected with an upward thrust of his rump and back legs. Shanahan braced without losing control. It seemed nothing like the force Bill had generated with the rodeo riders or Bickworth. Shanahan waited for a second buck and it came with a fraction more vigour, but again, from atop the horse it seemed nothing like his previous displays. Then came a third and fourth ‘jump’ that seemed more playful than an angry attempt to throw him off. Shanahan patted the horse’s neck and he settled into a steady gallop again in a circle of about two kilometres into the desert and then back to the depot.
He trotted into the grounds where hundreds of trainers and depot employees had gathered. They applauded. In their business a wild one like Bill was the ultimate conquest.
Paterson reached up and shook Shanahan’s hand. ‘Wonders never cease,’ he said. ‘Never thought I’d see Bill so compliant.’
‘Still needs work,’ Shanahan commented, ‘but I reckon he’ll be ready for service in a couple of weeks.’
‘You’ve tamed the bastard.’ Paterson grinned and added, ‘You even got me turning his name into a term of endearment—almost! Never thought I’d say that after he bit a piece out of Khartoum’s head!’
‘Then I can take him? I’d be honoured.’
‘No, you can’t.’ A sly smile creased Paterson’s rugged features. ‘Unless you can arrange a dinner for me with the magnificent Cath Phelan—the woman you left with last time.’
‘You haven’t tried asking her yourself?’
‘Oh yes I have. But she sort of deflects the request.’
Shanahan eyed Paterson for several seconds. ‘Can’t do that, sorry,’ he said.
‘Pity. No dinner, no horse.’
‘It is a pity, really,’ Shanahan said as he dismounted. ‘More than you know.’
‘Why?’ Banjo asked, intrigued.
‘She likes you. Loves your ballads. We discussed you on the ride to Cairo.’ Shanahan paused and added, ‘I’m sure you’ll come up again tonight over dinner.’
‘You serious, Major? She has never even mentioned my writing to me.’
‘She can recite every verse of “The Man From Snowy River”.’
‘She hardly said a word to me at the party last week!’
‘Despite appearances, she’s quite shy. Needs a few drinks to get her talking.’
Normally Shanahan was not big on eye contact unless reprimanding one of his squadron troopers, but now he studied Paterson’s every twitch as if reading him. ‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said in a generous tone, ‘if you let me have young Jackie Mullagh and Bill, I’ll arrange that dinner with Cath. And it will be on me.’
‘You are joking! He’s our best trainer!’
‘Only want to second him for six months, to help my squadron’s mounts get right up to standard.’
‘Three months.’
‘Five.’
‘Done,’ said Paterson, grinning.
Bill was taken to his corral, but he suddenly broke free from the trainer and trotted up behind Shanahan.
Shanahan turned slowly to face Bill and stood his ground. The horse stopped close to him and nudged his shoulder, firmly but without aggression.
‘Aha!’ Shanahan said. ‘You want a reward.’ The horse nudged him again. Shanahan reached down to his backpack and pulled out several licorice sweets.
‘I guess it might be a reward this time,’ he said as Bill devoured the sweets, ‘you big bloody kid!’
The prim Savoy waiter poured the champagne into Cath Phelan’s glass and walked away. The dining room, dominated by white walls, ceiling and tablecloths, was crowded with British officers and a few Australians. Phelan, in a black dress with a white-brimmed hat and matching white shoes and handbag, was one of four women in the room, and the best dressed. Many heads had turned when she and Shanahan walked in and when they were seated. Several men kept glancing at her.
‘You are very popular,’ Shanahan observed.
‘Ah well, you get used to it here. European, upright, breathing and female.’ She smiled. ‘I qualify on all counts. Oh, and I’m more than six feet in high heels.’
‘And you wear that perfume . . .’
‘You like it?’ Phelan asked with wide grin.
‘It’s . . .’ Shanahan groped for a description.
‘You don’t like it?’
Shanahan shrugged. ‘Didn’t say that,’ he said cautiously. ‘I will say my olfactories have been alerted.’
‘Well I love it! It’s French. Bob got it for me in Paris: “La Passionata”. He loves it. It may be a bit powerful for you.’
‘But not for Banjo Paterson.’
Phelan frowned. ‘What?’
‘He is very keen on you.’
‘Is he? He’s a nice man. A very talented, interesting man.’
She clinked her glass with his. Shanahan had water.
‘So,’ she said eagerly, ‘how did it go? Have you won “the Bastard”?’
‘It went well. Rode him out for a mile or so. No problem.’
‘Great!’ She raised her glass again. ‘To Bill the Bastard!’ It was loud enough for more heads to turn. ‘So Banjo has let him go to you?’