There was more than just genuine affection in Shanahan’s mind in his reacquaintance with Bill. Like all the troopers, he wanted the best horse possible for what lay ahead: battles in the desert under the most trying conditions imaginable. The Walers were doing well but they had not been tested in the heat of conflict, nor had they been extended on the sort of rides—sometimes seventy to eighty kilometres in a day—they would be required to do in the dry, hot desert. The contention from everyone in the British command was that the camels would always be a better bet on the long marches. They could go days with little or no water. They had been bred in the desert for thousands of years. The Walers had been bred into semi-desert or arid regions of Australia for barely a century. Yet with all that, almost all troopers opted for the Light Horse regiments rather than the camel units. The reason was simple. The troopers to a man wanted to experience the charge. They could do this on camels but not at the same speed or with the same chance of success. The Arabs used camels to charge at the Turks or at each other in tribal wars, but there were rarely more than fifty in an attack, and usually it was in an ambush. The Anzac commanders and troopers had visions of attacks by several regiments—up to 1000 horsemen—in mighty onslaughts that would overwhelm the enemy and win major battles.
Shanahan saw the huge potential in Bill and his bastardry. His courage was evident in all circumstances. He was afraid of no man and no man was his master. His reaction when fired on and hit twice on the despatch run at Gallipoli had demonstrated a will to ride on even though disabled. He was also stronger than any other of the 200,000 animals that would pass through the British horse depots on the Western Front and in the Middle East. He had been loaded with more than 400 kilograms and it made little difference to his capacity to plough his way along a track, up a gully, or down a ravine. Endurance was a further asset. He also had remarkable speed over long distances. His seven-kilometre gallop was recorded as the fastest time by any horse in eight months of ‘runs’, and this was despite being hit and interrupted by his desire to remove his rider. Admittedly, he did not have the 80-kilogram Captain Bickworth for much more than a mile (1600 metres). But Swifty Thoms clocked his first 3200 metres (two miles) at just under four minutes, which he reckoned was ‘bloody good’ considering he was carrying a bigger than average man on his back for about half that distance before he ‘shed him like a lizard’s skin’. ‘The Bastard wouldn’t win a Melbourne Cup,’ Thoms added, ‘but he’d give any horse alive a run for his money over twice that distance [four miles].’
Spirit, intelligence, durability and strength—these factors drew Shanahan to the horse. He and thousands of troopers like him did not have to reflect on the value of a proficient animal to their existence in Australia. It was a given. They were essential for survival in the bush. They were still the main means of travel, despite the development of trains and automobiles. In the even harsher climate of the Middle East, and in battle conditions, they were even more valuable.
Without access to intelligence coming into the British Cairo spy centre known as the ‘Arab Bureau’, Shanahan and his men were sure the Turks would be coming at the British forces across the Sinai. The Turks had been victorious at Gallipoli. In March 1916 they had defeated the British again in Iraq in a battle over its central province. The Ottoman (Turkish) Empire may have been on the wane in Europe, but its leaders were determined to hold on to its 400-year dominance of the Middle East. The Turks were confident, even justifiably cocky, after drubbing the British Empire twice. They were not going to stop. Egypt, which was controlled by the British, was now in their sights. Like the troopers in the field, most observers, including the British spies at the Arab Bureau, believed it was only a matter of time before they sent a big army into the Sinai. The Turkish aim would be to smash its opposing empire for a third successive time, perhaps inside a year.
Every trooper, from Harry Chauvel down to the lowliest private, wanted revenge against the Turks, but it wasn’t something spoken with vehemence around campfires at night. Any chat in relation to Gallipoli consisted of grumbles about ‘not finishing the job’, or the fact that so many mates had been left in makeshift graves when the rest evacuated. There were always complaints about the officers, but more vitriol and resentment were directed at the British generals and government for the folly of attacking Turkey with such a poor plan in the first place. Yet unspoken was the feeling that the regrouped Anzac force, which had licked its wounds and re-energised, would like to lash out against the enemy in an effort to at least square the battle ledger. They believed they would acquit themselves far better with what they saw as their major asset in any conflict: their mounts. Yet belief was one thing, reality another. The Walers had yet to be tested under battle conditions in this conflict. Although there was some indication of potential success from their efforts in the Boer War, South Africa was not a desert country.
