Each day at Gallipoli a rider carrying the more urgent despatches would make the seven-kilometre run from Suvla Bay north of Anzac Cove to British campaign headquarters at the cove. This was turned into a macabre event. The Turks in the ridges and hills would snipe at the riders. ‘It [the mail delivery] had to be done at the gallop,’ Chauvel wrote to his wife. ‘The rider was fired at from the moment he left the shelter of Lala Baba until he reached the wide communications trench near Anzac. All the Australian Light Horsemen, New Zealand Mounted Riflemen, and the British Yeomanry [cavalry] were tumbling over each other to get the job.’
Most Anzacs, including officers, would watch. Hundreds would place bets on whether the rider and his horse would make it along the track close to the beach. This pervasive, callous gambling operation was in tune with the attitude to life and death at Gallipoli. The ‘run’ was hazardous. The Turkish snipers waited for this ‘sport’ each day and would themselves lay bets on who could hit the rider or the horse.
Sergeant Sutherland was running the small remount depot at Suvla Bay. Early in October, he was ordered by General Godley to let an exceptional cavalryman, Captain Anthony Bickworth, mount the most difficult horse in the depot in an attempt to get a despatch through. No one had been shot on this run for two weeks and such was the careless attitude to life and death by this stage on Gallipoli, that the British wanted to change the odds to make it more ‘sporting’. In other words, a horseman had to be exceptional to both dodge bullets and keep on his mount. To make it more interesting, Bickworth was assigned to the ‘job’. He had the reputation, at least among the British, as the best horseman of the invading troops. But there was another compelling factor. The upper-class Bickworth, the third son of an impoverished landowning British count, had lost a lot of money gambling in Cairo and was deeply in debt. He would be offered an ‘incentive’ of 100 pounds to risk his skills and life on the despatch run. Bickworth had been at Cape Helles at the peninsula’s tip. He was ferried up to Suvla Bay at night.
Anzacs and British soldiers had a meeting. The bet was that either the mail would get through, or it would not. Trooper Swifty Thoms let slip that Bill the Bastard would make it impossible for any rider, no matter who was on him, to make it. Sutherland was then ordered to break out Bill for this ‘special’ ride. A heavy plunge went on the mail not getting through. Thoms and a few mates, including Sutherland, now got odds up to twenty to one from the various bookies at the cove. They were betting the mail would get through. General Godley was informed that Bill would make the journey and changed his mind about the outcome of the ride. He slipped his aide-de-camp twenty pounds to put a secret bet on the mail not getting through.
At just after 11 am on 3 October, thousands of Anzacs and British soldiers occupied vantage points above Anzac Cove and close to it to watch this ‘event’. The officers and many of the men had binoculars. All artillery, machine-gun and rifle fire stopped. The sun was out and there was a clear view of the path to be taken about thirty metres from the shoreline.
Bickworth, a lean, bony-faced man of forty, was in full yeomanry outfit but for a strange German-style helmet when he strode into the remount depot on the beach near Suvla Bay. Horses rather than people were his passion, and he wasn’t even prepared to make small talk with Sutherland. He asked for ‘Bill the er … er … Bastard.’ The sergeant picked up on his no-nonsense, ‘superior’ demeanour and without further word left his tent and broke Bill out from a roped-off section at the little inlet of Lala Baba.
Bickworth had a long whip, more like a stockman’s than a jockey’s. He tapped his boot with it impatiently as Sutherland tethered the horse and brought two saddlebags of mail and despatches.
‘Quite a bit riding on this, Captain,’ the sergeant proffered.
Bickworth ignored him. He did two semicircles of Bill, being careful not to stand close to his rear.
‘Been fed?’ Bickworth asked.
‘And watered … two hours ago. Wee Bill doesn’t need much.’
‘It’s a long ride at the gallop.’
‘This wee horse would outdo a camel.’
‘I doubt that.’ He stroked Bill’s neck. ‘Ugly beast …’
‘I think he’s beautiful.’
‘Hmm. Mixed breeds like this are never pretty.’
Bickworth patted Bill on his left flank and neck, indicating he was going to mount him, which he did, easily and professionally. He waited. There was no reaction from Bill.
‘Can I say, Captain, go easy on him wi’ stirrup and whip.’
‘If I wished for a lecture on how to handle a horse from you,’ Bickworth snapped, ‘I would have asked.’
‘Of course, Captain,’ Sutherland replied, unfazed, and with his usual languid, careless smile added, ‘Good luck to you.’
