‘I hear you have a rather special stallion at the depot,’ General Sir Edmund Allenby said to Paterson. The great, lonely figure of a man, as Paterson described him, relaxed a little in front of this old acquaintance. The ruddy-faced, moustachioed, 193-centimetre Allenby had been fired from the Western Front and been given the Eastern Front—Egypt and Palestine—as a consolation, replacing the ineffectual General Murray. The balding, 56-year-old Allenby had been storming about Cairo since his recent arrival, putting fear into every officer and soldier. Even at Moascar he had bawled out trainers and cooks and anyone else who displeased him.
‘Stallion?’ Paterson said, feigning ignorance.
‘Some monstrous Waler that no one can mount,’ Allenby said, tapping his boot with a riding whip. ‘A real hero at Romani, I’m told.’
‘Bad luck, General. He’s out on manoeuvres.’
‘Oh is he, Paterson? Pity. Let me know the second he returns. Want to get a good look at him. May even ride him meself.’ He pulled at the brim of his cap, which was jammed on his forehead, adding to his formidable appearance. ‘Or at least get a cavalryman to have a go.’
‘Of course, General.’
They walked away clear of Allenby’s cowering staff of ten and chatted about the Boer War, where they had first met.
‘How are you, General?’
Allenby glanced over his shoulder, making sure none of his people could hear him.
‘’Fraid I’m becoming very hard to get on with. I want to get this war over with.’ He slapped his boot with the whip and jerked his head to indicate his staff. ‘If anything goes wrong I lose my temper and cut loose on them.’
They wandered to the horse corral.
‘Don’t go for your Walers much,’ he said, squinting around the paddock. ‘They’re a common, hairy lot compared to the horses your lancers brought to South Africa.’
‘To be fair, General,’ Paterson said, ‘those horses were a select group of police mounts in superb condition.’
‘Have you brought any over?’
‘A few. But we couldn’t get enough of them to make a difference in this war.’
‘But this motley lot,’ Allenby said, waving his hand at a field containing hundreds of Walers, ‘they’re not going to win a bloody war either!’
‘They were a big factor in belting the Turks six times in the Sinai.’ Paterson began to number them on his fingers. ‘Romani, Katia.’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Allenby said, cutting him off impatiently, ‘but what about Gaza 1 and 2? They didn’t do so well there!’
Paterson didn’t know if the general was baiting him or not. ‘Are you serious, General?’
‘Of course I’m serious, man!’ he said, his complexion flaring up. ‘I don’t joke about war!’
‘As I understand it, General,’ Paterson said carefully, ‘the Light Horse and cavalry were sidelined for those battles. It was more an infantry encounter.’
Allenby’s nose twitched. He was not used to being corrected or contradicted. Everyone, even prime ministers and other generals, tiptoed around him. Paterson was allowed some slack. He was an old friend. Allenby respected him as a poet, and Allenby loved poetry.
‘They were in it,’ he said archly, ‘they should take the blame too.’
‘With respect, General, you are replacing a commander-in-chief who was not up to it. That’s where the real problem with Gaza lies. Not the infantry and certainly not the troopers and my Walers. The infantry had it won. Murray and Lawrence, sitting in Cairo, panicked. They believed the Turks were sending reinforcements. They were not. The Light Horse was about to ride into Gaza for the coup de grâce when they, and the infantry, were pulled out. It was a classic case of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.’
Allenby drew himself up to his full height, towering over Paterson. ‘That’s what you think, is it?’ he asked.
‘Everyone in the army knows this,’ Paterson said quietly, surprised that he had not already received a rebuke. Instead, Allenby swivelled on his feet and tapped his boot with his whip once more. His face was still dangerously red, as if he might explode. Paterson braced himself.
