Horrie was roaming around the Ikingi camp at breakfast time visiting his many friends, for almost the entire battalion had taken to this most outstanding little character. But there was always the odd soldier who was indifferent to pets, and a couple who were hostile. One was Sergeant Ross ‘Gerry’ Fitzgerald, the most hated man at Ikingi, who was only tolerated by a few cowering sycophants from his platoon, who laughed along with his every mindless, sneering aside. He liked to brawl and was known for his bullying, especially of the rank and file, whom he delighted in attacking for the smallest detail, especially if they refused to drink with him after hours. Fitzgerald was a sly grogger through the day and by the end of daylight, he was often morose and ready for a ‘top up’ with the nearest soldier who dared to be near him. This particular morning, Horrie innocently padded his way into Fitzgerald’s tent. He approached the grunting, snoring man on his bunk and tried to lick his face. The big man awoke to the saliva-filled passion, swung off the bunk swearing and kicking at Horrie. The dog sidestepped him but was cornered. Fitzgerald lashed at him again, this time connecting with the dog’s upper left leg. Horrie let out a yelp, and scrambled for the tent flap with Fitzgerald stumbling after him trying to kick him again.
At that moment, a hung-over Murchison, his arm slung over Fitzsimmons’ shoulder, returned from Alexandria. After a night of carousing, they had hitched a truck ride back to camp at dawn. They saw a limping Horrie scuttle from the tent, with Fitzgerald following and yelling abuse: ‘Fuckin’ little wog dog! Next time I’ll fuckin’ kick you to death!!’
Fitzgerald wandered back into his tent. Murchison was intent on taking the big man on, but was restrained by Fitzsimmons, just as Moody and Brooker came out of the Rebels’ tent. Moody saw the forlorn, limping Horrie and asked what had happened. The four of them inspected the dog’s leg. It already had swelling, but it was pronounced ‘unbroken.’ Murchison, irritable and ready for action, had to be physically restrained by the other three, who dragged him back to their tent. They settled him down while Featherstone and Brooker bathed the sorry-looking Horrie and applied a bandage to his bruised leg. He loved the attention but refused to cheer up, his little tail motionless. Brooker surmised that Horrie knew the attention would not be so generous if he was his usual cheerful self.
‘If you take that bastard Gerry on,’ Moody said to Murchison, ‘that will be the end of Horrie. We’ll have to let him go.’
‘Yeah, worse,’ Fitzsimmons added, ‘that ugly bugger will shoot him, I swear!’
‘I want to bash his head in!’ Murchison said.
‘Sober up, kid,’ Moody said. ‘You’d be on a serious charge for tackling Gerry. He’s a sergeant-of-the-guard, you know. Just about the last of the NCOs who you could cross that way. There’d be hell to pay.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Gordie said, interested enough to look up from the radio set he was working on. ‘Snotty Johns happened to mention to someone that Gerry had bad breath. Gerry found out and threw him in the brig for a week. The bastard has rotten BO as well, but please don’t let him know I said so!’
‘Gerry should be nicknamed Fitzeverything,’ Fitzsimmons said.
‘Meaning?’ Moody asked.
‘Fitz means “the bastard of.”’ ‘So your antecedents somewhere in the past must have branched off as “the bastard of Simon” or a name like that?’
‘Yes, but I prefer it came from Fits of laughter.’
The Rebels had a conference. Moody thought it was his responsibility to ‘square off’ for Horrie. Some suggestions, such as two of them jumping him in the latrine, were rejected.
‘Gotta be done at night so he can’t recognise the man committing the assault,’ Brooker suggested.
Moody thought while the others argued, then he said: ‘Got it! We find out when he is next on guard duty at night. Then we hit him.’ He looked up at all the expectant faces. ‘I mean, I’ll hit him.’
‘You?’ Murchison said with a trace of disdain. ‘I admire your pluck, cobber, but Gerry’s about a head taller.’
