The Ikingi camp was abuzz from 3 to 5 January 1941 with the news that their 6th Division was engaged in the first Allied military operation of the Western Desert campaign. It was against Italian forces and effectively an Australian battle commanded by the experienced, controversial yet genial Lieutenant-General Savige. It was at Bardia, a small town west of Alexandria on the Mediterranean coast of Libya and about 30 kilometres from the Egyptian border. Bulletins filtered into the Ikingi camp from the afternoon of the first day of the engagement and had all members of the Machine Gun Battalion perched over radios and transmitters in several tents. Even Horrie sat near his unit watching for any emotional signs as if he knew what was going on. The scene in the dusty camp was like that of a remote outback mining camp awaiting reports on a far away Grand Final, when sometimes just the scores could cause elation or despondency.
This first conflict for the Australians (or any Allies) in this region brought good reports every few hours. On the morning of 3 January, 6th Division’s 16th Brigade attacked and broke through the western face of the defensive perimeter, while the 6th Battalion mounted a diversion in the south. The mere act of starting the battle had hats being thrown high. Two-up games were stopped as men gathered in tents hungry for any snippet. Then it was gleaned that troops of the 17th Australian Brigade had joined the fighting later in the morning to clear the southern portion of the Italian defences. A further cryptic message in code informed the signallers that the 16th Brigade was advancing towards Bardia itself. The Machine Gunners went to bed excited and the nervous energy passed to Horrie who took time to settle in his bunk after barking at everyone, his tail wagging, indicating that he was happy if everyone else was. The news saw him with more pats and attention than even on his first day. Reports from despatches the next day, 4 January, were that Bardia had been captured from the Italians. This brought tremendous reaction at Ikingi. When it was learned that all resistance had been mopped up it was decided that the resting Machine Gun Battalion would march into Alexandria late on the 5th. Murchison was inspired. He spoke of going AWL and joining his countrymen on this ‘historic’ occasion.
‘Save it,’ Brooker told him. ‘That was a good start but a chickenfeed battle.’ He reminded them all for the umpteenth time what a real battle occasion was.
‘Try Amiens in northern France in August 1918,’ he always told them. ‘Monash lined up three armies on the Somme with 102,000 diggers in the middle; the Tommies on his left flank and Canadians on his right. He demanded 400 tanks, 800 planes and 1000 pieces of artillery. We smashed two German armies and dislocated two more inside 48 hours. The enemy never recovered.’
‘That’s bloody history!’ Murchison responded.
‘Sure,’ Brooker replied, ‘but we’ve just cleaned up one little town on the bloody coast! The first AIF liberated 116 French towns and villages in a hundred days after Amiens in 1918. You must have a perspective. Believe me, we are going to be in for a tough time in this sideshow war. Okay, the Eyeties might be soft, but if Hitler gets worried and sends his crack troops here, well then you’ll learn what war’s about.’
The results at Bardia came in a few minutes before the late afternoon march into Alexandria began. They were posted in chalk on a board outside the adjutant’s office. The 6th Division had lost 130 men with a further 326 wounded. Everyone was concerned that a mate, or a mate of a mate, may have been ‘knocked’ (killed). Yet the scoreboard, in callous war terms, looked good. More than 40,000 Italian prisoners were taken, along with an impressive cache of arms, rations, equipment and alcohol, with the last item causing mirth among the Rebels. They imagined their fellow gunners hitting the grog that night when they, too, would be raising a glass to the success at Bardia.
Horrie became animated when he saw the men lining up. Moody had trained him already in three short marches to trot along in front of the column. He first tied string to his collar, coaxed him out front and marched with him. After one effort, Horrie knew what was expected of him, and now on this fourth time, he was running around waiting for the Rebels to hurry up and get ready.
Some marvelled at Moody’s way with dogs.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said as they sat around on bunks carrying out last-minute polishing of equipment. ‘I’ve taught all the dogs I’ve had to do tricks.’
When asked if Horrie was his favourite animal, Moody hesitated before answering: ‘No, he’s not. I once had a red setter called Rudyard that was truly one of God’s creatures. The most loveable living thing I ever knew.’
‘Was he smart?’ Gill asked.
‘Super-smart.’
‘Smarter than Horrie?’
‘Don’t know yet,’ Moody said with a wry smile, ‘but Horrie is a pup with unfathomable potential. You never know. But I will say this: Horrie, at maybe ten weeks, is the cleverest animal, at that age, I have ever known.’
‘Hitler reckons the German shepherd is the most intelligent canine of all,’ Gill commented.
‘He would, wouldn’t he?’ Moody replied, ‘he’s got them. But a lot depends on diet, environment and the attitude of the owner in opening up the dog’s mind. Brains in dogs, cats and humans are pretty well the same. If they are exercised and tested and pushed and rewarded, they will grow and develop. They must be given lots of respect, affection and communication. Deprive them, or leave them to wallow without communication, and their minds will not expand; they will wither and rot.’
