Jim Moody parked his car near Sydney’s Quarantine Station, in the inner west suburb of Abbotsford. It was 11 a.m. on Friday, 9 March 1945. The life he had been leading over five years of war service in several theatres north and south of the globe had etched itself into his suntanned features. For someone aged 33, he had a drawn if not haggard expression, accentuated by a black moustache. Moody began walking with a little white terrier-cross on a leash. It was hot. He felt like a beer before, under strict government orders, he faced the moment of handing the dog over to the Quarantine Station. He entered a dimly lit pub, featuring dilapidated pictures of footballers and beer advertisements on the walls. Moody sat at the bar under one uncertain roof fan that battled the humidity. Three stools away was a huge, sweating man wearing a singlet, shorts and sandals. His behind was so big that it seemed to consume the seat. The man turned to scowl at his unwanted ‘companion’ at this drinking hour reserved for alcoholics. Moody noticed two scars: one on the man-mountain’s right shoulder and the other on his right arm. Then he recognised the outsized, twisted pug’s nose. At that moment the big man did a double-take, looking down at the dog sitting on the sawdust covered tiles and then at Moody.
‘Jesus!’ Ray Wallace said. ‘You’re Jim bloody Moody! You saved my life in Jerusalem!’
They reached across and shook hands.
‘Is that Horrie?’ Wallace asked with a frown.
‘Yep.’
‘He looks older.’
‘He is a few years older than when you met him in ’42.’
Wallace turned to the young barman. ‘A beer for this man and a dish of milk for the dog.’
‘We don’t serve dogs, Ray.’
‘You bloodiwell do this one!’ Wallace snapped. Pointing down, he added, ‘This is Horrie. He’s famous!’
The barman put down the glass he was drying and peered over the bar.
‘Yeah, I’ve seen him in the papers!’ the barman said. ‘Wish I had my camera!’
‘Just worry about the beer and milk, mate,’ Wallace reminded him before turning to Moody, and adding in admiration, ‘I’ll never forget that chair you smashed on that bloke’s back! His knife was aimed straight at my guts. Then crash! Down he went, flat as a pancake and out like a light! All I got was a cut on the shoulder.’
They chatted for a while about their war experiences. One beer became three. Moody looked at his watch.
‘Better be off, mate,’ he said.
‘One other thing,’ Wallace said, his ruddy face brightening like a beetroot. ‘I got off with one of the nurses at that Jerusalem hospital you took me to after the fight.’
‘Which one?’
‘Can’t remember her name.’
‘Bonnie?’
‘Yeah, that’s it, Bonnie.’
Moody’s heart sank. Bonnie was an attractive red-headed woman who, the night before the chair-smashing incident, had rejected his overtures in a Haifa hotel.
‘Jeez she was great!’ Wallace chuckled. ‘Nursed me beautiful!’
Moody winced a smile and felt a little ill. It wasn’t the sort of demoralising news he could cope with at that moment.
‘Where you off to, Dig?’ Wallace asked.
‘Got to see a man about a dog.’
*
Mr John King, the very tall, skeletally thin man at the white-painted, cold front office of the Abbotsford Quarantine Station, was firm but polite in dealing with the handover of the dog.
‘What do you plan to do with it?’ Moody asked as he bent down to pat the dog.
‘That’s up to Mr Wardle, the Director of Hygiene,’ King said, bending his hunched shoulders forward to glance at a photo of Horrie with Moody in the Daily Mirror and then back at the dog.
‘I wrote to him but he did not reply,’ Moody said.
‘Mr Wardle will reply, I assure you. He is a very efficient director.’
Moody was nervous. He filled his pipe and lit it.
‘When will I know his . . . er, decision on . . . er . . . Horrie?’ he asked.
‘You’ll have 24 hours notice if he . . . um . . . decides to dispose of the doggie. Otherwise he will be quarantined for several weeks.’
The words chilled Moody.
‘Won’t make a decision today, will he?’
‘Oh, good heavens, no. He plays golf late on Friday afternoon. He won’t even consider the case until Monday.’
‘Are you open Sunday?’
‘Yes, 11 a.m. until 5 p.m.’
‘I’ll be in to see Horrie then,’ Moody said, looking down at the dog. It had a baleful expression. His tail wagged for a second or two but stopped when he saw Moody striding off. Moody went to another pub, smoked his pipe and had more beers alone before driving home to his temporary postwar lodging in St Peters, in south-west Sydney.
*
At about 5 p.m. King reached Wardle in Canberra after several failed phone calls.
‘Make it quick,’ Wardle said, ‘I’ve got golf!’
‘Yes, sir . . . er . . . we have Horrie.’
‘Good, good.’
‘Mr Moody wanted to know if you were going to reply to his letter.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Wardle groaned. ‘I’ll make sure he receives a reply, Monday, no Tuesday, the day after you have put it down.’
‘You wish it destroyed?’