‘Luck?’ Bickworth said with disdain as he manoeuvred Bill onto the path.
‘You’ll need a wee bit o’ that,’ Sutherland chuckled under his breath.
Rider and horse began at a trot, Bickworth getting a feel for his mount and the path’s hold. Bill was compliant. No one had attempted to ride him since the unfortunate trooper Gerry Henderson half a year earlier. Perhaps it was the novelty, or maybe it was because Bill liked this particular track, which he had been on a hundred times since arriving, but he seemed oddly content with this high-in-the saddle rider who had made a name for himself in equestrian events at the Olympics.
High above them in the hills, several Turks rushed to put down their late morning drinks or food or cigarettes and wriggle into position with their rifles. They adjusted their sights. The daily sporting shoot was about to commence.
A few kilometres away, thousands of British soldiers and Anzacs began to pay attention. Godley, high in a sheltered position on Walker’s Ridge above Anzac Cove, lifted his binoculars. The only weapons fire now was that from the Turks aiming at Bickworth. All other guns were silent. The ‘race’ for Anzac Cove was on. Shanahan also used binoculars to watch. He well remembered big Bill for his courageous and goliath-like work in Monash Valley. Now there was another dimension to this horse beyond that of a pack animal, albeit the most powerful that he had ever seen.
Bickworth felt a twinge of nerves because of his unfamiliarity with this horse. It was always a thrill for someone of his vast experience to be on such an animal, especially with its daunting reputation. Very soon, he realised his power. Bill built to a gallop. Bullets plopped into the sand beyond them, or pinged onto the rocks to their left as they rode. Bill swerved left, right, left, regardless of where the bullets hit. Bickworth objected, but realised he had no say in the matter. Bill’s head was down. Like a rampaging rhinoceros, he could not be stopped in his unpredictable, rhythmless zigzag, charging on as they reached another stretch of the track.
Godley became animated. He was among a brace of British officers whose binoculars were raised. ‘I think this fellow will get away with it after all,’ Godley cried in excitement. ‘Christ, did you see him duck that time? Look! Look!’
Bill careered on at a fast gallop. Bickworth wanted to rein him back but couldn’t. He reckoned the horse would have to slow up soon because it was an impossible run at a full gallop. No horse could ever go at such a pace for that long, he thought, but Bill barrelled on, although his zigzag movements became less frequent, even when snipers got very close. At about a quarter of the way there Bill flinched, slowed up and bucked. A surprised Bickworth fought to stay in the saddle, needing all his reserves of riding skills. At two kilometres another disparate volley of sniper-fire whistled close. Bickworth ducked once more, just when Bill flinched a second time and slowed again. This time he bucked with all his tremendous strength. Bickworth was in the act of ducking a third time as bullets flew and the combination of movements unbalanced him. He was thrown five metres over the horse, landing with a crunch on his shoulder and back. The impact caused his helmet to jerk free.
‘They’ve got him at last,’ Godley exclaimed, ‘by God they have! That was a bloody fine shot!’
Godley was wrong. He had heard the echo of the shot and seen Bickworth catapult out of the saddle.
Bill stopped about twenty metres further on. He was distressed and frothing at the mouth, but instead of circling back to Bickworth, who lay crumpled and unconscious, the horse moved off again, this time at a trot, still in the direction of the Anzac communications trenches. He knew the destination. The firing had stopped. Turkish bets, which centred on the first sniper to stop rider or horse, were already being settled.
A rotund vet, known at the cove as Sir Cumference, was having trouble roping in a distressed Bill when Shanahan reached the beach. He helped the vet remove the saddlebags of mail.
‘He has a wound on his left flank,’ the vet said. ‘He is bleeding, not badly but it must be dressed.’ He pointed to a roped-off area on the beach fifty metres north. It was an animal sick bay. Shanahan held a metre-long pole with an Australian flag on it which he used for training horses. He touched Bill with it, trying to show that he wasn’t going to hurt him. Bill snorted. He seemed to be in pain. Shanahan could see a small rivulet of blood bubbling from the horse’s left flank. He managed to shepherd him slowly back to the makeshift hospital, talking to him all the way, gradually gaining some calm, which suggested he had gained a little respect from the horse. He tethered Bill, roping his legs so that he couldn’t kick. The vet came close with his satchel and examined the wound.
‘I can see the bullet’s tip,’ he said. ‘Have to get it out. Not a big problem.’
The vet took out a bottle containing chloral hydrate. ‘Help me ease him down after I drench him. He’s a big fella, about three-quarters of a ton, I’d reckon. Will take a fair dose to knock him out but we’ve got to be careful, this stuff is used to kill them. Can you distract him for a moment?’
