Chauvel began mounted training when the horses were fit, and Bill was among the thousands of horses broken out for troopers. One large Victorian trooper from Cudgewa on the Victorian border, Gerry Henderson, demanded to be ‘matched’ with him. Henderson, a close-eyed amateur boxer with a lantern jaw, weighed in at 120 kilograms. He was out of condition. Henderson was told about Bill’s reputation for being a little ‘rough’. The big man was not bothered when the lean, 25-year-old Sergeant Aidan Sutherland from Golspie, Scotland pointed him out from a wooden hut office near the entrance to the remount depot.
‘I’ve busted bigger buggers than that bastard,’ Henderson boasted with a burst of unintended alliteration. ‘Has he been broken in?’
‘Not completely,’ was the cryptic reply from black-haired, dark-eyed Sutherland, who had an almost permanently whimsical look and unruffled manner.
‘Either he has or he hasn’t.’
‘Bit tricky wi’ this one,’ the Scot said with a slow grin. ‘A few have ridden him, but not for long. He’s real temperamental. Wants his own way all the time.’
‘Ah, there are plenty like that,’ Henderson said. ‘He looks okay. I’ll take him.’
Sutherland pointed to the requisition register, indicating his signature was required. ‘I’d advise you to try him out first, laddie.’
‘I’m not anyone’s “laddie”, alright, mate?’
‘And I’m not anyone’s “mate”,’ Sutherland replied pleasantly enough, ‘except for my girlfriend, alright?’
‘Yeah, right, mate,’ Henderson said absent-mindedly as he wandered over to the fence near Bill and examined him.
Sutherland laughed. ‘Got a wee verbal tic, have we, everyone is a “mate”, even people who are not?’
‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I want this neddie, okay, mate?’
‘Sure, but as I said, it would be wise to just run wee Bill around the depot for a wee-while.’
‘Haven’t got time for any “wee-wees”, mate. We have to assemble in the desert in an hour.’
‘Okay, then, trooper,’ Sutherland said, and added with an intriguing smile, ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Sutherland entered the corral and took Bill out. The horse seemed unconcerned. Then again, he often did. Henderson made the usual greeting noises, but gruffly, letting the animal know who was boss. Bill hardly blinked. He only turned his head when Henderson produced a short jockey’s whip. He flicked a fly near the horse.
Henderson led Bill to a mounting yard where his gear was stacked. He planned his first route march with a thousand other troopers who were being addressed in the desert by Chauvel that day. The word was that the commander had something to tell them about their immediate mission and destination. Bill was tethered to a fence. He looked on more placidly than ever as his new ‘master’ loaded up with the trooper’s kit: a bandolier (trooper’s cartridge belt); belt with four pouches; bayonet; wire cutters; 150 rounds of ammunition; rifle; and a water bottle. The last item was about the most essential accoutrement for the day. It was already 35 degrees Centigrade in the shade, and locals tipped it would climb to more than 45 degrees.
Next, Henderson began to arrange other items on the compliant Bill, who seemed to be asleep. On went the military saddle, followed by a haversack containing one carryall with one piece of soap, one towel and one meal. This was wedged between the saddle and the base of Bill’s neck. His eyes were wide open now with his body being invaded and covered. An overcoat, waterproof ground sheet, blanket, horse brush pad, mess tin, and a canvas bucket were piled on. A feedbag was looped over Bill’s neck and pulled to the side so that he couldn’t get at it. This was followed by a picketing peg, heel rope, linking rope, and a leather horseshoe case with spare shoes and nails. The weight on Bill’s body tallied about 80 kilograms. Henderson mounted, making the total haul on the horse some 200 kilograms. Bill remained impassive.
Henderson urged him to move out. ‘C’mon, get going!’
Bill just trotted a few paces and stopped.
‘What the …?!’ Henderson dug his stirrups in and whipped Bill across the shoulder. Bill shook his mane, as if he found this action most disagreeable.
‘I get it. You’re Bill the slow Bastard!’
Bill started to trot again. Henderson began to dovetail with a score of other mounted troopers heading east of Cairo to the desert near the Nile. Bill became more animated, wriggling his trunk and jerking his neck.
‘That’s it. Get used to the bloody load, cobber.’
