Banjo Paterson learned on his return to Sydney that the army was recruiting Light Horsemen and acquiring tens of thousands more horses as quickly as possible. This meant that after the belting at Gallipoli, the Anzacs would be fighting the Turks on a bigger scale in Egypt, Palestine and perhaps further into Arabia as well. Paterson was fifty-one. He had to put his age down to forty-nine to apply for ‘remount service’. The next hurdle was a medical examination. Paterson distracted the doctor looking at his deformed arm by saying he was worried he might have a hernia. The doctor examined his groin and found no problem.
‘Except for a bout of hypochondria,’ Paterson remarked dryly.
‘Perhaps it was phantom pain,’ the doctor said with a shrug, and passed him fit for service.
Paterson recalled Harry Chauvel’s offer and obtained a letter of recommendation from him. It led to Paterson being made a lieutenant in one of the remount divisions being hastily assembled. He was soon promoted to captain and took a transport ship back to the Middle East. Chauvel was pleased with his return. He promoted Paterson to major and put him in charge of the huge, main remount division based at Moascar near the Suez, not far from Port Said. It was about 220 kilometres north-east of Cairo and Paterson at first recoiled from the relative isolation. He liked to socialise and Cairo was good for that. He could fraternise with many women working for the British. He could drink in the clubs and hotels with the generals and others who would give him stories. Moascar would deny him all that except for leave time. He was not going to be a war correspondent but, as Chauvel pointed out, he would have a far greater impact on any conflict in this new role. The breaking, training and preparation of tens of thousands of horses and mules would be one of the most vital roles of the war in the Middle East. ‘If we are going to beat the Turks,’ he told Paterson, ‘fit horses are essential.’
Paterson wrote of his responsibilities as outlined by Chauvel: ‘To take over the rough, uncivilised horses from all over the world by the army buyers; to quieten them and condition them and get them ready for being heel-roped; and finally to issue them in such a state of efficiency that a heavily accoutred trooper can get on and off under fire if need be.’
Breaking the horses in and perfecting their patience under stress would be the difference between life and death for every trooper at least once in battle and, in some cases, often. Paterson soon had 800 rider/trainers under his command, along with 45 vets and assistants. Many buck riders, who roamed Australia in the rodeo shows, had joined the mounted infantry after the outbreak of war had put an end to their performance work.
Some horses in the continual intakes were rougher than Bill the Bastard, who was sent to Moascar to join the mobs arriving from everywhere. But Bill, he believed, would never be fully broken in whereas he was confident he could prepare almost all the others coming under his control. Paterson noticed him wandering the depot grounds. He, like Shanahan, had a soft spot for this big chestnut with the independent mind, idiosyncratic ways and capacity for heavy lifting. He was by no means the most difficult animal at the depot: ‘I think everybody [horse sellers in several countries] that had an incorrigible brute in his possession must have sold it to the army.’ He drew the line at some of what he termed the ‘cheaper’ variety, noting, with his sardonic juices runing:
Thousands of these Argentinians were sent over. They were an interesting study to the student of horseflesh. They were squat, short legged cobs with big hips and bad shoulders. Their heads were like the painting of Bucephalus, ridden by Alexander the Great. They were probably bred from Bucephalus, as one fails to guess by which intermixture of strains of blood the type was arrived at. It is certainly a fixed type now. They resemble each other so closely that if one lost an Argentinian pony, there was little chance of identifying it among his comrades.
They are worthless, cow-hearted brutes. No-one who used them ever had a good word for them. They have been good horses in the Argentine but none of them were going to the war.
Paterson believed there was no comparison with his light, wiry Walers and he himself rode the best of them. ‘I usually only ride horses intended for generals and thus I got the pick of the mounts,’ Paterson wrote.
There was another side to this. If he did not like the general from a particular country, or if the man concerned was rude to him, Paterson was not above delivering him a difficult horse. The animal would not be utterly raw. That would have been too obvious and got Paterson into trouble. Instead he would give the offending general a horse that was temperamental or unpredictable. Then if the general concerned was given trouble by the mount, even bucked off, Paterson could always suggest the rider was a poor horseman. Bill was the perfect horse for this kind of subterfuge. He might let a rider on, as he did Captain Bickworth, and give him a false sense of security for even a few kilometres’ ride, but then he would live up to his name and send the man flying. Paterson was unlikely to hand Bill over to anyone for battle purposes, though. He could buck harder than any other horse he had ever encountered and this might kill a man. Yet he planned to put him on display at a big show created to make his remount division ‘justly celebrated’.