‘I like the way you say “my Walers”, Paterson,’ Allenby said, calming himself, ‘but I wouldn’t be so proud of ’em. Good God, I’ve seen better nags pulling milk-carts in London! They have poor breeding and it shows. Crossbreeds all! Draughthorses and Timor ponies in there too! Terrible! Thoroughbreds perform better. Breeding is everything!’
‘With respect, General, we are not trying to win the Derby here. We want stayers in really trying conditions. Horses with guts. Breeding is one thing, character is another.’
Allenby looked back towards his staff. He had given Paterson enough of his precious time.
‘You may not have had time to study the record in the Sinai,’ Paterson persisted bravely. ‘When you do, you will see three things. First, the Light Horse were magnificent against massive odds in battle. Second, you have the best general on the front in your command.’
Allenby arced up. ‘Who, General Chauvel?’
‘I may well be relieving him of his command.’
‘Why?’
‘None of your business!’
‘He may not meet you at eye level, General,’ Paterson said, ‘but he has what you need to win this war.’
Allenby glared in a way that suggested an impertinent Paterson had stepped over the line. He turned on his heel and began to march off.
‘I haven’t told you the third thing!’ Paterson said, raising his voice as Allenby strode back to his staff. ‘You won’t win without those bloody milk-cart pullers!’
Allenby kept walking and was soon in front of his staff.
‘I want to see the infantry’s 10th Division!’ he bellowed as if he was addressing others beyond the group. Paterson wandered over. He was about ten paces behind Allenby. He pulled out a small notepad and began to scribble, thinking this moment might make an article. It would be censored now but not after the war when he could publish it to show a little of the character of the commander-in-chief.
None of Allenby’s entourage could tell him where his 10th Division was. He received blinks, blank looks, diffident coughs and a couple of his staff began studying their feet.
A brave young officer piped up that it was on its way from India. No one was certain if it had arrived in a camp near Moascar. Allenby, known without affection as ‘Bloody Bull’, snorted.
An even more courageous staff man stepped forward. ‘If you please, sir.’
Allenby cut him off. ‘I don’t want to hear you talk!’ he snapped.
Paterson shook his head slightly as he took down every word.
Allenby stepped up to the officer, looking as if he might strike him. ‘I have enough men following me around to staff the whole British army and you can’t find me a division!’
Paterson was distracted by Sutherland.
‘I’m told you were looking for Bill,’ he said quietly. ‘He is back from the exercise he was on.’
Paterson raised a finger to his lips. ‘No he is not,’ he whispered, glancing at Sutherland. ‘I don’t want this bullyboy going near him. Keep Bill out of the stable. Put him up the back of the paddock with the mules.’
Half an hour later, Allenby entered Paterson’s tent office. His face colour was still up. He was agitated. Paterson stood up from his desk and saluted.
‘You have some impressive horseflesh hidden in the stable, Paterson,’ he said, tapping his boot with his whip even more often than before. ‘They’ve got a bit of breeding in ’em. Where did you get ’em?’
‘I bought them, General.’
‘You mean you purchased them with remount funds?’
‘Out of my own funds.’
‘Oh, royalties for “Waltzing Matilda” have come in, have they?’
Paterson remembered telling Allenby in South Africa that he had earned a pittance from his songs and poems.
‘They are my property, General.’
Allenby leant forward, his knuckles on the desk. His manner was menacing. ‘You bought them from wages earned in the employ of the British army. You have maintained them with funds from this British army depot. They belong to the British army!’
Paterson was incensed. He was about to tell him he would take them home after the war, but checked himself. Allenby was looking to exact retribution from anyone for his ‘deployment’ away from centre stage of the Western Front. Better not to rile him, Paterson thought.
‘I have receipts for them, General.’
‘You know what you can do with them! Those horses are British property. They will stay with the army even after this bloody war is over!’ He flicked his whip at flies. They irritated him, as did the sand and heat. They added to his fury at being effectively exiled to the desert.
Paterson held his tongue. Allenby stormed out and began raging yet again to his cringing staff about his ‘lost’ 10th Division.