At dawn, Chauvel waited until sunlight bathed the entire battleground before he mounted at the head of the 500-strong 2nd Light Horse. Royston, on his eleventh horse, was behind him. In full view of the beleaguered 1st Brigade and the Turks, the long column wound its way from Et Maler. The troopers in the field and on the defending plateaus and ridges cheered.
Chauvel did not order a gallop. He was content with a steady canter through the sand, keeping the horses fresh and the troopers ready, if impatient, for battle. Yet the unhurried non-charge had its own menace for the Turks. They had slogged through the night only to be met at first light with a demoralising sight. They themselves were in need of relief and water. Neither was forthcoming; there was only the promise of a brutal sun, diminishing food rations, reduced ammunition and ferocious opposition. The Turks had the numbers and much of the high ground but now the prospect of victory was no certainty. Chauvel’s tactic had changed the battle dynamic. His column advanced steadily towards Wellington Ridge directly in front of Et Maler, the last bastion before Romani.
Chauvel rode up to Lieutenant-Colonel Meredith on the ridge just as a Turkish infantry contingent reached a ridge in front of them. He wasted little time in ordering Royston to send two regiments (384 troopers in each) to shore up defences to the west. The first hour of dawn would now decide if the Turks could be held.
Shanahan was at the bottom of Wellington Ridge with his and other regiments trying to stop the enemy onslaught above them. The Turks opened up with artillery. He saw a fellow officer shot dead a few metres from him. Shanahan fired at his assassin but was caught in an ambush close to the foot of the ridge. He was shot in the thigh, but kept fighting for another hour, protecting and covering his troopers as they withdrew. Then he slumped unconscious on Bill. When the horse realised his rider was not directing him, he took off at a canter, building to a light gallop, through the lines, heading for Et Maler. Had he bolted at full stride, he may well have caused Shanahan to slide off.
Bill galloped the two kilometres to Et Maler and stopped outside the vet hospital area at about 6.15 am. There was so much activity with injured animals that Bill was not noticed for several minutes. Shanahan was found unconscious, his left leg soaked in blood. A vet led Bill to the soldiers’ hospital tents. Shanahan was laid out next to a long line of wounded men waiting to be seen by a medico. His leg was dressed and he was placed on the critical list along with scores of other men from a battle that was still intense.
Bill was taken to the horse yard and placed with the reserve horses. He was given a long drink at a trough and fed. Sergeant Sutherland was in charge of this modest remount depot of about 3000 horses, the reserve for the 1500 troopers. He knew of Bill’s effort earlier in the day in carrying out the five troopers. He was soon informed that Shanahan was wounded.
‘Put “the Bastard” wi’ the packhorses,’ he ordered an assistant. ‘He is not to be given to anyone for more action. That wee neddie has done enough. He’s earned a break. If Major Shanahan can’t ride him again, Bill’s combat days are over. He’ll become some lucky officer’s best packhorse.’
‘What happens if Galloping Jack wants him?’ the assistant asked. ‘He’s been barging in here every half-hour wanting a replacement.’
‘You don’t let him have Bill.’
‘But the general is so bloody demanding that—’
‘You tell him from me that Harry Chauvel has given the order: no one touches Bill the Bastard.’
‘Jesus! Has he?’
‘That’s beside the point, laddie. Anyway, I don’t think General Royston would be stupid enough to attempt to saddle up Bill. He wouldn’t want to look a fool if he was thrown off in front of his men. “The Bastard” will never let anyone mount him for any length of time except the major.’
At 8 am the Turks had taken Wellington Ridge but the British artillery gunners had found their range and were pulverising the position. The enemy was forced to abandon it. After six hours of gruelling battle, the Turks had been halted. With the sun pounding down and no chance of them proceeding, Chauvel called for reinforcements. As he feared, the British infantry, sitting in outposts, would not help the Light Horse unless General Lawrence ordered them to do so. But communication lines to him were down. Chauvel now had an anxious wait for help from the New Zealand Mounted Infantry (Light Horse), British cavalry, another Australian Light Horse brigade and English cameleers. With the slow communications, these forces would not arrive until early afternoon. That left Chauvel galloping up and down the lines with Royston, exhorting his men to make extra efforts to hold out right along an extended front running ten kilometres almost to the coast.
