Gill and Moody introduced the pup to the members of their tent of Signallers, who called themselves ‘The Rebels.’ This title was more wishful thinking than fact, although several of them were daring to the point of being foolhardy. They all shared either distaste for any form of authority or a downright hatred of it, and in this sense they were rebellious. Their main overall crime was to be AWL—Absent Without Leave. But their reputation preceded them and had consequences. If the cook-house was raided during the night, police came to the Rebels’ tent first to make enquiries. At least one member of the ‘gang’ seemed to be wearing a black eye after a day’s leave, indicating that the individual had been in a brawl. They were an undisciplined bunch, and it was this that bound them.
The engineering genius of this specialist communications group was also the quietest: 30-year-old, brown-eyed George Harlor, who had dark hair and a complexion to match. He was the group’s techno-nerd. He could scrounge around for odd bits of metal and wire and put a wireless together in no time. The lean, 176 cm Harlor renamed himself ‘Gordie’ because he was irritated by all the Arabs calling each of the gunners ‘George.’
New South Wales farmer Bert ‘Fitz’ Fitzsimmons, 24, was the tallest of the group at 182 cm, and the sharp-witted one who had a quick reply or observation in any moment. Fitzsimmons was obsessed with running two-up schools. The 175 cm Lance Corporal Brian Featherstone (‘Feathers’), solidly-built and with his hair the colour of straw, was the youngest at 19. A shipping clerk in civilian life in Victoria before the war, he had the look of a callow yet bright youth. His conscientiousness and outstanding ability as a signaller had seen him gain a promotion early. But his tendency to fool around had made his holding on to that one stripe a tenuous thing.
There was also South Australian former barley inspector Bill Shegog, 26. ‘The Gogg,’ at 178 cm, was a wry-humoured character and the best signaller among them. He was also a good sportsman who, it was claimed, could kick an Australian Rules football over a wheat silo and hit a cricket ball out of sight. When any footy or cricket team was picked, he was always everyone’s first choice. He had a real talent for alcohol consumption, and in a culture which lauded ‘big drinkers,’ he was reputed to be the biggest of the entire battalion to the point where some dared call him ‘The Grog.’ Just to balance things, he was the battalion’s champion chess player. Shegog also had a creative bent, and was a fine artist with pencil or paintbrush, and everyone had their portrait done by him. All were astonished at their likeness and Shegog’s capacity to capture the subject’s ‘personality.’ When asked by Fitzsimmons if his creativity at chess and painting came from his drinking, he replied: ‘Nope. I just happen to be a drunk who paints and plays chess. I’d get out the easel and the chessboard even if I didn’t drink.’
‘Just like Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald? They were drunks and creative writers …’
‘I’d give a qualified “yes” to that. But please don’t accuse my paintings of being bleak, humourless landscapes like their books, which I believe is because they drink.’
Finally there was sandy-haired, rough-shaven and unkempt Malcolm Gordon Murchison, 22, who was never too far from trouble or danger. The 180 cm former car salesman ‘Murchie’ was the wildest and most slovenly of an untidy bunch, the exception being the neat and well-pressed Featherstone. Murchison had the habit of idly playing with his revolver and firing a bullet into the roof of the tent. Apart from being unnerving for the others, it let in little rays of hot sun that irritated those trying to avoid the heat of the day. He also kept everyone ill at ease by keeping several 40 to 50 centimetre-long desert snakes—asps—in a kerosene tin under his bed. Every so often he would bring them out and play with them, causing much displeasure with his tent-mates, who would scatter.
