The battalion had plenty to celebrate with the news on 6 February 1941 that its fellow soldiers had defeated the Italians and taken Benghazi. Several of the Rebels took off to celebrate in Alexandria again. It was a useful excuse for going AWL to avoid the hard training that had gone on in January and into February. Desert exercises were mainly boring, arduous long marches, featuring the use of prismatic compass and map reading. Moody and Gill continued their own training routines and sidestepped tagging along with the gunners, arguing that their jobs would be different, solo efforts on their motorbikes. But once or twice even they were press-ganged into night operations where there would be long carries of the guns. Selected gun positions had to be located, always with the ubiquitous and vital compass, and the Vickers would be set up. Here the despatch riders doubled as forward scouts in the pitch black and often freezing nights. Moody and Gill enjoyed the extra challenge of bouncing and roaring along in the desert with just their headlights to guide them. The conditions were harsh and made worse when there were sand and dust storms that burnt skin and eyes and parched throats.
Despite these exercises, there was still more down-time for the signallers, and the Rebels grew restless with the wait. Murchison annoyed everyone, especially in the dead of night when he played with his pistol and accidentally, or so he claimed, let it off. His disturbing game came to an abrupt halt on 16 February when Private J. P. Ryan was accidentally killed by another soldier. He was buried with a guard of honour in the Alexandria Cemetery when half the battalion turned out to pay their respects.
‘I’ve learned the lesson,’ Murchison told Brooker, ‘thank God without killing anybody.’
The Rebels were caught up in plenty of scraps in Cairo, similar to the one on their first venture to Alexandria, but two events sobered them up once more. One occurred on 21 March when HQ Company Sergeant-Major J. H. Trice was killed in a taxi accident. All the Rebels had been on hair-raising taxi rides but this loss caused them to be more circumspect, often blasting or threatening the drivers if they became too reckless. The other just-as-sobering occurrence was the contracting of venereal disease by some of the men after brothel adventures in Cairo. Murchison, the most careless and carefree of the Rebels in sampling the whores of the red-light districts, was not too worried at first, but when he learned that syphilis had been so bad for a couple of soldiers that they had been sent home, he was far more cautious, as were the others, about wearing protection and avoiding the worst spots. The authorities had been ruthless about policing the brothel areas such as Wasser. This Cairo district had gained legendary status early in 1915 when a group of the first Anzacs burnt down a brothel and beat up all the local pimps. This was in reprisals for much thieving of wallets while the soldiers and troopers were preoccupied with enjoying themselves, and for the high preponderance of venereal disease contracted in Wasser. The officers 26 years later were determined not to let a repeat happen in World War II. But no matter how hard they clamped down with punishment, most of the soldiers still managed to carouse in the most notorious areas. In the back of many soldiers’ minds was the thought that they had better have some ‘fun’ before the war hotted up for them.
*
Sergeant Brooker had been accurate in his assessment that the German war machine would not sit by and let their partner Italy be swept aside in the Mediterranean region. The Italians had invaded Greece a few months earlier on 28 October 1940. The Greeks had done well in defeating that first attack, and then a further Italian counterattack in March 1941. That was enough for the German dictator Adolf Hitler. He and his generals devised Operation Marita, which began on 6 April, when the bulk of the Greek army was on the Albanian border, from which the Italians were trying to enter Greece. German troops invaded through Bulgaria, creating a second front. British Commonwealth troops, including Australians, were to be sent to Greece to bolster the defences.
The first sign for the Rebels that something was ‘on’ for them was the stepping up of inspections by Brooker of signals gear. He had never been overbearing before but now he was harassing the sloppy members of the group. The second sign came when the platoon’s two best despatch riders, Moody and Gill, received two gleaming new British Norton motorcycles, with their four-speed gearboxes. They began tuning the air-cooled engines. Moody took his bike apart to see if there were any advances or changes in design, and he found several. The two daredevils soon worked out the roughest course possible for a race with four other riders. An enthusiastic crowd gathered to watch a dash over an eight kilometre course across gullies and small ravines, and along a couple of precarious ridges. For once in the camp, two-up betting aggregates were topped by those for the outcome of the race. Gill and Moody were neck and neck in the straight back to the camp when Gill’s bike broke down and Moody romped in ahead of the next rider by a hundred metres. Shegog was injured when his bike toppled off a ridge; he ended up on crutches and out of the war for the moment.
The third sign of the Machine Gun Battalion joining the Battle of Greece, as it was soon known, came when Moody biked with Gill into Alexandria to buy film for his camera. The Greek proprietor, Jimmy Stavros, who spoke English, elicited at first frowns, then enlightenment when he said: ‘Run out, sorry, lads, but you’ll be able to buy plenty in Athens.’