A problem for the British High Command was judging when a mass Turkish attack on Egypt would occur. The enemy would take their time with this, refitting and rebuilding their own victorious forces. They were not willing to use the three armies already stationed in the Middle East, one in Palestine, another in Jordan, and a third stationed along the Hejaz railway, which ran from northern Palestine to deep into Arabia. The Turks and their German alliance commanders were nervous about shifting these forces south and east just yet. Better, they thought, to rebuild the army that had defended Gallipoli so well and send it on the mission to take Egypt. The Germans and Turks were not going to pass on the chance to knock the British out of the Middle East forever, but they did not wish to make the same mistakes the British had in invading Gallipoli. They would be well-equipped and prepared for protracted battles.
The Turkish delay in sending a force into Egypt in 1916 was not a tactical move, but it had the effect of destabilising the British forces as they waited impatiently for battle. The interlude caused a dangerous lull in defensive thinking. Some of the British forces became slack, which made them vulnerable to sporadic attacks by Turkish patrols seeping stealthily into the Sinai from Palestine where the two enemy armies were based.
Shanahan visited the Moascar depot a week after the rodeo show and asked for Bill again. It was late afternoon. He went through the same routine and build-up for half an hour before mounting the horse a second time. Paterson joined Sutherland to watch once more from just outside their ‘office’ tent.
‘He has asked to take him on a ride,’ Sutherland said.
‘Hmm. I want to see this.’
A trainer, one of a hundred who had been in the yard watching Shanahan exercising Bill, opened the gate and Bill trotted out. Shanahan built him slowly to a gallop. Paterson and Sutherland rushed in to retrieve their binoculars. They hurried to the depot entrance with the group of trainers, who also watched, almost in silence.
Shanahan pushed Bill to a fair clip without letting him do his headlong charge that had ended badly for Captain Bickworth and painfully for trooper Henderson. About 700 metres into the ride, Bill slowed down himself. Shanahan knew this was the precursor to an attempt to unseat him. Bill did as expected with an upward thrust of his rump and back legs. Shanahan braced without losing control. It seemed nothing like the force Bill had generated with the rodeo riders or Bickworth. Shanahan waited for a second buck and it came with a fraction more vigour, but again, from atop the horse it seemed nothing like his previous displays. Then came a third and fourth ‘jump’ that seemed more playful than an angry attempt to throw him off. Shanahan patted the horse’s neck and he settled into a steady gallop again in a circle of about two kilometres into the desert and then back to the depot.
He trotted into the grounds where hundreds of trainers and depot employees had gathered. They applauded. In their business a wild one like Bill was the ultimate conquest.
Paterson reached up and shook Shanahan’s hand. ‘Wonders never cease,’ he said. ‘Never thought I’d see Bill so compliant.’
‘Still needs work,’ Shanahan commented, ‘but I reckon he’ll be ready for service in a couple of weeks.’
‘You’ve tamed the bastard.’ Paterson grinned and added, ‘You even got me turning his name into a term of endearment—almost! Never thought I’d say that after he bit a piece out of Khartoum’s head!’
‘Then I can take him? I’d be honoured.’
‘No, you can’t.’ A sly smile creased Paterson’s rugged features. ‘Unless you can arrange a dinner for me with the magnificent Cath Phelan—the woman you left with last time.’
‘You haven’t tried asking her yourself?’
‘Oh yes I have. But she sort of deflects the request.’
Shanahan eyed Paterson for several seconds. ‘Can’t do that, sorry,’ he said.
‘Pity. No dinner, no horse.’
‘It is a pity, really,’ Shanahan said as he dismounted. ‘More than you know.’
‘Why?’ Banjo asked, intrigued.
‘She likes you. Loves your ballads. We discussed you on the ride to Cairo.’ Shanahan paused and added, ‘I’m sure you’ll come up again tonight over dinner.’
‘You serious, Major? She has never even mentioned my writing to me.’
‘She can recite every verse of “The Man From Snowy River”.’