Just before dawn on the morning of Paterson’s remount event, Shanahan arrived at the depot to meet Sutherland, who would take him to see Bill. They met at the front entrance where there was a change of a guard of a dozen soldiers. Two machine-guns were being set up. The light of a full moon was giving way to a wide yellow splash on the horizon and the perpetual promise of scorching heat. The depot was alive with hundreds of trainers crisscrossing the fields to various buildings and tents. Kerosene lamps lit the way to a stable past a corral where buckets were carried and troughs filled. Horses that would be performing were being saddled for a run to open up their lungs. Trick ponies were being loosened up and whispered to by their masters, who would already be feeling nervous.
As they entered the stable, a truck was backing up near them to drop straw bales, which fell with a dull thud on the soft sand. The smell inside was familiar to Shanahan, who had been near or in stables for a fair part of his life: a mixed, musty fragrance of urine, horsehair and sweat on horse blankets, along with oats, hay and grain, which emitted their own sweeter aromas.
‘We have a better stable for the special neddies,’ Sutherland said. ‘I call it the Cup Hotel: home for all the Melbourne Cup candidates and other worthies, including your wee cobber.’
They walked past twenty stalls. A thin young Aboriginal trainer was hosing down the horses.
‘That’s Khartoum,’ Sutherland said, pointing to a big black stallion that looked down an imperious extra-long nose at the intruders. ‘He’s Banjo’s favourite. Says he wants to take him back at the end of all this and have him trained for racing. He only lets the “jockeys”—the smaller blokes who have raced in Australia—on him.’
Sutherland took him over to Khartoum.
‘Have a look at his forehead,’ Sutherland said, pointing out an ugly scar.
‘Your pal Bill did that. Khartoum was apparently flirting with Bill’s girlfriend Penny. Bill flew at him and bit him hard. Khartoum bled a fair amount. Vets had to work overtime. He had about 100 stitches. Khartoum is a wee bit frightened of your pal now.’ He waved at two other horses, Tut 1 and Tut 2.
‘Tut 2 is the stallion,’ Sutherland said. ‘Tut 1 is the gelding.’
‘Should have been Tut Zero, shouldn’t he?’ Shanahan remarked.
‘Banjo reckons he will put Khartoum and Tut 2 out to stud if they don’t do that well. They are power horses, stayers. Banjo says that if they don’t win the Melbourne Cup, they will sire winners.’
They strolled past stalls.
‘That’s Blackham,’ Sutherland said, pointing to a white mare.
The Aborigine, Jackie Mullagh, splashed water near them. Hearing the conversation, he chipped in: ‘I’ve ridden her. We’ve clocked her up to a mile. Fastest sprinter in the world, at least Banjo says.’
Sutherland introduced Shanahan to Mullagh, saying, ‘He’s our best jockey, trainer and rider, by far.’
Mullagh grinned.
‘It’s true,’ he said, causing Shanahan to give a hint of a smile.
‘I want a really good trainer for my squadron,’ he said.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sutherland interjected. ‘Banjo won’t let him go.’
‘Hey, I have a say, don’t I?’ Mullagh said.
Shanahan changed the subject. ‘Where did he get these Arabian beauties from?’ he asked.
‘All I know is that Banjo did a deal with some big-shot Egyptians,’ Sutherland replied. ‘You’d have to ask him.’ He waved his hand at the stalls. ‘Banjo has them trained early in the day before the heat saps them.’
‘Is he serious about racing them?’
‘Yeah. He reckons he can get them all back home. Dunno how. It’s against regulations. But you know him, if there is a rule, he reckons it’s there to be broken.’
They strolled on.