‘I agree with the respect bit,’ Murchison proffered, ‘I respect my pets…’
The others laughed.
‘No, no, Murchie’s right,’ Moody said. ‘Watch Horrie. Because Horrie is so clever, he is also very sensitive. We learned early when he was catching lizards that he did not like being laughed at. Just be careful and don’t tease him. He has my permission to take a chunk out of your leg if you do.’
The others howled Moody down and threw socks at him.
‘Just mark my words,’ he warned with a grin.
Lieutenant ‘Big Jim’ Hewitt, the Gunners’ broad-shouldered officer, bellowed to Brooker and spick-and-span Corporal Featherstone, whose boots were like mirrors, to hurry the Rebels out on parade. They formed part of the last unit to line up with their platoon. Horrie darted in and out of the lines as Lieutenant Hewitt, accompanied by Featherstone, inspected each man from his kit to his boots. Horrie was joined by a stray dog and it was treated with barely disguised disdain for being with his platoon. Horrie stood or sat just to the rear and out of eyeshot of Hewitt and Featherstone, and his interest in the shortcomings of each man seemed intent. The other dog sniffed around, less enamoured with the inspection, but nevertheless staying close by Horrie. This went on for 15 minutes. Another platoon marched by to a steady sergeant’s cry of ‘left—right—left …’ Horrie watched it and wanted his team to move off too. He barked. The other dog did the same. In his exhilaration, Horrie came up behind the preoccupied Featherstone and cocked a leg on his boots. The other dog, also perhaps miffed that there were no trees in the desert, followed suit. Featherstone did not notice, but the soldiers on parade did. A titter ran through the ranks. The second effort by the stray dog brought outright laughter. Big Jim Hewitt and Featherstone wheeled around.
‘Steady the men,’ Hewitt ordered Featherstone.
‘Quiet!’ Featherstone bellowed, oblivious to what had happened.
The men laughed again.
‘What’s so funny?’ Hewitt said. ‘Each man stand like an oak; an oak, I say!’
‘That’s what Horrie thought the corporal was, sir!’ Fitzsimmons called out.
That brought a roar from the ranks.
‘I think Horrie wet your … um—’ someone began but was interrupted by Fitzsimmons, as quick as ever, who called: ‘Your appetite, sir … whet your appetite for the march.’
‘Any more comment and you’ll be in the brig for a week!’ Hewitt snapped in reference to the camp jail.
Horrie was pleased to hear the order to ‘march out.’ He dashed to the head of the column without being instructed. He trotted along, keeping a few metres in front of the platoon, and occasionally looking back. Horrie only deviated after about 500 metres when he spotted some young Arab boys trailing to the side of the platoon. He growled and looked like he might bolt for them. But several sharp cries of ‘No, Horrie! No!’ from the ranks, and particularly Moody, had the dog returning to his straight-ahead movement.
After five kilometres of slogging in the heat on the 30 kilometre route to Alexandria, a sergeant called: ‘Okay, halt and smoko, ten minutes, lads!’
Six Arab boys in raggy clothes, whom only Horrie had been able to spot in the distance, sprang from the dunes offering food and drink including dates, watermelon, dark grapes, eggs, meats and Bedouin-made lemonade. Horrie growled and snapped at them, causing a hurried retreat.
‘He hates wogs, doesn’t he?’ someone observed.
‘They probably kicked him around wherever he was in his first weeks,’ Gill said. ‘Why else would he be so dark with them? He has never so much as yelped at a digger, except for one notable shit.’
The urchins kept a wary eye on Horrie and mingled with the soldiers at the other end of the platoon as they slouched and smoked.
‘Very clean,’ they informed the gunners, holding up bruised-looking apples. ‘Washy today, washy today.’
The soldiers were wary and even more so with the clever use of phrases the boys hoped would resonate with the Australians: ‘Fresh! Hygiene!’
The food was inspected and mostly rejected. The bitter lemonade was bought by a few thirsty men wishing to supplement their water ration in the heat, which had climbed to more than 40 degrees. Horrie took the moment to move about ten metres from the platoon to do his business. He used his paws to cover his deposit with sand. The boys laughed as he buried it in a few inches. They pointed: ‘Dog, very hygiene! Dog, Aussie dog, very hygiene!’
Some of the soldiers laughed. Horrie looked around at everyone, unhappy at being the centre of ridicule. He fixed on his Arab tormentors. Then, like a shark intent on one victim, he tore at a boy, who ran off. It brought more mirth to the platoon. Horrie tracked him and then flew at his leg, collected his trouser and shook it as he had Cleo, tearing the fabric and shearing it off. The boy stumbled and fell, kicking at the aggressive Horrie, who seemed to be in a frenzy. Moody and Gill ran to the scene fearing Horrie might do some serious damage. Moody called him to heel. At the second command, the dog gave up his would-be victim.
