While the Chalka sailed on, the Germans attacked 19 Greek forts of the Metaxas Line in northern Greece, which resisted courageously but were overwhelmed by midday on 9 April 1941. This encouraged the Luftwaffe to attack the beautiful Athens port of Piraeus in the south, which was packed with shipping and the arrivals of British Commonwealth troops. German planes struck at dusk on the evening of the same day the Chalka steamed into Piraeus Harbour. Unaware of the coming Luftwaffe onslaught, it was an uplifting moment for all members of the battalion, after the bland rock and sand of Libya’s barren Western Desert. Here at last was a vista that had been nourished by water with a vivid, dark green predominant in plants, particularly ferns with large fronds, and grass around neat, sloping rows of sandy-coloured villas and houses. The battalion disembarked and Moody lowered his kitbag, with Horrie in it, onto a small boat and into the arms of an unsuspecting, smiling Greek. He found he was holding a writhing ball of terrier. Before the local sailor toppled over, Moody relieved him of the kitbag and tried to placate Horrie, who was barking and growling. Moody soon realised why. The little boat was driven erratically as German planes swooped low from nowhere, bombing and strafing the new arrivals. The dog’s antennae were working well, but were of little use now as the boat had to linger for several hours on the water during the persistent attacks. After the frustrating and nervous stay on the water, the boat darted its way to the shore. Once there, Moody let the dog free. He bounced around but was soon terrified as Greek anti-aircraft gunners opened up nearby. Moody grabbed Horrie and followed other Rebels towards the mouth of an open drain, where they ducked for cover. From that precarious vantage point 40 metres from the water, they watched as Luftwaffe planes careered down with a whine of engines and dropped bombs on the shipping, the big boats being the main target for sinking. As dusk fell, searchlights roamed the skies and German pilots flew daringly down the beam firing their machine guns. The darkening evening sky was now a fireworks show as tracer bullets, bombs and bursting shrapnel illuminated everything to the horizon.
Horrie was mortified and in complete capitulation to these conditions. He trembled and whimpered. Seeing his terror, Moody regretted bringing him. He did his best to soothe his fears, but all he could do was hold and stroke him and prevent him from running off. But when a bomb thumped hard close by and sent up a spray of rocks and dirt, Horrie’s demeanour swung to the opposite extreme. He wriggled his way free from Moody and dashed into the open. He looked up at the planes and barked and barked, only taking a breath to growl before barking again. Having adjusted to the cacophony and ear-splitting noises, he was his defiant self, ready to take on the Luftwaffe. When the horror subsided, the battalion marched five kilometres to the little village of Daphni, erected tents and settled in for a few precious hours sleep, although the German attacks did not abate. Their bombs kept the ground shaking. The close hits sent dirt and stones spraying over the camp area. It showed that the Luftwaffe had managed to pinpoint the Machine Gunners’ movements, which meant spies were passing coordinates and locations to the enemy. It told, without a word being spoken, that there would be no real respite or escape from attacks from now on if the weather held. This was the air arm of the mighty German war machine at its most menacing and deadly.
Horrie’s bravery subsided in the night as he settled on Moody’s bunk, looking to him for solace. Moody’s responsibility to the pet meant he was disinclined to show fear so as not to trigger the dog’s reaction, for like most animals, they sensed when humans were frightened. Moody was as on edge as the next Rebel, but his fatalism allowed him to adjust quicker than most to these dreadful conditions of real war. He took the attitude that he should not worry too much about events out of his and others’ control. This sense seemed to transmit to Horrie, who gathered his wits against the new mind-numbing threat of bombs that left craters around them. Instead of barking at the ‘eggs,’ as the Rebels, to lessen their psychological impact a fraction, called them, Horrie growled every time one hit near to them. He remained shaken but not as much as when he was first on the shore.
Murchison was the first Rebel up in the morning, just before dawn on 10 April. The bombing had stopped two hours earlier at 4 a.m. and the other Rebels were snoring. Horrie heard movement, jumped from Moody’s bunk and trotted out after Murchison, who stretched and looked to the horizon as light was beginning to distinguish the first glimpses of rural Greece. Murchison could make out sheep in a distant field with a shepherd herding them as if nothing had happened in the night. Despite the odd pockmark left by bombs, the fields were still green and inviting. In the paddock close by, the shapes of hanging grape vines were becoming visible, while the colour of poppies, red and purple, in the weak light, was brightening the entire area. Murchison encouraged Horrie to make his mark on the nearest tree, and then a second followed by a third and fourth. Just as he was marvelling at the little dog’s bladder, he realised that the trees were gums, which could have been transported straight out of the Australian bush. Murchison felt good, despite a wary eye on the horizon, always half-expecting to see the Luftwaffe return, especially now that targets were visible. Then again, his worry was allayed in the knowledge that even German pilots suffered from fatigue, especially after hours of diving on Piraeus and its surrounds. And the visibility that would help the attackers would also aid the defenders with their anti-aircraft artillery. Any attacks in daylight would see Luftwaffe casualties increase.
One by one the Rebels came out of the tent and all made similar favourable noises when they saw the trees. Some followed Horrie’s lead as they relieved themselves on a replica of a piece of home. Soon after dawn, scores of young Greek children wandered into the camp, but their attitude was at odds with that of the young Arabs. The Greeks looked upon the foreigners as heroes who had come to fight off the Germans and Italians. And Horrie, the barometer of all such invasions of the camps, only barked at them with approval as he weaved his way around them, played fetch-the-ball, and cheerfully greeted the smiling, inquisitive youngsters. This distinction continued to mystify the Rebels, who had disdained the Arabs’ thieving, but still tolerated their cheeky commentary and bartering. The Rebels gave the Greek kids biscuits and bully beef, which were gratefully accepted. A tin was opened for Horrie but his gourmand’s tastes, which had been honed by the cooks at Ikingi and on board ship, saw him screw up his nose and back away as if it was an insult to be offered the thick, chunky, dark brown coagulation. Horrie rushed off to find a cook but seemed miffed when he couldn’t detect a tent harbouring one. Like the men, he would have to get used to the meagre fare that had sustained Anzac armies now in two world wars.