‘Yes, yes, I most certainly do. Only inform Moody a few minutes before it’s done. I don’t want him creating a protest noise with the press, or any ratbags such as the World League for the Protection of Animals that may try to hold up proceedings. We always have trouble from those do-gooders.’
‘Mr Moody brought with him a vet’s report saying the doggie was in very good condition. No sign of any disease.’
‘Probably a fake. Moody is a slippery customer. Just think of how he transported that animal in North Africa, Greece, Crete, Palestine and Syria, and then sneaked it into Australia; an animal that could be infected with some Eastern disease. Even his name, Horrie the “Wog” Dog, should tell you something. “Wog”—illnesses . . . This animal may be full of diseases we don’t even know about!’
‘But I rang the vet—a Mr Kimber of Swan Street, Rosehill—who wrote the report. It’s authentic.’
‘I really don’t care, King,’ Wardle said, irritated. ‘Must be made an example of. Can’t have any soldiers smuggling pets into our country. Rabies kills, as you well know.’
‘So, we are to do this for reasons other than the doggie’s condition?’ King asked but Wardle had already rung off. He was late for his game.
*
Moody turned up on Sunday, 11 March, at Abbotsford to see the dog and found Horrie sleeping in a cage. A bowl of meat sat untouched inside the door of the cage.
‘He sleeps a lot,’ King said, ‘and he is off his food. Is he always like this?’
‘Not really,’ Moody replied carefully, ‘but being separated from me can cause him some anxiety.’ He noticed King had a bandaged right hand. ‘Did Horrie do that?’
‘Yes. He can be vicious. I’m very pleased he doesn’t have rabies. You know that we recommend that dogs should be put down if they draw blood?’
‘I know that. But you must remember, Mr King, that this is a war dog. He saw quite a bit of action.’
Moody changed the subject and asked: ‘Have you heard from Wardle?’
‘No,’ King lied, ‘I still don’t know what he wants to do.’ Seeing Moody’s concern he added, ‘If it was up to me, sir, I would not put him down, at least not for the way he entered the country. He is in good condition. You’ve looked after him well. The only problem now with letting him live is that other servicemen may be encouraged to break the law.’
The dog woke up and took in Moody. His tail wagged.
‘I’ll try to feed him,’ Moody said. King nodded. Moody opened the cage door and beckoned the dog. He rolled off his mat and sauntered over to him, his eyes still sorrowful. Moody patted him and stroked his back. The dog seemed to relax. Moody offered him a piece of the meat.
‘What is this?’ Moody asked King. ‘Kangaroo meat?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s probably never had it.’
The dog sniffed the piece, looked at Moody as if in two minds over whether to bite him or take the food, and then opted for the food. Moody tried to induce him to eat the rest by himself but the dog would only be handfed, which was a delicate business.
‘He certainly trusts you,’ King said.
‘Yeah, well, we’ve been on a long journey, haven’t we, Horrie?’
When the dog had eaten several portions, Moody again patted and stroked it, then stepped out of the cage. The dog whimpered. Moody felt uncomfortable.
‘So when will you let me know?’ he asked, struggling with his emotions.
‘As I told you on Friday, soon as we know Mr Wardle’s decision.’
Moody took one last glance at the dog and left. He would never forget that look of qualified trust, of hope, of despair, of a life poorly treated. Moody wanted a drink to drown his sorrows but had to wait until he was back at St Peters. Over a beer on the back porch, the consoling former sergeant of his platoon, Roy Brooker, told him: ‘Got some good news. Your best mate Gillie is back tomorrow. We can have a nice old reunion of at least some of the Signals lads. I’m told just about all the boys will be back in town soon.’ This brightened Moody a fraction but he had a restless night worrying about the quarantined dog and its fate.
At 3.55 p.m. on Monday, 12 March, Moody received a call from King: ‘I have bad news, Mr Moody. Under Quarantine Regulation Number 50, your doggie is to be put down at 4 p.m.’ Moody looked at his watch.
‘You’ve given me five minutes notice!’ Moody roared down the phone. ‘You said I’d have a day . . . !’
‘I am sorry about this, I really am, but it was not my decision. Good day, sir.’
*
Brooker took Moody to the pub, where they sat drinking, smoking and reminiscing for several hours. They drove into Sydney’s Chinatown for a meal, and then returned to St Peters at about 9 p.m. Brooker opened the door and ushered him into the lounge, saying, ‘Another beer, mate?’
‘No, I’m pretty shick—’ Moody said as Brooker switched on the light. Moody shook his head in disbelief as members of the close-knit Signals group of the 2nd AIF’s 1st Machine Gun Battalion—‘the Rebels’—pressed forward cheering and yelling, ‘Surprise!’
It was the beginning of an all-night party. To understand why these recent war veterans celebrated the death of an innocent little dog, we must go back four years to a remote North African desert during World War II.