About halfway through the voyage the convoy was made aware that it was travelling to Egypt, not Europe. Instead of gazing up at the triangular elongation of the Eiffel Tower in the crowded metropolis of Paris, the world’s most sophisticated city, the lads would be photographing the squat triangular marvel of the pyramids in an almost empty desert. There were no high-kicking French girls in sight or to gossip about, just dead pharaohs inside the pyramids and out of sight. Most adjusted. Many had joined up just for the travel anyway. They were tourists in an unexpected land displaying boisterous ignorance and interest in everything.
Harry Chauvel, who would command the Light Horse, had been in London. He arrived at Maadi, a European suburb five kilometres from Cairo, to greet them. He was a short, thin Australian aristocrat who rode so well that he always seemed grand in the saddle. He was forty-nine years of age and just ‘young’ enough for service. Chauvel was originally from Tabulam in New South Wales, but later based at his cattle station over the border in Queensland at Canning Downs South. Despite his upper-class mien, his farm background and natural leadership capacity meant he was really born to rule, or at least command. The chance to exercise this was in the military and with the Light Horse. His Boer War experience fourteen years earlier had toughened him. He was determined to make a mark in war at the next opportunity and it seemed to be coming fast. Chauvel, like Paterson, was on a horse at two years of age, and had been on one every day of his life since. There was no more elegant horseman, and he understood his animals better than most and perhaps even with more sensitivity than he did humans. But he cared for both in war and was the type of commander you wished for if you were on the front line. He was not prone to panic or hasty decision-making. Chauvel was more cautious than cavalier. He had an excellent sense of when to wait, pull back or strike.
His men and horses had been on his mind during his recent trip to England. Chauvel did not like what he saw at the training camp at Salisbury Plain, which he likened to Siberia. He diverted his Light Horse to Cairo, where conditions would be far better for everything from equipping and preparation to just existing. There were problems in gaining fresh water, and the troopers grumbled about that with good reason, but it was a minor complaint compared to what would have confronted them in the freezing English winter of 1914–15.
Chauvel’s brigade of 1560 men consisted of three regiments, each of about 520 men. He had trained many of the 75 officers, including his second-in-command, the uncompromising but brilliant Major William Glasgow, forty, who had a fine record in the Boer War. There were also men of outstanding quality who would be in war for the first time, including Michael Shanahan. Chauvel had noticed his skills as a leader and horseman early on and had influenced his rapid promotion on merit. Like John Monash, who commanded the other (soldier) brigade in Australia’s 2nd Division, Chauvel believed in promoting natural leaders regardless of background or rank. They were confident that in the heat of battle this would count in a big way at every level
Chauvel appreciated Shanahan for another reason. The lieutenant had an uncanny way with animals: he was a ‘horse whisperer’, although he never actually whispered. He spoke softly, understandingly. There was something in his relaxed, non-predatory manner that caused horses to respond to his ‘suggestions’. Shanahan neither bullied nor pleaded. He became any particular horse’s new best friend. He carried sugar lumps and sweets all the time, but this did not explain even a fraction of his freakish ability with them. They were simply part of his repertoire of inducements and cajolery with the mounts. Shanahan would sidle up, have a quiet chat, pat them in the places they liked best and slip them an edible ‘present’ rather than a ‘reward’.
When asked about this, he replied with a smile and a scratch of his jaw: ‘Well, you wouldn’t give rewards to your best girl, would you?’
This homily always brought a raised eyebrow and nod of agreement. Michael Shanahan was a practical soul. He gave orders to his men with a little more vigour than he did to the horses, but again without bullying them. If a Light Horseman needed disciplining, he would take him aside and have a fatherly chat for, like Chauvel, he was a generation older than the average trooper. This approach garnered the respect of each man under him. They would go anywhere with him and carry out any of his wishes. Each trooper knew that Shanahan would never ask his charges—man or horse—to go anywhere he would not go himself. The men wanted to show as much courage as him, and that was all he asked. He didn’t want heroics. He did want teamwork and a strong bond among all his troopers. That way he knew they would look out for each other no matter what the threat. They knew too he would look after their interests before his own. This carried up the chain of command to both the 2nd Division’s brigade commanders, Chauvel and Monash. It seemed to augur well for whatever lay ahead.
There were some 8000 horses left with Chauvel’s brigade after 220 of them died on the sea voyage, three times the expected attrition rate. The losses were caused mainly by pneumonia, brought on by the overcrowding and lack of ventilation on the lowest deck, which Bill had so aggressively avoided. Some twenty or so of the total lost were washed overboard from the top deck, which once more vindicated his apparent ‘attitude’ to the uncovered stalls. About 3000 of the Walers were ridden or marched about two kilometres to the Nile for watering. The remaining 5000, Bill among them, were taken to nearby irrigation canals. The idea was to exercise all the equine contingent up to their readiness for mounted work. Even he was bracketed among those that would be ridden, although all the remount section would soon be aware that ‘the Bastard’ was still some way from being broken in fully, if it were even possible.
A problem arose when the feed prescribed by the Australian vets ran out. The horses had to endure Egyptian barley straw (tibben). Bill refused it at first then became a reluctant eater, letting the vets know of his discontent by shaking the feed bag and kicking at the same time. It was his form of protest until oats, bran and chaff arrived.
In February 1915, Harry Chauvel called Banjo Paterson to a meeting about his work in the war. Paterson was already writing and sending despatches back to Sydney but most were not being published. He was not an ‘official’ correspondent. It irked him. Chauvel sympathised, telling Paterson that this was a different ‘encounter’ than in the Boer War where they had first become acquainted.
‘Then I’d better go to a theatre where I can report,’ Paterson said.
‘You can always work at the remount division,’ he was told.
‘You think I want to sit in Egypt minding horses while war rages in Europe and somewhere near here?’
‘It is a most worthwhile job.’
‘Get someone else. I’m a writer first and a nag minder a long way second!’
After a short silence, Chauvel said: ‘Just know, Banjo, that you are always welcome here. If you do change your mind I will have you promoted and you can be involved in controlling the remount show.’
‘Thanks but no thanks.’
With that he took a boat to England and managed to gain a job as an ambulance driver on the Western Front. That didn’t last long. By late March 1915 he was on his way back to Australia, even more disgruntled than he had been before he enlisted.