The not-so motley crew was under the charge of Sergeant Roy ‘Poppa’ Brooker, the 47-year-old veteran of the group, who served under General Chauvel with the 9th Light Horse Regiment in the Middle East in World War I. He and Moody were the only two married men. The lean yet sturdily framed, 172 cm Brooker was partially bald. He preferred the comb-over to the brush-back of his dwindling hairline, which was the only sign of insecurity or mild self-absorption in an otherwise natural and generous leader. He would say in defence of his men that the first Anzacs were the wildest men on leave, but ‘once on the front-line and in battle, they were the most disciplined and alert of all armies.’ This tough former Victorian railway clerk wasn’t sure this steadiness under real pressure translated to his lot, but he said he ‘lived in hope,’ and he was often found defending the indefensible among his Rebels for their range of minor misdemeanours. While Brooker complained they were a ‘useless bunch,’ he had a hidden pride in them and was respected and loved by each man, who knew that he had their interests at heart. They described him as a fair dinkum Aussie, which, coming from them, was the highest praise an NCO, or any enlisted man, could receive. Brooker had endeared himself to the Rebels early in their stay at the Ikingi ‘resort’ when Moody, the Rebels’ amateur geologist and archaeologist, found a battered skull in a cave, which may well have been an ancient grave. He took it and a chunk of marble from the cave back to the tent and suggested the skull would make a fine mascot (before Horrie).
‘It has a real grin,’ Fitzsimmons observed, and this caused much mirth in the tent as each man agreed it was a smiley, if bony face. They called him ‘Erb’ and placed the skull above the tent door. The camp’s most unpleasant member, bespectacled Queenslander and Sergeant-of-the-Guard Ross ‘Gerry’ Fitzgerald, a brutish drunk, abused the Rebels for keeping it, saying it was ‘bloody sacrilege’ to take an ‘ancient’ from his desert tomb. He tried to take ‘Erb’ from the top of the tent door. Brooker confronted him.
‘I’ll fight you for him,’ Brooker told Fitzgerald, rolling up his sleeves as if ready for a fisticuff. The 188-centimetre Fitzgerald was the camp tough-guy bully but, for once in a sober state, he was not prepared to take on the fierce-looking Rebels’ sergeant.
Fitzgerald backed off, saying: ‘I wouldn’t want to hurt you, old man, not over a grinning bloody skull!’ This caused howls of derision from the onlooking Rebels. From then on, Brooker had greater respect from his men.
The day Horrie was found, the Rebels were all lying around in the tent, some happily preoccupied; one or two were reading and writing letters, while the others were fiddling with guns, radio sets or other pieces of equipment to do with signalling. The little canine wandered in and galvanised interest. Moody and Gill explained his plight.After offering him bully beef, which he ignored, biscuits, which he crunched through, and water, he played up to anyone who garnered his attention with a whistle, a snap of the fingers, a word or even a smile. His stump of a tail gyrated. He was an instant hit. All the Rebels had some ‘country’ in their backgrounds and they loved animals, especially dogs. They all had an instinct about him. The dog with no name at that moment except ‘doggie,’ ‘mate,’ ‘little fella,’ ‘cobber’ or ‘boy’ moved from bunk to bunk as if acquainting himself with every one of them by sight and fragrance. He was sensing them and his position in the scheme of things.
‘What’s his name?’ Harlor asked as he oiled a piece of equipment.
‘Didn’t tell us,’ Moody replied, which elicited smiles from all of the others.
‘What are you gunna call him?’ Featherstone asked. ‘Make a darn good mascot, I reckon.’
‘’Bout time we had a mascot,’ Fitzsimmons said, ‘instead of Erb or Murchie’s bloody reptiles.’
‘They are not “reptiles,” ’ Murchison said, ‘they are my pets.’
‘Nar,’ Gill said with a rueful look, ‘they can hardly lead our unit on a march.’
‘So it’s agreed then,’ Brooker remarked as he hoisted the dog up onto his bunk, ‘he’s with us and he’s our mascot.’ He noticed a flea jump from the dog, then another. ‘Once he’s had a good bath.’
‘Why?’ Gill asked. ‘He’d be cleaner than most of us.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Brooker said.
‘Okay, fellas,’ Moody interjected, ‘let’s name him.’