Moody led him over to the Rebels. Gill and Murchison patted him, calming him down. They offered him a drink from his own designated wooden bowl. He lapped it up, intermittently looking up to watch and emit low guttural sounds just below a growl at one of the Arab boys, who all kept a wary distance.
‘What did I say about respecting him?’ Moody asked.
‘You’re so right,’ Featherstone observed. ‘Fearless little beggar, with a certain dignity.’
‘He is so sensitive to the difference between just playing with him, which we do, and making fun of him,’ Gill said. ‘Don’t you just love him? We must make his status official. He is already really one of us.’
The others nodded their agreement. Horrie wagged his tail, causing Featherstone to smile and to repeat earlier observations: ‘I always feel he knows what we are saying.’
They marched on another five kilometres and approached an Arab village. Hewitt ordered them to ‘march to attention,’ which saw rifles sloped, shoulders square and strides long and in step. The men stopped nattering to each other. It was meant to impress the village. All of its members seemed to have turned out to see them. The young Arab boys continued to be curious and cheeky.
‘C’mon, digger,’ one called, ‘eyes front. No girls here!’
‘At ease,’ another cried, much to the laughter of others.
Murchison could never resist some interplay. ‘Seieda, George,’ he called, using the Arab salutation and the name the diggers had for all Arabs, among others. The boy replied, ‘Good day, Wog!’
This drew laughs from the platoon ranks. Murchison did not like being trumped. Other boys were encouraged.
‘Going to Alexandria, eh, digger? We got really pretty girls for you. Sexeeee!’
‘Where, George?’ Murchison asked.
‘Anfousia Quarter. Between fort and palace. Sailors stay there. We show you. Nice area. Nice cafe.’
‘Very clean,’ another boy interjected, ‘very hygiene!’
All the boys cackled at that.
‘We take you!’ they almost cried in chorus.
‘Don’t worry, Murchie,’ Brooker said, ‘we are going to that quarter. I’ve heard of a good cafe there.’
‘Forget the bloody brothels, son,’ Moody said. ‘Alexandria is one of the great historical cities in the world. Founded by Alexander the Great in 331 BC.’
‘Yeah, the hookers are quite ancient, Murchie,’ Fitzsimmons commented, drawing laughs.
‘How come you know your history?’ Featherstone asked Moody. ‘You study it at school or uni or something?’
‘No. I did science subjects, although I wish I’d studied history. There were very good teachers at school.’
‘Which school?’
‘Scotch College.’
‘That’s strange,’ Fitzsimmons chipped in.
‘Why?’
‘Thought you’d be at Beer College.’
The exhausted platoon reached Alexandria’s outskirts and was surprised at its size, the big population and the very cosmopolitan look of the people. Some ignored them as just another bunch of foreign soldiers. Others waved and smiled. The Rebels noted the lack of high-rise buildings as they reached the tree-lined city centre, Mohammed Ali Square, with its large equestrian monument. The solid buildings were European in style with the Church of St Mark’s prominent. A halt was called due to the large number of buses and cars. Hewitt ordered them to break ranks and be back at the corner in four hours when they would be trucked back to camp. The Rebels followed Brooker to the Anfousia district with its narrow streets of cafes. Murchison was first to notice exotic women on some of the balconies and he nearly bumped into the others while craning his neck. Scantily clad women winked, wiggled their hips, waved, smiled from behind thin veils and called:
‘Come on, Aussie; we give you good time; we make love … good beer too …’
‘How do they know we’re Aussie?’ Featherstone asked.
‘The slouch hats and uniforms for a start,’ Fitzsimmons said, and added, ‘and some of them look like they might remember Brooker from the Great War.’
They reached a cafe called The Moroccan. Horrie was not allowed in. Featherstone volunteered to stay outside with him. The others entered the large, dimly lit, smoke-filled cafe where an Arab ensemble band, each man wearing a red fez, was playing music. They were struck by a heatwave of mixed smells; of beer, sweat, incense and cigar smoke. Almost all the tables were filled with military patrons from a variety of nations, including New Zealanders, South Africans, Free French, British, Americans and some Africans.
‘Over ’ere, Dig!’ an Australian called and chairs were organised for the Rebels, who found themselves cheek-by-jowl with British soldiers (‘Tommies’), who were not thrilled at the new arrivals. They crowded into a packed room. The hum of conversation, punctuated by loud laughing, almost drowned out the band. Not even a snake-charmer could gain attention, except from Murchison, as a large asp uncoiled itself to the piped music of a cross-legged Arab wearing multicoloured coat, pants and fez.