‘Athens?’ Moody and Gill said in chorus.
‘Sure,’ Stavros replied, ‘didn’t you know? The Brits are sending about 60,000 to fight in Greece. About 60 per cent will be you Anzacs; the rest Brits.’
‘How do you know this, Jimmy?’ Moody asked.
‘Got a relative in the Greek Cabinet,’ he said, dropping his voice but pleased with the information he was passing on. ‘You’ll be fully equipped with 60 and 25 pounder guns. An armoured brigade will be going. It’s big! You can imagine how the Greeks in the know feel. Gives us hope.’
Later Brooker confirmed what just about all of the Ikingi camp knew: they were indeed being shipped from Alexandria to Piraeus, the port at Athens. The Rebels were facing a few realities as they hurried to write letters to make the last post to Australia. Their messages were not alarmist. Instead, warmth and love flowed through the ink-stained and pencil scribbled lines as each man faced an abrupt sense of mortality. The German machine had a formidable reputation and each soldier knew that the odds of them ever returning home had changed overnight. Most relished the thought of ‘getting some action at last.’ Almost all were thrilled to be leaving the boring, hot confines of their remote waterless outpost. But the thought of German bombers, ships, paratroopers and those infamous, experienced, hard-helmeted troops was sobering. Right through the camp now was an electrified sense of preparation as machine guns were tested with their ear-splitting rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat. This sound was supplemented by the seemingly continuous testing of rifles and revolvers by all carriers of these weapons. But the sound that out-blasted them all was the throaty roar of the motorcycles as they sent dust trails through the desert when Moody, Gill and others raced daily and went through the roughest exercises they could create. They skylarked by sending their bikes high and in doing the odd trick, including a somersault over a dry wadi, which Moody and Gill had planned over several weeks. They also perfected the less problematic ‘hanger,’ where they would do a handstand on the handlebars. One slip in such acts would see bike or rider or both a broken wreck. Officers did not countenance such performances and the stunts were carried out well away from the camp. Yet there was some method in their madness for both men knew that in war they would be asked to take risks on the front. Knowing the limits of the bikes and themselves was more than a useful mental ‘track’ or preparation for what they would face. They regarded it all as necessary mental and physical training.
*
The biggest concern for the Rebels was what to do with Horrie. In eight weeks he had become an integral part of the squad and a feature of the entire battalion. His collar featured its colours, as did his dish, painted bunk and a tennis ball that had been presented to him. Horrie had put on weight for he was a favourite of the cooks in the kitchen, who normally had only a few close mates in the ranks. Moody continued to teach him tricks and ‘duties.’ His prime job was to guard all the equipment in and out of the tent, especially from prowling Arabs, who filtered in and around the camp day and night. When a Rebel took him outside their tent and said, ‘Watch!’ in a commanding voice, the dog took the command seriously and never strayed, even when another animal wandered within his range of smell or sight. He could be left for hours at a time. His second and equally useful duty was to run messages. Moody trained him by taking him to the destination, including the transport and equipment depot, which was the camp workshop, where everything from nuts and bolts to lighting rods and radio parts were found. Moody introduced him to a mate at the depot, Ron Ford, who would make a fuss of him and offer chocolate. The ‘game’ would begin with Horrie taking a message tied to his collar to Ron from ten metres, then twenty metres and then out of sight. After half an hour, Horrie understood that with the command ‘Take it to Ron,’ he would dash from the Rebels’ tent to the depot with the message. Similarly, if Ron had a query he would attach it to the willing Horrie with the command ‘Take it to the Rebels.’
‘If that little bloke had wings,’ Ford observed, ‘he’d be better than any carrier pigeon.’
The third major feature of Horrie’s repertoire was a lesson for the Rebels rather than the dog. On occasions, he would sit and bark at the sky, his outsized ears erect and pointing in one direction. When none of the Rebels reacted, he darted about and then stopped, his head steady, his bark excited and his growls deep and long. After this happened a few times, Moody noted that it coincided with a plane flying overhead up to two minutes after Horrie began his antics. Moody drew the other Rebels’ attention to this phenomenon one day when they were assembling their equipment outside the tent.
‘Our littlest Anzac is an early warning system!’ Murchison said. ‘We just gotta take him with us!’
All the Rebels agreed. They hatched several plans that fell through and in the end decided to smuggle him in Moody’s pack. Moody’s equipment was shared in the packs of the others, which left plenty of wriggle room for the dog. But it was stifling hot for the more than 30 kilometre march and train ride under a harsh sun to the port at Alexandria. A hole was cut in the side near the top of the pack. Horrie was a twitch of excitement at the heightened activity in the camp. He knew something was up and he looked anxious. Each Rebel would drop to his haunches and tell him: ‘Everything is okay, mate. You are one of us. You’re coming with us.’