‘That sweet creature is Bill’s girl Penny,’ Sutherland said, pointing out an ungainly, overweight silver-grey mare. ‘She’s a packhorse. Some of the trainers think wee Penny is so ugly that they call her “hatful”, which I think is “hateful”! I might say “hatful” was a term unknown to me before I heard it here. But I think she’s a wee darlin’ mount, if ever there was one. Bill agrees wi’ me, but from a different perspective.’
Sutherland noticed a flicker of a grin from Shanahan. The sergeant was beginning to realise that this response was the equivalent of a hearty laugh from anyone else. But Sutherland liked this reticence. It meant he was being listened to, which, as an immigrant to Australia of five years, was not often part of his experience.
‘He finds wee Penny most attractive indeed.’ Sutherland pointed to Bill. ‘They are always at it. We will see plenty of foals out of that union, I can tell you.’
They reached Bill. He recognised Shanahan, nodded his head and moved forward. He brought his face down close to Shanahan, who stroked his nose and neck.
‘That’s more excitement in him than I’ve seen in the last few days,’ Sutherland remarked, ‘apart from when he can get at Penny. He doesn’t react much to anything. He is a very cool customer. He only goes berserk when someone tries to mount him. Otherwise, he’s a sweet lamb. He can get cranky, but they all can. You know, it might be their feet, something not even the best farrier can pick. Until it’s fixed they are moody and down. Not much different from us, really.’
Shanahan ran his hand over the bullet wound. He moved around the side of the stall and examined where the second bullet had lodged and stayed deep. There was hardly a mark.
‘Why does Banjo keep him in here with the thoroughbreds? Can’t be taking him home for a Cup ride, can he?’
‘No one is really sure. Banjo believes he can find a trainer who can break him completely. No one has, so far. The nearest to “tame” him is Jackie. He has a go every other day. So far he hasn’t stayed on half a minute. But he gets on best wi’ the horse. They have a vague rapport. Jackie walks him, feeds him, waters him, hoses him, exercises him. He cleans out his stable. But mounting him stretches their friendship too far. Jackie gets chucked off every time. More bruises on him from Bill than a prize fighter gets in a lifetime. But he keeps getting back on.’
‘Robert the Bruce,’ Shanahan mumbled.
‘Aye, laddie, just like him!’ Sutherland said, pleased that the Scottish legend was known.
‘Can we walk Bill?’ Shanahan asked.
They bridled the horse. Shanahan took him by a long rein and they wandered in a field of sand and scrub. Other horses were being exercised in preparation for the big event. They thundered by on a rough track.
‘I take them out most days,’ Sutherland said.
‘Should be every day,’ Shanahan advised, ‘to get them breathing. It relaxes them.’
Later in the day, Egyptian notables, wandering English celebrities such as author Conan Doyle, and British officers’ wives all arrived to see the grand remount depot show. A wooden grandstand had been erected to hold a few hundred VIPs. Big marquees had been set up. Spectators would grow in number to a few thousand by the noon start time, including several troopers with the day off from patrolling the Sinai. They milled around behind wooden barriers that ringed the arena.
Bill the Bastard was advertised as ‘the unridable one: See the world’s best riders attempt to tame him’. Paterson placed Bill as the last event on the program. He split the buckjumping show-riders and horse-breakers into a four-state squadron competition. This was followed by an ‘international horse-back wrestling’ competition. In the England versus Australia match, he reported that ‘one of my Queenslanders, a big half-caste named Nev Kelly, pulled the English Pommies off their horses like picking apples off a tree’.
Before the final item, Paterson used a megaphone to inform the audience that only two horsemen had ever stayed on Bill for more than two minutes. The record was ‘a Captain Bickworth of the British Cavalry’ who stayed on him for two minutes and thirteen seconds continuously at Gallipoli. ‘A teenage recruit in 1914 at Liverpool is alleged to have stuck up there [on Bill] for about two minutes ten seconds. But that’s it, apart from our own number one trainer here, Jackie Mullagh. He has the record for the number of rides on Bill, but he has never stayed on more than 25 seconds.’ Paterson was so confident that Bickworth’s time would never be bettered that he offered the tempting prize of 50 pounds to any trainer, or anyone in the audience, who could do better. A hundred trainers applied. Paterson chose the five best, in his judgement, for the challenge, including the talented Mullagh.