Shanahan reached into his pocket and gave the horse a licorice sweet. Bill liked it. He nudged Shanahan on the arm, wanting another. Then he nibbled at his pocket. Shanahan gave him another sweet. The vet pushed the bottle into Bill’s mouth and half a minute later the drug took effect. Three assistants helped Shanahan ease Bill to the ground. The vet then went to work, using a long tweezers-like instrument to ease the bullet out. The wound was dressed.
‘Did you see the run?’ Shanahan asked. ‘There were two moments when he flinched. I think he was hit twice.’
The vet raised his eyebrows and stroked his considerable second chin, then he waddled around Bill and examined every bit of his hide with a magnifying glass. He found another bullet hole high on his left rump.
‘Not much bleeding, just a little moist.’
‘Which means?’
‘The bullet is deep. Right through his thick hide. And I mean thick.’
He dressed the second wound with a dexterity that belied his plump fingers, and then put his instruments back into his satchel and closed it. ‘Nothing to be done. I’ve seen plenty of those types of holes. Just about all the animals are walking around with them. Much like the men. Thousands of both have shrapnel shards and bits of bullets lodged in their bodies and the medicos can’t get ’em out. Most live with them. Some have pain occasionally; others irritation; others nothing.’
Captain Bickworth was unconscious for an hour. He woke up in pain and diagnosed himself with a snapped collarbone. An ambulance crew crept close and hastened to stretcher him to safety. Meanwhile Swifty Thoms and a few mates collected on their bets. The mail did get through, although the rider did not. They had bet on Bill making it.
Only about one-third of the horse and mule contingent had survived Gallipoli by early December 1915. Bill was among them. He recovered quickly from his wounds after his near-fatal mail run and he had made one new friend: Shanahan, who visited him in the sick bay and wherever he was after that. He never attempted to ride him but would often walk him along the beach or take him for a swim. There was also the odd licorice sweet. Shanahan would not claim a bond with the horse at Gallipoli, but the respect from Bill seemed to grow, if only slowly.
‘Do you know much about his background?’ Shanahan asked Sutherland.
‘No. Many of the Walers were running wild when we rounded them up for service.’
‘He’s about five years old, right?’
‘Hard to say. He is the fittest, strongest animal I have ever come across in the Scottish Highlands, here or in Australia.’
‘Say he is five. Think about his background. He probably was wild as a foal. He had no parenting. Then he comes into contact with humans and they try to dominate him; they treat him rough. But he refuses to buckle. His instinct and experience would tell him he is ten times their size and twenty times more powerful. In any test of strength, he wins, but he loses friends.’
‘Look, I don’t find him so bad. He bit me hard once, but I often wondered if he was just playing and didn’t know his own strength.’
‘I reckon he just needs a good cobber.’
‘Nah, I think he’s too mature for that now. He hates riders and that’s that.’
Shanahan illuminated to a near-smile, indicating he didn’t agree.
In mid-December 1915, some 30,000 Anzacs began beating a silent retreat from Gallipoli, leaving 8000 dead. Shanahan and many other troopers took a moment to visit the rough graves dotted around Anzac Cove before departing. Shanahan was among those who wanted to stay and see the fight through, but he had to accept the proposition that it was better to wait to engage the Turks on another day, on another battlefield. It hurt him deeply, especially leaving so many troopers from country Queensland, most of whom he had known over the journey of the last thirty years in various Light Horse formations. He, like all the other members of the Light Horse, had felt disadvantaged without his mount. They all longed to be reunited with them near Cairo, where they would also be joined by a batch of fresh and eager trooper recruits from Australia.
The thrusting, powerfully built Victoria Cross winner, Lieutenant-Colonel L C ‘Elsie’ Maygar, forty-four, was chosen for the last defence act at Gallipoli. He selected forty volunteers from among the troopers he knew would fight to the death in defence of the evacuation. They would be stationed at Russell’s Top, the scene of so much Light Horse destruction four months earlier.
Maygar asked for only two medicos and met Sutherland just before he closed the depot at Suvla Bay and was about to send his surviving mules and horses onto barges bound for the island of Mudros.
‘I want two pack …’ he began as he looked around. ‘Ah yes, that’s one of them.’ He pointed to Bill. ‘That huge bugger …’
‘Can’t have him, I’m afraid, he’s a wee bit lame,’ Sutherland lied, ‘but we have two lovely wee donkeys here …’