Moody, the dog whisperer, now had one of the toughest canine assignments in training Horrie to get in the pack and stay quiet. The dog looked forlorn at the prospect of this new ‘trick.’ He didn’t refuse it but he wriggled in the confinement in a mild protest. Moody went through the routine in two stretches of 20 minutes each, spaced several hours apart. Horrie was placed, rear-end first, into the pack. He would squirm himself into position so that his little set-upon face and snout would poke from the hole. Then Moody would trudge a hundred metres and back, giving plenty of praise and encouragement. By the end of this exercise, Horrie was ready, although man and dog could not envisage what imponderables they might face en route. The plan was to sneak him on board the ship taking them to Greece, a journey of two days and nights. Once there, the Rebels would hatch plan two on how to keep him unseen when smuggled aboard.
On the last night before the march, a greater concern enveloped the Rebel tent as each man had trouble sleeping. Their minds churned over coming possibilities. Brooker’s remark that they had ‘nothing to fear but fear itself’ helped a fraction as he reminded them that he had come through the Great War unscathed, but his accompanying homily was less comforting: ‘If you get knocked you will know nothing, so what’s the point in worrying? There is no pain after death.’
That blunt comment had some reaching for pen and paper to say more poignant things to loved ones with the thought that this might just be the last letter that ever reached home. But sentimentality gave several of them ‘writers’ block’ and the nervous anticipation caused many to enjoy less than their normal quota of seven hours sleep. In the middle of a cold night they boiled tea and chatted. Horrie, alert as ever when the Rebels were in discussion, wandered to each bunk offering a lick and a nuzzle of solace, which would in return lead to a warm pat or cuddle. The Rebels swore that he sensed their feelings on such occasions. In the dead of night, when the unknown played on dwelling minds, there was just a whiff of fear in the tent. The mood was broken when Brooker, with ecclesiastical soberness, commented that it was the Rebels’ last night in the land of milk and honey.
‘That’s if you bring your own cows and bees,’ Fitzsimmons quipped. It was a fitting enough joke at 3 a.m. for them to attempt to slumber for the last few hours before the dawn.
*
Horrie, anticipating something was afoot, was awake first as the warm fingers of dawn crept over the barren camp at Ikingi on 6 April, the day the Germans began the Battle of Greece by invading that country and Yugoslavia, making the date even more significant. Breakfast was rushed. Horrie seemed miffed that the mobile kitchen was being packed up before he could acquire the usual scraps. The camp was a cacophonous mix of trucks being warmed up, orders being barked and movement everywhere. Men were heaving packs onto backs, slinging rifles over shoulders and placing machine-gun parts in ‘coffins,’ the unfortunate word for the long bags that held the raison d’être of this particular battalion. Horrie moved from Rebel to Rebel, seeking reassurance that he would not be left out of this ‘event.’ Moody and Gill kept watch on him and, when he looked ready to dash to the front of the battalion, they warned him not to leave.
‘This is the moment of your great disappearing trick, my little mate,’ Gill said, scratching the dog’s spine.
The Rebels heard the order for them to fall in on parade. Moody looked at Horrie and then the bag.
‘Sorry, my little friend, but this is it,’ he said. He pointed to the bag. Horrie looked crestfallen as he sauntered over to it. One last pleading look from him was ignored by Moody, who patted him and helped him in.
The thousand men of the 1st Machine Gun Battalion lined up as straight and stiff as terracotta soldiers. Officers began the inspection of each man. The chief officer, Colonel Poulson, who had replaced Hewitt (who was ill with an unspecified fever), was as tall and commanding but with a grim mien that bothered the Rebels. The dog-in-a-kit plan now depended on Horrie remaining silent. The colonel stepped along the line, his eyes darting over each man and his kit. Every ten soldiers or so, he would demand that a soldier remove his kit, sit it at his feet and open it. This act had the Rebels sweating in the early morning heat and glancing at each other. The colonel and his entourage of three other officers arrived at Murchison, who was next to Moody.
‘You could be less slovenly, Private!’ the colonel observed. ‘Kit, down!’
Murchison obeyed with a nervous glance at Moody.
‘What are you looking at Private “AWL” Moody for? He can’t be responsible for your appearance.’ The colonel paused then added the sharp instruction: ‘Kit, open!’
