On the Rebels’ ninth day on Crete they were informed they would be evacuated the next day on the 10,000 tonne transport, the Lossiebank. It would take them and all others of the 6th Division who were without weapons and equipment. They would not be needed for the big stoush against the invading Germans, which was now imminent. The Rebels were disappointed and not a little guilty about having to leave so many mates in the battalion. Given the option, all would have stayed and fought, even if they only had pistols and knives to battle with. But they had to go. Moody had left the enterprising Horrie to run free on the island and no one, not even the most officious of officers, had protested or told the Rebels they could not keep a dog. But now their arm of the military was on the move again, this time to Port Said, Egypt, Moody could not be sure about reaction to the battalion mascot. It only needed one nasty individual to object to him and he might be left on Crete. Moody did not have the pack that had spirited him everywhere so far. He looked around for something in which to hide him and decided on an ammunition box. The steel frame had small holes punched in the base, but it would be still cramped and challenging for the little animal.
Just when the men were boarding, a low growl emitted from the ammunition box. The Rebels all glanced at each other. Moody opened the box.
‘Not now, mate, okay?’ Moody whispered with a stern look and glancing at the confused little expression as the lid was shut on him again. His growl continued. Then came the muffled bark. Moody sweated. He glanced around to see if any officer was near.
‘Hurry it up, you blokes!’ Murchison called. ‘The Huns are coming!’
All diggers on the shore and walking up gangways looked up to the skies as the seconds ticked down from Horrie’s usual two-minute warning. Just as half the men had boarded the boat, a wave of Stukas rolled over them. Everyone took cover but there was a resolute, almost fatalistic ease to the battalion’s reaction. The gunners knew that there was no use panicking or pushing on board. Orderly movements up gangways at the double did not see anyone break ranks and try to scramble on deck. The Luftwaffe always put nerves on edge and often had ‘hits’ in these strikes, but the element of surprise of them roaring down was not the shock it had been. There was also a strong battery of anti-aircraft guns on board and on the shore, which gave some protection. Horrie’s barks were drowned by the howling planes that careered at the vulnerable Lossiebank. Three bombs landed close, throwing a dozen soldiers into the water. Once on board, Moody headed for the gun deck with the ammunition box, the one place it would not look unusual. He shoved it under a tarpaulin and sat near it. He kept talking under his breath to Horrie, trying to reassure him and also keep him quiet. A ship’s officer, Captain Burke, noticed Moody sitting there, apparently gibbering to himself.
‘You all right, Private?’ he asked.
‘Arh, arh no, well yes … not really, sir,’ Moody mumbled, ‘it’s the bombs, sir …’
Just as he spoke there was an almighty crunch as a bomb landed on the wharf, luckily 50 metres from the last soldiers hurrying on board. Its impact shook the ship and sent several men into the water. The officer lost his footing and his cap went flying.
‘Noth—nothing to worry about, Private!’ Captain Burke said in shaky voice. ‘Pull yourself together and get … get … going!’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Your words are very sustaining, sir,’ Moody said, putting on a trembling act.
The officer regained his cap and added: ‘You have shell shock, Private Mooney!’
‘Moody, sir.’
‘Who me?’ Burke snapped. ‘Don’t be insolent!’
‘No, Moody is my name, sir, not Mooney.’
Stukas attacked again and sent Captain Burke dashing below deck. The noise covered up Horrie’s burst of sustained barking. Moody lifted the tarpaulin, opened the box and tried to calm him down as the ship hastened to make its exit from the harbour. But Horrie was agitated. Moody opened his only remaining tin of bully beef and gave the dog a morsel, which distracted and comforted him. A half-hour later, when the Luftwaffe’s interest in the ship had abated for the moment and the Lossiebank was well out to sea, Moody released Horrie. He was safe, at least from being abandoned on Crete.