A saddled Bill was paraded into the arena to huge applause. He was ‘escorted’, like a prize fighter into a boxing ring, by six trainers. But he didn’t look ready for a fight. He didn’t prance, perform or kick up a fuss. He seemed passive and perhaps ready for a nice afternoon nap rather than an exhibition of jockey-throwing. The crowd and noise did not appear to perturb him.
The trainers surrounded him as the first horse-breaker, a wiry, gaunt-faced character wearing yellow clown’s trousers, ran into the arena, looking for applause. Number 1 was marked on the back of his shirt. He spoke firmly to Bill, who just watched with a phlegmatic look. The man leapt on. Before he could grip the reins, Bill took off. The rider fell to the ground before the horse even attempted to buck. Bill circled the arena and trotted cheekily up to Number 1 as he scrambled to his feet. It seemed he might collide with him, but Bill pulled up short of the rider, leant back and performed his trademark curl of the lip. Number 1 went to mount him again, but Paterson disallowed it. ‘Once you’re off, Number 1, you’re off,’ he called into a loudhailer. ‘Next!’
The second rider, a totally bald, bull-necked, stocky individual with a handlebar moustache, carried a stockman’s whip. Before Number 2 made a move for the saddle, he lashed Bill on the rump, then his back. Bill turned to face his tormentor. He reared up, front legs high and kicking. The rider backed off. The six trainers moved in and tried to control Bill, but this second rider could not even get a foot in a stirrup. Number 2 motioned to use his whip again but was admonished by Paterson and some of the trainers. He was disqualified. Paterson gave him a public tongue-lashing for his ‘abject stupidity!’
The third rider, a bow-legged, thin little man who walked with a heavy limp, was called for. He put his hands up and shook his head. He knew Bill. The horse was upset. There was no point in trying to mount him. It was a case of once broken, twice shy—Number 3 had acquired a severe knee cartilage problem after a twisting fall from Bill on a previous occasion.
‘Very wise, Number 3,’ Paterson remarked. ‘Discretion is the better part of valour.’
The third rider was jeered. Paterson looked sharply to the main source of the noise. ‘Okay, troopers,’ he said, ‘would one of you like to have a go?’
No one volunteered.
‘You too are very wise,’ Paterson said. ‘This horse will hurt you if he doesn’t like you. And he heard your comments. You are marked men!’
This brought a roar of applause.
The fourth rider strode into the arena. He was tall and gangling—all elbows and knees and wearing shorts, black socks and Roman sandals. The six trainers steadied Bill and held on as Number 4 climbed gingerly aboard. He held on to Bill’s neck as he began a manic dance near the arena fence. He did one complete circle and then bucked. Number 4 was thrown over Bill’s head and into the crowd, which parted so that he hit the ground hard. A medic pushed his way through the throng. The man was in pain. His lower leg was broken—bone was sticking through his shin—and his knee seemed dislocated. Number 4 was stretchered to an ambulance. Paterson thought of calling off the event, but the crowd reacted. They wanted to see Number 5, Mullagh, make his attempt.
The horse was in a fearsome mood now. Mullagh knew he was on a hiding to nowhere. He asked the trainers to remove the saddle, and jumped on. The crowd, which was estimated to have been at more than 5000 by the time of this last event, applauded, whistled and cheered their approval. Bill reared up and stayed high like a trick pony. Mullagh hung on. Then Bill took two paces forward and bucked, his hindquarters lifting so high that it brought gasps from the onlookers. Bill then tilted sideways and Mullagh was off. He had lasted fifteen seconds, which wasn’t his best effort.
The multiple leg injuries to Number 4 added to the show’s downside. Paterson wrote to a friend that the entire day’s performance left him with two men with broken legs, one with a fractured shoulderblade, two with crushed ankles and ‘about seven others more or less disabled’. ‘Of course Bill the Bastard didn’t let me down,’ he added with his usual acerbic wit, ‘put on a terrifying show. I knew he would add to the casualty numbers. Does every time.’ Nevertheless he praised his riders, saying he never had to tell one of them twice to mount a horse, ‘no matter how hostile it appeared’. The exception to this concerned Bill. ‘We had 100 applications to ride him, but there were 700 that weren’t game.’