The men could see mighty Athens to the south. It had taken a bit of the overnight battering. But from their hill top at Daphni, it appeared to be its dignified, ancient and historic self, dominated by the ruins of the Acropolis, which had fallen victim to time rather than the Luftwaffe.
Mid-morning the camp was broken up and the battalion climbed into trucks for a winding drive to Athens. Moody took out his camera to capture as much as he could. He wished he was able to spend some time wandering this 3400-year-old city, one of the oldest in the world. He wrote in his diary that he intended to return, explore and learn as much about the place that held the home of Plato’s Academy and Aristotle’s Lyceum. Moody had studied the so-called cradle of Western civilisation and the birthplace of democracy. A poignant comment, perhaps reflecting his own fears, was a note that all this could be under threat very soon. The Germans, if they succeeded, would promise their own version of civilisation based on a military state, not democracy.
The threat from the invaders in the north was now palpable as the German 2nd Panzer Division captured the vital sea port of Thessaloniki, which had caused the Greek forces manning the forts on the Metaxas Line to surrender. The people of Athens turned out with emotion for the convoy, aware of the importance of help from foreign troops. Garlands and flowers were tossed their way from balconies; men and women in the street offered food. The cheering was inspiring as the Gunners responded, touched by the turnout and attitude. The battalion’s departure from Sydney Harbour early in May 1940 had been spectacular when yachts, motorcraft and ferries had given them a wonderful send-off. But this Athens farewell was bigger, louder and more heartfelt. Australia had not then been in immediate danger. Greece was.
Horrie loved being the centre of attention. His barking and whirling tail from atop the Rebels’ truck was all pleasure and he too seemed lifted. He kept jumping to face the well-wishers high above him and below in the street. Whistles had him almost spinning in delight as he tried to focus on the source. After his sea experience, keeping his feet on the top of the lumbering, bumping truck was easy. Horrie could not care why this moveable party was proceeding. He just responded to the smiles, clapping, pointing and yelling. His brain had long since sorted ridicule from love and liking and fun. And this experience was pure joy. Horrie looked to the Rebels, who applauded back to the Greeks and pointed out someone or something in the crowd. The trauma of the night was forgotten by the men and they were consumed by other emotions that were entangled with appreciation and motivation.
Murchison was not far behind Horrie in his enthusiasm, particularly for the myriad dark-haired, brown-eyed Greek women and girls. Most looked fetching in white blouses, and colourful blue and red vests, along with traditional neck-to-feet white dresses. Murchison was quick to respond to their open and closed hand greeting, which was wishing them luck and safe return from their mission. He blew kisses and pointed to taverns and cafes, indicating he would be back to see them all.
A chant went up from the crowd.
‘What are they calling?’ Murchison asked.
‘I think it’s “Benghazi,”’ Moody replied.
‘Don’t they know the Germans have taken it back?’
None of the Rebels could explain the chant as it continued.
‘They must know the 6th took it,’ Gill said. ‘Maybe they don’t care that it has been recaptured. Perhaps our boys’ reputation since then has been good … ?’ The chant became louder. ‘I dunno.’
‘I reckon they just want us to be conquering heroes,’ Fitzsimmons suggested. ‘We represent hope that they will not be taken over by the Nazis.’
The convoy wound out of the city and headed north. Only a few high-level former footballers amidst the Gunners had been in front of such adoring, huge crowds. But for the rest, this was a first. Moody could only recall when he was cox for his house’s winning crew at school. That was in front of a modest 300 people. This was a crowd a thousand times bigger. It took the Gunners an hour or two in the crawling trucks to settle their thoughts and to consider what lay ahead. They weaved their way inland and north: always north to the war. The Rebels were taken by the neat villages through which they passed. Moody took snaps of the churches in each little town with their tall steeples, and the white- or rustic-coloured villas. Each place had people gathering around the village square and their ubiquitous white crosses, where the convoy was cheered each time. Cries of everything from ‘Go in peace!’ to ‘Victory will be yours!’ and ‘God speed!’ greeted them.
As they climbed through the country, they noticed that some women cried as they waved to them, which was a sobering sight for the battalion. Skullcapped, bearded men in long sheepskin coats and black trousers offered them bottles of homemade grappa and wine, which were accepted by the soldiers, as were some sharp knives of varying sizes. Horrie became the focus for all the locals, even more than he had been in Athens, as he pirouetted on the roof in response to the waving, blown kisses, laughing and cheering. Only once did he blot his copybook when, passing through a town 100 kilometres north-west of Athens, he barked so hard at something in the heavens that he fell on his back and rolled off the truck. His fall was broken by a black-frocked burly priest and another man, who passed the embarrassed and shaken dog back up to the Rebels. After much fussing about his wellbeing, Horrie continued his jumping about and barking, but with a fraction more caution than before. Just outside a village, Moody and Gill looked up to the source of the dog’s continued excitement and spotted two planes of unknown origin and at a high enough altitude not to cause alarm. Their low rumble was heard as they flew in a wide circle as if noting the extent of the convoy. Then they disappeared.
‘Luftwaffe,’ Brooker said. ‘Reconnaissance. We’ll cop it sooner or later.’