Moody felt a little wriggle from Horrie and prayed he would not bark at the unfriendly commands. The sun was becoming hotter each minute. The soldiers had been stationary for half an hour during this arduous routine that had become a trial for every Rebel as they feared Horrie would be discovered. The colonel looked down at the opened bag. He poked the items with the riding crop he carried.
‘Bit full, isn’t it?’ the colonel asked. ‘Enough equipment for two men. Why so, Private?’
‘I am one of those designated to carry spares for the others, sir,’ Murchison.
‘Hmm. More neat than I expected from you, Private,’ the colonel said with more than a trace of sarcasm. ‘Close kit!’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ Murchison said with a big grin.
The colonel had turned to go. He stood within a metre of Moody.
‘Something amusing you, Private “AWL” Murchison?’
‘No, sir. Just pleased to pass inspection, sir!’
‘I’ll bet you are!’
Murchison’s action had distracted the colonel enough for him to hardly glance at Moody or Gill next to him. Soon he was ten paces away with the other officers. Horrie emitted a little growl of protest as two Arab boys on one rusty old bike circled the parade and were at their closest point to the dog. All the officers glanced back. Gill made a noise like a cross between a growl and a cough. One of the officers doubled back and confronted him.
‘Throat problems, Private?’ he asked.
‘No, sir, I swallowed a fly, sir, I think.’
‘You think? Wouldn’t you know, Private?’
‘There are other insects, sir!’
‘Quite!’ the officer said. ‘Protein will do you good and won’t kill you.’ He eyed Gill before returning to the others. When the order was given to change to march formation, the Rebels all exchanged relieved glances. Command was then given to move off eight kilometres to the Ikingi Maryut rail station across the stony desert. It was going to be a hot, hard mission with full packs, some weighing 50 kilograms and including personal weapons, kitbags and sea kitbags.
Moody could feel Horrie moving. He was restless as the soldiers began to march across the desert, for he dearly wished to lead the battalion as he had on many occasions. Instead, he was a hot dog of despair, the only saving graces being that he was with Moody and moving at last. Moody kept whispering to him. Every time he spoke, Horrie moved a fraction. After about two kilometres, a truck driven by Ron Ford, the mechanic, came alongside the marchers.
‘How’s he doing?’ Ford asked.
‘Could you take him?’ Moody asked. ‘It’s a bit hot for him.’
‘No trouble.’
Moody broke ranks and hurried to the truck. He took the exhuberant Horrie out and handed him through the window to Ford.
‘I have to deliver this load of equipment and weapons to the train. No idea what the next order will be so I’ll tie him to that tree not far from the station.’
‘The one that looks like it might be a gum tree?’
‘That’s the one.’
Horrie stuck his head out the window, tongue hanging out and panting. He whined and wanted to be back with Moody and the Rebels. Ford poured water into his food pan and Horrie lapped it up. Then Ford drove off, sparing the dog an arduous trek under a boiling sun. At the station, the thousand men milled around in groups, waiting for the order to embark. Moody slipped away out of sight and ran beyond the station to the solitary tree. Horrie was there, standing and looking towards the large group of soldiers. When he spotted Moody he jumped and twisted high, nearly throttling himself on the rope. Moody had no time to placate him. He bundled the little fellow back into the kitbag. Horrie stayed stock-still, perhaps thinking that his wriggling before had caused him to be separated from Moody and the Rebels. Moody hustled back to the station as the other began to move aboard. Once the train was moving, Moody removed him from the kitbag.
‘Where’s Fitzgerald’s guard mob?’ he asked.
‘Other end of the train,’ Murchison said. ‘Anyway, Horrie’ll be okay. That prick wouldn’t turn him in with so many witnesses and mates.’
Horrie dashed around the carriage and to anyone who beckoned him. He brought smiles to the troops, who all patted him. The greetings done, he jumped to a window. Standing on his hind legs, he watched the passing parade of villages and country. No soldier was as intrigued or captivated by the sights as much as he was. He hardly turned his head away. Whenever he spotted an Arab he voiced his distaste, making the Rebels grin and discuss again what may have happened to him early in his life. He was agitated by Arab boys flogging food at stations, and when they laughed at his snarling, snapping face from the safety of the platform, he was beside himself with annoyance. A bold older Arab at one stop sidled to the Rebels’ carriage and through an open window offered them whisky.
‘Top Scottish! Top Scottish!’ he told Murchison with a gap-toothed grin while stroking his grey beard and then glancing around to see if there were any military police watching. Murchison asked to see it and, satisfied with the label (‘Glenfiddich single malt’), the sealed cork and its general look, bought it for 12 shillings. The Arab baulked away through the crowd as police spotted him. The train pulled out of the station. Murchison uncorked his purchase and found it was weak, warm tea. Brooker suggested that the only way it could have been dressed up so convincingly was to have poured the tea in through the bottom of the bottle. On close examination it was found that a small hole had been bored in the base. Once the real whisky was drained out and replaced with tea, the hole had been sealed up.