‘She hardly said a word to me at the party last week!’
‘Despite appearances, she’s quite shy. Needs a few drinks to get her talking.’
Normally Shanahan was not big on eye contact unless reprimanding one of his squadron troopers, but now he studied Paterson’s every twitch as if reading him. ‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said in a generous tone, ‘if you let me have young Jackie Mullagh and Bill, I’ll arrange that dinner with Cath. And it will be on me.’
‘You are joking! He’s our best trainer!’
‘Only want to second him for six months, to help my squadron’s mounts get right up to standard.’
‘Three months.’
‘Five.’
‘Done,’ said Paterson, grinning.
Bill was taken to his corral, but he suddenly broke free from the trainer and trotted up behind Shanahan.
‘Look out, Lieutenant,’ Sutherland called, ‘you’ve got company!’
Shanahan turned slowly to face Bill and stood his ground. The horse stopped close to him and nudged his shoulder, firmly but without aggression.
‘Aha!’ Shanahan said. ‘You want a reward.’ The horse nudged him again. Shanahan reached down to his backpack and pulled out several licorice sweets.
‘I guess it might be a reward this time,’ he said as Bill devoured the sweets, ‘you big bloody kid!’
The prim Savoy waiter poured the champagne into Cath Phelan’s glass and walked away. The dining room, dominated by white walls, ceiling and tablecloths, was crowded with British officers and a few Australians. Phelan, in a black dress with a white-brimmed hat and matching white shoes and handbag, was one of four women in the room, and the best dressed. Many heads had turned when she and Shanahan walked in and when they were seated. Several men kept glancing at her.
‘You are very popular,’ Shanahan observed.
‘Ah well, you get used to it here. European, upright, breathing and female.’ She smiled. ‘I qualify on all counts. Oh, and I’m more than six feet in high heels.’
‘And you wear that perfume …’
‘You like it?’ Phelan asked with wide grin.
‘It’s …’ Shanahan groped for a description.
‘You don’t like it?’
Shanahan shrugged. ‘Didn’t say that,’ he said cautiously. ‘I will say my olfactories have been alerted.’
‘Well I love it! It’s French. Bob got it for me in Paris: “La Passionata”. He loves it. It may be a bit powerful for you.’
‘But not for Banjo Paterson.’
Phelan frowned. ‘What?’
‘He is very keen on you.’
‘Is he? He’s a nice man. A very talented, interesting man.’
She clinked her glass with his. Shanahan had water.
‘So,’ she said eagerly, ‘how did it go? Have you won “the Bastard”?’
‘It went well. Rode him out for a mile or so. No problem.’
‘Great!’ She raised her glass again. ‘To Bill the Bastard!’ It was loud enough for more heads to turn. ‘So Banjo has let him go to you?’
Shanahan pulled a face. ‘Bit of a problem there,’ he said. ‘I can have him on one condition.’
‘What?’
‘That I arrange a dinner between you and Banjo.’
Phelan laughed. ‘You bloody men have a cheek! Trading me, not like horseflesh, but for horseflesh!’
‘Will you do it for me?’
‘What does he expect?’ she asked pointedly.
‘Nothing! Just to have dinner with you, that’s all.’
She considered him. After a few seconds she said: ‘I’ll do it with my own condition.’
‘Anything!’
‘That you’ll sleep with me.’
Shanahan blinked and then stared.
‘Ah, got some real emotion out of you,’ she said.
‘Will you dine with Banjo, please?’ he asked.
Phelan sipped her drink. ‘Why not?’ she said phlegmatically. ‘I don’t fancy him. Just as long as he takes me to dinner somewhere really nice.’
‘I appreciate this. We’ll put Bill on the train for Romani in a couple of days. Still plenty of work to do. Not that much time. There is a rumour that the Turks are preparing to attack us in the Sinai. I look forward to a good relationship with him in the field.’
Phelan drained her glass and motioned for a waiter to refill it.
‘You like your champagne,’ Shanahan observed.
‘I had a couple in the lounge before you arrived too.’ She took another sip. ‘In the blood, really. My dad was an alcoholic.’ She stared at him. ‘Don’t know how you avoid it.’