Each man proffered a name or two. First, there was ‘Anzac’ but that was dismissed. One of the other battalions had a cat of that name. Second, there was ‘Gypo,’ the nickname for Egyptians, which was not always expressed with endearment. That was discarded. Murchison commented that such a name linked him with the locals when this dog might become a ‘dinkum Aussie.’ A third suggestion was ‘Wog Dog,’ which brought a ripple of approval. Some repeated the name and liked the rhyme. But once more Murchison thought that this linked him to Arabs in general, and they were not popular with the diggers, who had not come to terms with the locals and their ways, which were so different from those ‘back home.’ This blatant racism was common among troops of all nationalities but the anti-Arab attitude had roots deeper than simply a sense of superiority, often unjustified, because of different cultures and mores. The troopers of the Australian Light Horse during the Great War had had a deep and abiding distrust of all Arabs, who were lumped together, whether city dwellers or desert nomads. The thieving of items such as rifles and the sly murdering of troopers in the camps throughout the Middle East had set the original Anzacs hard against all Arabs. The massacre of British cavalrymen in the Sinai at Oghratina on 23 April 1916 had begun the detestation. Continued pilfering, throat-cutting and shooting of Anzacs in the night over the next two years had set a level of wariness and hate that lasted for the war’s duration. It had carried over two decades into this war, and was reinforced by renewed thieving experienced already by Anzac troops. Nevertheless ‘Wog Dog,’ which sounded good to the men and had a resonance of fun, in keeping with this funny little animal and his playful, alert ways, looked likely to win the naming ‘contest.’
‘You can call him that,’ Murchison said, ‘but I won’t.’
‘Think of it as standing for Worthy Oriental Gentleman,’ Fitzsimmons proffered and drew grins all round. Someone asked for a typical Aussie name and several were suggested. Just one stuck. Every one of them knew a ‘Horrie,’ and all agreed that anyone so named was a good bloke.
‘Okay,’ Gill concluded, ‘he’s Horrie the Wog Dog.’
‘Just Horrie for me, thanks,’ Murchison interjected.
Each man got the dog’s attention by motioning to him and calling ‘come ’ere Horrie!’ The pup bounded from one bunk to another. And when he was exhausted he plonked himself in the middle of the floor, glancing at each man as he called to him. His sharp-nosed little face was a twitch of interrogation, as were his oversized ears that fell and rose at different angles, and not always in unison, as the cogs of his instinctive brain tried to comprehend what was going on. He didn’t mind the cry of ‘Horrie,’ but he seemed to bristle if it was accompanied by a laugh, especially if the mirth seemed to be aimed at him. When Murchison guffawed at his every reaction, Horrie leapt to his bunk and grabbed a sock. He then bounded to the tent flap as if intent on running off with it, which stopped the tormentor’s derision. The dog led the now irritated Murchison on a clumsy dance around the bunks.
‘Okay, all right, Horrie, mate,’ Murchison said, as if contrite, ‘I won’t laugh at you again, promise.’
The dog waddled over to him. Keeping his eyes on Murchison, he lowered his jaw to the floor and let the sock slip out.
‘My God,’ Brooker exclaimed, ‘I have never seen a dog behave like that! It’s as if he understood every word!’
The others applauded and made approving noises.
‘Goodonya, Horrie!’ ‘Atta boy, Horrie!’
‘If he’s as game as he is intelligent,’ Shegog observed, ‘he is going to be a real Anzac.’
As he spoke, Horrie leapt on to Murchison’s bunk where he had hauled his kerosene tin from under it. Horrie was agitated. He charged at the tin and barked, knocking off the lid. In a flash, he was snapping at the snakes inside it. The tin clattered to the floor. The biggest of the reptiles, a half-metre long asp named Cleo, slithered out, causing a couple of the men to ease away. Horrie jumped from the bunk and snapped at her. Cleo coiled as if ready to spring, just as three other snakes eased and undulated in several directions. Murchison grabbed at them, taking his mind off the confrontation between Horrie and Cleo. The dog lay flat without taking his eyes off his would-be quarry. Cleo looked ready to thrust her fangs into her four-legged foe. For a moment the room fell silent. The only sound came from Horrie as he emitted a low growl, his ears straight up and unified. He was blocking out all other noise.