Bill picked up the pace. Henderson yelled with delight. Bill was soon into a steady gallop. Henderson tried to rein him in but couldn’t. Bill’s pace picked up some more, almost as if he were not concerned at his rider’s valiant attempts to pull him up. The horse seemed to be enjoying himself. The exercise appeared good for him. By this time, Henderson was in front of about a hundred other troopers, who were urging him on. Then Bill slowed like a locomotive coming into a station. Inside half a minute he was stock still. Henderson cursed and dug his heels in again. Bill responded with a guttural sound. He rushed forward like a bull, head down, ears pinned back and tail straight. Then he pulled up and bucked, swinging his barrel body to the right and pivoting.
Henderson was a good horseman. Normally he may have been able to control this movement but the weight of his gear tipped him out of the saddle. He landed with a thump in the sand that was heard by all the other troopers. Bill turned and rushed close, almost as if he was going to trample the big man. Then he dug his hooves into the sand, stopping a metre from the squirming Henderson. Bill backed off and delivered a signature curl of the lip. Henderson struggled to his feet fuming. He had landed on his coccyx and was in pain. Bill trotted ten metres away and stopped with his back to his rider, who endured good-natured jeering from troopers swooping by. Henderson cursed the horse and a few mates who called out comments.
‘I’d pick you up, Gerry, but you’re too big and fat!’ redheaded Bluey Harold yelled.
‘Thought you could ride, mate!’ skeletally thin ‘Swifty’ Thoms said with a guffaw.
Henderson hustled towards Bill, trying to regain what little dignity he had left, for there were few things more humiliating than an experienced bushman being dumped so unceremoniously.
‘Wait you … why I oughta …!’ Henderson snorted. He staggered up to Bill. Just as he reached for the saddle, Bill bolted another thirty metres away. Henderson was left stumbling and nearly fell again. He cursed so hard that his deep voice went up an octave. Bill waited. He still had his back to his rider. When Henderson was ten metres away, Bill took off again, then stopped once more, now some forty metres away. Henderson was sweating profusely under the weight of his accoutrements. He needed a drink, but the water bottle was on the horse. He wanted his rifle, but that too was wedged close to the saddle. In battle it would be slung over his shoulder.
‘I am going to stick you!’ he yelled, but his sheathed bayonet was next to the rifle. Any animal would have comprehended that this human’s tone was menacing and threatening. Bill trotted the 600 metres back to the remount depot, leaving Henderson to trudge his own way back laden down with his gear. Each step sent a searing pain through him.
Sutherland hustled out of his office to greet Bill. He looked to the horizon and could see the gesticulating figure of Henderson shimmering in the heat on the sand. Twenty minutes later he stumbled into the depot, still cursing. Sutherland stood close to Bill, shocked that Henderson was yelling that he would bayonet the horse.
‘No killing of my steeds, trooper,’ Sutherland said, standing between Bill and his would-be killer. The Scot was no more than 174 centimetres and, while fit, about 70 kilograms wringing wet, which was not much more than half the size of the angry trooper. Henderson tried to brush past. Sutherland put his fists up. They were about to engage in a bout of fisticuffs when Bill took off again. He stopped near the gate to the horse corral. Sutherland hurried over and opened it for him. Henderson, still weighed down with his gear, was left standing, his fists in the air. He waddled towards the gate yelling that he wanted to ram his bayonet into Bill’s heart.
‘You won’t even catch him to retrieve your wee bayonet wi’ that attitude,’ Sutherland said defiantly.
‘Then I’ll get me mate’s fucking rifle and shoot the bastard!’
‘I wouldn’t do that either. The commander loves his horses. You’d be on a wee charge and on the first boat outta here back to Australia.’ Sutherland allowed himself a brief chuckle, adding, ‘Along with two hundred other diggers being sent home wi’ syphilis! You can’t go sticking or shooting your animal just because he dumps you on your not-so-wee arse. We wouldn’t have a remount horse left if every trooper reacted like that.’
The remark gave Henderson pause. ‘You gave me the bloody horse!’ he blurted.
‘You accepted it. I have your signature. Said you could ride anything.’
Henderson gazed into the corral where Bill was having a drink at a trough. ‘What about my bloody gear on ’im?’
‘I’ll remove it and have it sent to your tent by packhorse.’ Sutherland grinned. ‘I’ll make sure it isn’t Bill.’
Henderson’s face flushed again but before he could abuse Sutherland, the sergeant added with a conciliatory grin, ‘Get over it and I’ll buy you a wee drink tonight …’