‘Never had the desire.’
She took a cigar from her handbag and fitted it in the gold holder. She handed him an embossed silver lighter and motioned for him to light it for her. He obliged.
‘I suppose you don’t smoke either?’ she said, offering him one. He shook his head.
‘Your dad Tom used to drink at the Roma Hotel with my dad. They were both drunks.’ She waited for a reaction. Shanahan was looking at the menu.
‘What are you having?’ she asked.
‘The lamb chops.’
‘Me too. There’s an English cook. They’ll be good.’
She smoked for a while and sipped her champagne before asking: ‘Old Tom was tough on you, wasn’t he?’
‘We all copped a fair bit of abuse, physical and mental. But there were a lot of us, remember—a lot of brats to keep in line. I was the first-born male. I guess Dad made all his mistakes as a parent on me.’
‘I remember being at your place and someone broke a window. There were about twenty kids playing cricket. No one owned up to it, so he lined us all up and belted us round the legs with a garden hose!’
The remark teased a hint of a smile from Shanahan. ‘Very democratic of him,’ he said.
‘But my sisters and I had nothing to do with it! He still dished it out and we weren’t even his kids!’ The shock seemed to revisit her.
‘Scarred for life, are we?’ Shanahan asked.
‘No, of course not. I just remember it. I also saw him strapping one of your brothers to a kitchen chair and belting him with a scrubbing brush.’
‘If it was Joe,’ Shanahan said with a wry look, ‘he probably deserved it.’
‘You’re defending your father, aren’t you?’
Shanahan didn’t respond.
‘I remember you were the father figure for your younger siblings,’ she went on, ‘you protected them from old Tom.’
‘“Protected” is too strong. My older sister Polly and I used to look after them. Best to keep them away from Dad if he was drunk, which was every night. But he worked bloody hard, you know.’
‘Never any excuse. Your father was a moody, heavy-handed bully like mine.’
‘He could be melancholic.’
‘Don’t give me the “poor maudlin Irish” excuse, please.’
‘I think you’re overstating things.’
‘Bullshit!’
Her loud swearing caused the room to fall silent. She drank more. A waiter took their orders. ‘And more champagne,’ Phelan said as the waiter collected the menus.
She finished her cigar. ‘It’s the reason I’m thirty-four, not married and haven’t had children.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘All that drinking by Dad, night after night. He would come home and verbally abuse my mother. She would argue back. He’d hit her, not every night, but sometimes. That was bad enough. We used to cop abuse too. I swore I’d never marry. I haven’t. But I’m engaged.’ She held up her ring finger. ‘Yet it’s only for show. Saves Bob a bit of embarrassment over “living in sin”. He can always say we are getting married next year or when the war’s over. But he knows how I feel.’
She lit a second cigar herself. They sat in silence. Shanahan seemed relaxed despite her probing, which she thought might have upset him.
‘You used to be an equestrian,’ he said, suddenly recalling her. ‘You were about thirteen.’ He brightened. ‘You were really good!’
‘That wasn’t a question, was it?’
‘No …’
‘Just wondered. Don’t think you’ve asked me one thing since we met.’
A fresh bottle of champagne was popped and poured.
‘To answer your non-question,’ she said, ‘yes, I did have a go as an equestrian. But when we had to move to Brisbane it became too costly to have me indulged. Horses are an expensive business and I had five siblings who needed their own less costly indulgences. Like tennis and cricket. But I have always loved horses.’ She held his gaze. ‘You do understand why we love them so much?’ she said.
Shanahan waited. He knew she would tell him.
‘You can relate to them. You find it much easier than humans. And they are loyal. They don’t let you down, abuse you or leave you. You learn that if you treat them well and with respect.’
Shanahan nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t realised that,’ she persisted. ‘That’s the reason, or let’s say a big reason, you can handle Bill the Bloody Bastard when nobody else can.’
Their meals were served.
‘Are you married, Michael?’ she asked as she added some Worcestershire sauce to her chops and mashed potatoes.
He sampled a chop.
‘You do ask a lot of questions,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Tell me about your fiancé.’
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his. ‘Are you going to sleep with me?’ she asked.