‘For fuck’s sake, Murchie!’ Shegog whispered. ‘Do something before—’
The asp’s head darted at Horrie, her fangs bared. The dog was a fraction quicker as he leapt sideways one way, then the other before grabbing the snake high on the neck. Horrie shook her in a frenzy of growl and saliva. His razor-like teeth pierced deep and high on the reptile’s neck and held on. Murchison, in shock, had forgone his other pets and was reaching for Horrie. But the dog was too quick. He backed to the tent flap, shaking and growling for another thirty seconds before, as suddenly as he had begun his frenzied attack, he stopped and let the snake fall from his mouth. It lay on the sand, as limp as a rag doll.
‘A bloody good thing!’ Featherstone said. ‘I can’t sleep with that in here!’
Murchison looked aggrieved.
‘It had to be,’ Gill said, ‘there is no way you could have them here with Horrie. He may be a pup, but he must have spent his eight or nine weeks in the desert. This was not his first encounter with a Cleo.’
‘He is un-bloody-believable!’ Fitzsimmons said. ‘I grew up on a farm. I saw brownies and tigers kill quick, strong dogs with one strike. But I never saw anything like that. He is so quick and gutsy.’
‘Horrie is an Anzac for sure,’ Brooker said.
Fitzsimmons accompanied a grumpy, but not overly distressed Murchison as he took his tin full of snakes out of the tent and marched into the desert with the aim of letting his pets free.
‘The dog wins,’ Murchison said. ‘He and my babies can’t cohabit. Besides, I was getting sick of ’em anyway. But I’ll keep one—Doris—for fun and well way from you lot of bloody dyslexics!’
‘What did you call us?’ Fitzsimmons asked.
‘You’ve all got dyslexia,’ Murchison said. ‘I know because I have the condition. I can’t read properly. I get words and letters mixed up.’
‘Why do you say we have this—?’
‘Dyslexia? Because you worship D—o—g, instead of G—o—d.’
Fitzsimmons returned to the tent where a few of the others were making a fuss over Horrie’s ‘performance.’ ‘Must give him a proper feed,’ Fitzsimmons said, picking him up, ‘he’s earned it.’
Fitzsimmons carried Horrie to the cook’s kitchen and gathered some meat scraps. The dog sniffed the offerings, circled the several bits of meat and then one by one buried them in the sand outside. Fitzsimmons remembered Gill’s suggestion that Horrie could have belonged to Italians. He found some olive oil in the kitchen and sprinkled it on another piece of meat and offered it to Horrie. The dog sniffed it, walked around it again and then attacked it as if it might run off. Then he easily brought his jaws around it and wolfed it down. He wagged his stump and cocked his head, wanting more. Fitzsimmons found him another sizeable scrap, repeated the oiling up and watched him down it too. He then led a leaping, happy Horrie back to the tent to report his clever thinking about a dog with a possible Italian background needing oil for his meat.
As the afternoon wore on, Horrie was bathed. At first he protested and didn’t want it, but as Gill and Moody jollied him into it, with lots of praise and ‘What a good boy, Horrie!’ and ‘Isn’t this fun, Horrie!’ the dog began to enjoy the attention. Later he watched ‘as intently as any human could,’ Featherstone wrote to a relative, while Moody and Gill constructed a miniature bunk for Horrie. ‘I reckon he knew this was for him,’ Featherstone added. ‘I might be getting carried away here, but I swear he knew what the lads were saying to each other as they hammered and fitted, fitted and hammered like professional carpenters.’
Featherstone wasn’t so sure when Horrie would not settle into the bunk, even when some enticing straw was matted down for him. He wanted to be close to his new set of eight mates. He jumped from bunk to bunk, disturbing readers and writers and those chatting and smoking. At night it was very cold in the desert, dropping from more than 40 degrees to as low as 2 or 3 degrees within a couple of hours after sundown. Horrie waited and sat on the floor near his new sleeping place until it was dark. Then he leapt onto the bunk of a snoring man. At first he was kicked off but on his second attempt at bedding with a human, this time Murchison, he was not dislodged. The former snake-charmer was quite happy to have this hot-water bottle at his feet.