‘And nearly twice as heavy!’ Shegog added as he set up his easel for his portrait painting. ‘He’s a brute. You can’t beat him in a fight.’
‘Correct,’ Moody said, ‘but this must not be a fight. He must be hit once, maybe twice, by surprise in the dark.’
The others were stunned by his clinical precision, and determination.
After a prolonged silence, Featherstone asked: ‘Won’t he recognise you even at night?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Moody with a sly grin. ‘He’s a vain prick. He can’t see too well without his glasses. I’m told the bully-boy sometimes doesn’t wear them, especially in pitch black when you often can’t see out here anyway.’
Two nights later, the word circulated that Fitzgerald would be in command of guard duty at the isolated main guard post some 50 metres from the camp. The area was open to anyone straying into the camp and had attracted Arabs who couldn’t resist stealing. In centuries-old desert tribal law this could result in a severe penalty, even death. But foreigners were considered fair game for pilfering. The Arabs were rarely deterred by the presence of guards at the perimeter of the widespread camp of tents, and youths and young boys in particular were cunning and audacious in slipping past guards by day and night.
Moody slipped out of the Rebels’ tent just before 2 a.m. and walked a wide circuit of the tents. He approached the main guard-house, which was a makeshift hut with a corrugated iron roof. Moody pulled on a black face mask and crept to within 30 metres of the hut. At 2 a.m., he could just make out someone, probably Fitzgerald, leaving the main guard-house with a torch for his ritual visit to all the camps’ six outer-lying posts, which were spaced about 50 metres apart. Moody, heart pounding, followed the source of the bobbing light and moved up to within a few metres of the striding Fitzgerald, who stopped when he thought he heard movement. He pointed his torch. Its light fell a few metres from Moody, who had to be sure this was the target he was aiming at.
‘Who goes there?’ Moody said in a rumbling voice, disguising his own.
‘The sergeant-of-the-guard!’ Fitzgerald replied, adjusting his glasses and reaching for a holstered revolver.
‘Sergeant Fitzgerald?’ Moody asked.
‘Yes!’
Moody rushed forward and from a side-on position swung his right fist hard at the big man’s jaw. Fitzgerald moved his head towards his attacker and Moody’s fist collected the sergeant’s bulbous nose. He slumped to his knees with a groan. Moody was away. Seconds before Fitzgerald had stumbled back to the main guard-house to raise the alarm, Moody was back in the Rebels’ tent.
‘Did you get him?’ Murchison asked, as all the Rebels waited for his response under the uncertain light of one kerosene lamp. Moody did not reply. Instead he took off his boots and flexed his right hand. He sauntered over to Horrie, who was off his bunk greeting his favourite Rebel. Moody bent down and placed his right hand under the dog’s nose. Horrie sniffed and then licked a little trickle of blood from a cut on the knuckle. Moody patted his head. The dog wagged his tail. The kerosene light was doused as movement was heard outside.
‘I take it that’s a “yes”?’ Murchison asked.
‘Might see the result in the morning,’ Moody said as shouting commenced outside. Several of the Rebels sniggered as one of the camp’s searchlights snaked over their tent.
‘Must be a wog thief,’ Fitzsimmons said. ‘Bastard! Bet he’s got bad breath and body odour as well.’
The others laughed and settled to sleep despite the commotion outside the tent as a small party prowled the grounds inside and out of the Ikingi camp in search of an assailant of the sergeant-of-the-guard.
*
On parade the next morning, the Rebels could hardly contain their enjoyment of the retribution for the injury done to one of their own. As Hewitt announced that a ‘cowardly blow’ had been struck to the sergeant-of-the-guard ‘in the night,’ all battalion eyes fell on Fitzgerald, who sported an elaborate bandage wrapped around his head and covering his nose. It was not enough to conceal two of the blackest eyes the soldiers had ever seen. Both were just slits embedded in dark red and brown puffiness. The grumpy Fitzgerald was in a darker mood than anyone had ever seen him before.