By early afternoon Shanahan had regained consciousness but his condition had deteriorated. Overworked doctors pronounced him ‘dangerously ill’. They discussed amputating his leg but thought he was too weak for an operation. Medicos had to make quick decisions for hundreds of casualties. The plan for Shanahan was simple: if he recovered they would again consider amputation.
The reinforcements arrived between 2 and 3 pm and were immediately deployed to fight off the Turks, who by late afternoon were struggling everywhere. The enemy had anticipated taking the wells near Romani, but that was now impossible. They were out of water and food almost all along the front. The Turks would have to withdraw, defeated. Chauvel revelled in the thought that Romani was the first decisive victory attained by British land forces in the war except for campaigns in West Africa. The Light Horse primarily had denied the Turks in this critical battle, which meant Egypt had been saved for the British. He praised his senior commanders, but it was the disciplined men such as Shanahan and horses such as Bill that had done the courageous hard work in combat against all odds. They were the difference at Romani.
Thirteen days later, at dawn on 17 August 1916, three Australian doctors examined Shanahan, who was sitting up in bed in a hospital tent at Et Maler. He asked about Bill.
‘Bill?’ the thin-faced medico in charge asked. ‘One of your men?’
‘My mount.’
‘Oh, Bill the Bastard!’ the doctor said, his pale grey eyes twinkling and expression lightening. ‘He is a damned legend! You collapsed while fighting at the bottom of Wellington Ridge. That amazing beast brought you back, but not to us—to the vet!’
Shanahan managed a wan smile. ‘He is okay though?’
‘Far as I know, fit as a fiddle. Sergeant Sutherland is recommending him for some sort of award. A horse VC!’
‘My men …? My troopers?’
The doctor began opening a large hold-all. He placed a saw on a table below Shanahan’s eye level. Other cutting instruments were put beside it.
‘Don’t worry about them for the moment. You’ll be briefed on everything.’
‘The battle …?’
‘We won, although you wouldn’t know it from the carnage of man and beast that was out there. But it was all over the day you were brought in by Bill.’
‘But where is he?’
‘No idea. He may be in Katia by now. The whole force has cleared out. They’re chasing the Turks back to Palestine. But don’t worry about that mighty stallion. Sergeant Sutherland is telling everyone that General Chauvel has ordered that he never fight again. He has earned a long life. He’s a packhorse from now on.’
Shanahan was not yet mentally strong enough to comprehend this. It was confusing. Why was his steed being made a packhorse again?
‘You’re going to be okay,’ the doctor reassured him, ‘but I must say you had us worried. Thought we’d lose you a couple of nights ago. But you’re a very fit man, Major.’
‘But my leg has to go?’
The doctor took a deep breath. ‘’Fraid so. We couldn’t operate until now. But it’s gangrenous.’
‘Yeah, I realise that. It’s green and putrid.’
The doctor nodded. A nurse closed the tent flap. The whiff of ammonia dominated the operating theatre.
‘Take heart, Major,’ he said, ‘you lived. And you’re not alone in losing a limb. I’ve come from the Western Front. I reckon 100,000 Allied soldiers lost one limb, at least, in this year alone.’ He sighed. ‘I know. I removed my share of them. But that’s good for you. I do know what I am doing.’
The comment was not comforting. Nurses came into the room with other medical equipment.
‘I know it’s not much consolation, but remember maybe a further five, perhaps six million have died in action since 1914. Surviving is something in this war, Major.’
‘Life is a fair consolation,’ Shanahan said. ‘I’ll take it.’
The doctor didn’t respond. His mind was off small talk and onto his speciality with a saw.
‘Let’s do it,’ Shanahan said, a twinge of regret in his stoic voice.
A solemn-looking, plump nurse stepped forward holding a morphine syringe. ‘Lie back please, Major,’ she said, with more of a wince than a smile.