‘That’s Joseph,’ Fitzsimmons observed, just as the room fell silent as a curvaceous dark-haired beauty began to create an exotic dance around the snake, which made his gradual elevation to the music. The veiled big-eyed dancer, wearing green shorts and a shirt tied beneath her ample breasts, gyrated her hips.
‘Jeez!’ Fitzsimmons said as the asp coiled up. ‘I’d get it up for her too!’
‘Shut up!’ a British soldier called. ‘You rude Aussie git!’
‘Nah,’ Fitzsimmons responded, ‘guess you’d have trouble, Tommy, eh?’
A few comments, mostly good-natured, flew between the two groups of soldiers. A polite Arab waiter asked if the Rebels wanted their hats hung up. Some removed their head-gear.
‘Here,’ Murchison said, ‘hang this up too.’
In the darkness and the smoke and with several hats in his hand, the Arab waiter did not realise he had been handed Doris, Murchison’s last snake. The Arab shrieked as he tried to dislodge the reptile from around his neck. He fell back onto the table of British soldiers, upsetting it and sending beers and food spilling to the floor. A Tommy flew at Murchison. Within seconds there was an all-in brawl.
Outside, Featherstone threw away a cigarette.
‘Stay right here, Horrie mate,’ he ordered and rushed into the cafe, where there was chaos. About 30 men tangled with each other while the other soldiers formed a rough semicircle watching the all-in tussle. Wild punches were thrown by both sides, with only a few landing as all tables were upturned, glasses were broken and the tumbling, wrestling, punching mass swirled close to the stage, causing the band to disperse. Murchison was the wildest fighter of the lot, flailing at every Tommy in or out of striking distance. By contrast, Moody prowled the perimeter of the ‘ring’ and ducked and weaved. Then he lined up opponents who stumbled in his direction for a big right-hand swinging punch. He was all method and cold intent, while avoiding being caught up in wrestling. He hit two Tommies square on the jaw, leaving them motionless.
In the rush of bodies, the snake-charmer had lost his reptile. Then Horrie waddled into the cafe. He spotted both Murchison’s snake Doris and the disturbed asp. He danced around them, barking and uncertain which one to attack. Meanwhile the Arab cafe owners tried to stop the brawl, which was not an uncommon occurrence in this quarter. The management called the police, who were close by. With cries of ‘Police! Police!’ the various soldier groups bolted for the doors and open windows. The Rebels continued some push-and-shove with the Tommies but soon were careering down a side alley as they heard police whistles, yelling and car sirens. Horrie bounced along with them, wagging his stump. He had missed snaring another reptile victim, but he was happy to be with his squad after the fracas.
‘That was great!’ a breathless Murchison said, wiping away blood from the corner of his mouth. ‘We’ve only been in Alexandria twenty bloody minutes! What a place! Love it!’
‘Everyone is accounted for,’ Brooker said, looking around at all the Rebels and then down at Horrie. Murchison expressed interest in the prostitutes but the others suggested that they have a ‘beer and a feed’ before any other ‘adventures.’ They found a quiet cafe a few streets away and settled down to some modest fare.
By chance they had chosen a cafe bar frequented by prostitutes, who had meals there before their nocturnal duties. Two stunning, long-limbed, very dark-skinned African women came in and found a corner seat without even batting an eyelid at the Rebels. Murchison did everything to catch their attention, short of sitting with them.
‘They’re not interested in you or any of us in here,’ Brooker explained. ‘Do you think they are going to flirt off-duty? No way! They want peace and quiet away from the terrible mob of sweaty blokes from all the nations on earth before they switch to vaudeville later in their houses of ill repute.’
Murchison fondled his beer and picked at his food, his eyes darting in the direction of the Africans. He seemed unconvinced but confused that his wordless charm and boyish good looks were having no impact.
‘Look, mate,’ Brooker added, ‘you can have a go at them when they finish their meals. Let ’em be now. They’ll let you know if they are interested, when they are ready. Not before. Remember, this is their turf, not ours.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them,’ Murchison said in whispered awe. ‘The bodies on them! The arses!’
The others laughed.
Murchison kept watching and when the girls reached for their purses, he pounced. He sidled to their table, sat down and chatted. He paid their meal bill and asked if they would like drinks. In a faltering, French-tinged lilt, the one he fancied most smiled a crater of white teeth, and said: ‘Come with us? We have the best wines at our place, okay?’
With that Murchison took the girls to the Rebels and introduced them and Horrie, who was sitting close to Moody waiting for table scraps. Moody leaned across to Fitzsimmons and whispered: ‘You’d better go with him and ride shotgun. Never know what will happen to the kid.’
‘They’ll fleece him for sure,’ Fitzsimmons said under his breath and stubbing his cigarette. ‘Better do my duty.’ He winked at Moody and then yelled to Murchison: ‘Hey, mate, mind if I join you?’