‘Jesus!’ Murchison whispered to Moody in the line in front of him. ‘What did you use, a bloody sledgehammer?!’ Moody raised his right arm slowly, and flexed his middle finger. The others could not suppress laughs.
Hewitt swung around to face the minor disturbance.
‘Quiet on parade!’ he bellowed. ‘This is a very serious matter indeed. May well be a court martial! It may see the assailant being sent back home after a long jail term.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t a wog, sir?’ someone called from the ranks. ‘They can be vicious, sir!’
‘I don’t answer such insolent interjections, Private Young! But this once I shall reply that we know it was not a . . . a . . . um . . . local native. The assailant asked the sergeant’s name. Therefore he and I conclude it was, it just had to be, one of you.’ Hewitt paused and added: ‘We’d like the offender to step forward, now.’
No one moved.
‘Permission to speak, sir,’ another soldier called.
‘Yes, Private Oliver . . . speak.’
‘These wogs—er . . . Bedouin, sir, are pretty smart. They do call out names—’
‘Stop there, Private!’ Hewitt interjected. ‘We know it was one of you and no stone will be left unturned until we find the culprit.’
‘But, sir, what would be the motive for hitting such a nice man?’ Oliver called.
‘Enough!’ Hewitt yelled as he took several paces towards the private. ‘You will report to my office forthwith. Each tent will be inspected by me and Sergeant Fitzgerald this morning.’
A half-hour later, Hewitt and the sergeant entered the Rebels’ tent. Fitzgerald’s eyes, such as they were, met those of all the members, who stared back. Horrie’s body had a slight tremor. He growled from atop his bunk as he kept a steady gaze directed at the sergeant.
‘Now, Horrie,’ Moody said, ‘be nice to the nice sergeant.’
‘Sergeant Brooker,’ Hewitt said, ‘were any of your men AWL at any time last night?’
‘Absolutely not, sir. Every man, and Horrie, was present and accounted for right through the night from lights out at 10 p.m., sir.’
‘Don’t be so indignant, Sergeant. Your men have the worst record in the camp for AWL offences.’
‘Sir?’ Fitzsimmons said, stepping forward and saluting comically. ‘I can vouch for the veracity of the sergeant’s words, sir.’
‘Oh, how Private Fitzsimmons?’
‘I can say honestly that he tucked each and every one of us in, sir; always does.’
This comment created barely contained glee from the others. Fitzgerald looked set to explode.
‘Shut up, Private!’ Hewitt snapped and added, ‘This had better be true.’
Hewitt left the tent. Fitzgerald lingered with a menacing body posture.
‘I know it was one of you arseholes!’ he said, glaring at Murchison. Horrie was again shaking with concern. Moody restrained him.
‘Our little mascot doesn’t seem to like you, Sergeant,’ Moody said, eyeballing Fitzgerald. ‘Someone kicked him in the leg the other day. I suppose you wouldn’t know who?’
‘I couldn’t give a stuff about that little mongrel!’ Fitzgerald snarled.
‘When we find out who did kick him,’ Moody added, ‘we might give him a couple of shiners like you have, Sergeant.’
‘And if I find out if one of you—’ Fitzgerald hissed.
‘Don’t threaten my men!’ Brooker said stepping forward to face Fitzgerald. ‘Or our mascot!’
Fitzgerald stormed out fuming and cursing under his breath. When he was well away, several Rebel fists went in the air. Some shook hands with Moody. Others patted and hugged Horrie, who settled down.
‘Revenge of the Wog Dog,’ Shegog remarked as he arranged his paintbrushes, ‘so sweet when served cold!’ He glanced at the dog. ‘Horrie, old mate, today I think the subject should be you.’
*
The camp received a further boost when British and Australian forces attacked Tobruk and captured 25,000 Italians, along with 208 guns and 87 tanks, in a comprehensive victory. Churchill then ordered British General Wavell to capture the port city of Benghazi, Libya’s second-largest city, where the 6th Division would be prominent. The war had started well for the Allies, particularly the diggers.