‘You’re lucky it wasn’t camel’s piss,’ someone said with a laugh. Horrie took his eyes off the sweeping vista of rock and sand to examine the bottle. Murchison took his dish from Moody and poured the liquid into it. There was a roar of laughter as Horrie twitched his nose at the offering and backed away with an expression that said thanks but no thanks.
The train was pushed off to sidings on several occasions to allow other trains packed with troops to pass by. After several hours they reached Alexandria’s outskirts just after noon.
‘I’d like another night there one day,’ Murchison said with a wistful gaze at the city, diverting the conversation from his duping by the old Arab to his cavorting with the two black prostitutes.
‘In love, are we?’ Brooker asked.
‘You couldn’t have coped, old man!’ Murchison replied. ‘But to answer your question, I did fancy one of them very much and I saw her several times. She was sweet and she liked me.’
‘Oh, sure, and your wallet.’
‘No. She didn’t want money.’
‘Oh, just a donation to the local mosque?’
‘She was Christian. If you must know, I did give her something for her sick mother in Cairo.’
‘And for her cat too, I hope.’
‘We both gave donations to sick family members,’ Fitzsimmons interjected, deadpan, and brought laughter that miffed Murchison, who acted as if his reputation for virility had been damaged.
Seeing his irritation, Brooker said: ‘Don’t worry, son, every woman in these parts has to provide for family members. You’ve done a great service to the community.’
At Alexandria’s wharf, Moody beckoned to Horrie, who, looking resigned to his fate in the kitbag, hopped in without complaint. Moody gave him a last look and put his fingers to his lips, telling him to be very quiet. They lined up on the wharf with the others, who were in ranks of three. Their ship, the 3000 tonne Chalka, was in port waiting for them. It was pockmarked with shell and bomb hits from artillery and planes. The English crew was leaning on the rails and already passing the odd comment down to them.
‘Any Don Bradmans amongst you Aussies?’ one called and tossed an orange to the troops. When it was dropped, he added, ‘Nar, didn’t fink so!’
There was good-natured banter, and the crew looked pleased to be having them aboard. To the Rebels’ relief there was not to be an inspection. Moody relaxed a fraction, and let Horrie poke his head out of the hole in the bag. Just as Moody’s name was called, the dog was distracted by an Arab on the wharf. Moody raised his voice and shouted: ‘Present, sir!’
Horrie growled. The officer glanced at Moody and his gaze lingered as he paused. It was a tense moment. Most officers didn’t care about a few animals in the camps but with the prospect of combat they were frowned upon. Perhaps this officer was one of the few who turned a blind eye to such things. Maybe he didn’t care, given that the men would soon be on a ship, where dogs and cats were tolerated depending on the captain and his crew. The Chalka had its own dog mascot, Ben, who much to the surprise of the Rebels was also an Egyptian terrier-cross. The Machine Gun Battalion very soon appreciated the friendliness of the English crew, who as they claimed ran ‘a good and happy ship.’
Ben and Horrie were introduced and after several circles and examinations, decided they liked each other. A distinguishing factor was their tails. Ben had a proud, unclipped ‘mast,’ compared with Horrie’s stump. Ben had been picked up in the recent battle for Benghazi between Commonwealth and Italian forces on the Libyan coast.
‘Ben was left by the Eyeties,’ a sailor explained, ‘so he was one of the spoils of the victory and we couldn’t resist the little blighter.’
Horrie was taken onto the deck in the afternoon. He was most unsure of what he was experiencing, with the moving deck and the blue and emerald water that undulated. Horrie stumbled to the railing and when he saw the drop, backed off. But his new ‘best mate’ Ben led him around the ship, helping him, it seemed, to acquire his sea legs. They even moved down steps to the ship’s galley and the kitchen, where a delighted, podgy-faced Yorkshire cook found big bones for both of them. Horrie stumbled up the steps with his ‘prize’ but wished he hadn’t when he reached the deck again. The boat began to roll and pitch. Horrie could not stand up and was at a loss over why. Every time he looked at the swells that appeared as if they might engulf the rugged, overcrowded boat, he shivered. The bone was forgotten. Moody noticed his distress and took him to their cabin, which provided little respite. Moody himself threw up and felt sick for the rest of the day and night. Day two was calmer and he spent three hours making a life-jacket for Horrie, but when he scampered off to play with Ben, he fought his way free of it. Moody had to keep a careful eye on him for the rest of the unpleasant journey.