There were no more attacks in the next 24 hours and although the ship was on full alert, most on board believed that the Luftwaffe would not attack again. The Lossiebank was moving out of range for persistent attacks, although they were not technically outside the bombers’ range. The conventional wisdom was that the Luftwaffe would not waste fuel on travelling out to sea for a one-off attack. Yet still the Rebels kept one eye on Horrie, just in case. On the second day, he was wandering around the deck when he took up his sitting position. He cocked his head in the familiar pose so seared into the minds of every member of the battalion. His face creased; his head moved into different positions as if he were a mechanical toy. Then the ears began to stiffen. It was enough for the Rebels. Even before the ears stood up without a flicker, they were shouting that everyone should take cover. Horrie’s low guttural utterance developed into a growl. Then he barked and began to jump about. Hundreds of men, who until a second ago had been lounging on the deck, began running. The Lossiebank’s anti-aircraft guns swung into position as directed by those watching Horrie. Moody dashed to scoop him up but he had scuttled away. Moody rushed around but in the confusion Horrie could not be found. Moody scurried to steps that would take him below deck. All the Rebels were there, skulking about, annoyed and frustrated that they had no weapons with which to fight back as they had on board the Costa Rica.
‘Where’s Horrie?’ several of them asked Moody.
‘He’ll be in a safe spot on deck. Couldn’t find him.’
They braced for the bombs. They shook the ship but none did damage. They heard the strafing just as the ship’s defensive weapons poured plenty back at the 20 or so Stukas. A 30 second silence was followed by a second run and then a third. Then the squadron of planes disappeared into the sun. Horrie stopped barking. The ship’s guns fell silent. The soldiers began relaxing, rolling cigarettes, smoking pipes, playing cards and swapping yarns. A cricket bat and tennis ball were produced but there was not enough room for a game on the crowded deck. Instead, a rugby ball was thrown around until a digger with huge hands hurled the ball so hard, American football-style, that it sailed into the sea. Soldiers one by one, or in groups of two or three, began to approach the Rebels, asking to see Horrie. No one had seen him. A half-hour later, he appeared limping and bleeding from his right shoulder. Moody, Brooker, Gill and Fitzsimmons rushed to him. The blood was wiped away to reveal a long, thin steel bomb splinter that was embedded under his skin. He was not distressed and seemed happy at the attention. Brooker held him, while Moody pinched the skin surrounding the splinter and spoke to him affectionately as Gill used a pocketknife to ease the sliver out. The wound was cleaned and dressed. Horrie continued to limp but it did not impede his activity or the enjoyment of so many soldiers wanting to meet him, pat him, shake his paw or be photographed with him.
‘All we need is Horrietta to nurse him back to full health,’ Fitzsimmons remarked. Horrie’s ears pricked up at the mention of his ‘lost’ companion.
Moody put his forefinger to his lips and frowned at Fitzsimmons.
‘The “etta” word is not to be mentioned. Makes him nostalgic.’
‘Sorry,’ Fitzsimmons said, ‘but remember, nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.’
The soldiers disembarked at Port Said, on Egypt’s Mediterranean coast, built in 1859 for the construction of the Suez Canal. There was no inspection but just in case, the Rebels crowded around Moody carrying Horrie, but no officer noticed. The soldiers were herded onto a train. Moody let Horrie run free, but he could not move too far in the crowded carriages. Yet he didn’t seem to want to. His wound troubled him. He stretched his neck in an attempt to tear off the dressing. Moody removed it. Horrie began to lick the wound, and just when he seemed preoccupied with it, instinct had him alert. He jumped over Fitzsimmons and Harlor to bark and growl at Arabs by the side of the track. The wound was forgotten. Horrie was more interested once more in displaying his attitude to the locals in Middle Eastern garb.
They changed trains at Kantara on the canal and began to cross the Sinai Desert. It brought back memories for Brooker. He commented on the effort of the Anzac troopers in the desert in World War I as the train passed through the village of Romani, telling them: ‘The 1500 troopers under Harry Chauvel defeated a 25,000-strong Turkish army right here in the Battle of Romani on 4 August 1916.’
‘That’s odds of 17 to 1,’ Murchison said with a trace of scepticism
‘What were you,’ Fitzsimmons asked, ‘supermen?’
‘Not really. We had horses. That made the difference. For what it is worth, that Anzac victory saved Egypt as a British Empire mandate.’ Brooker paused, looked out the window as Horrie barked a short disapproval, and then added with a sigh, ‘Not worth much today, I’ll grant you, because here we are in the same bloody desert fighting the same bloody enemy, essentially. But it was big then.’
‘I thought you were on the Western Front under Monash?’ Fitzsimmons said.
‘No. I just know the history, you callow youth, you! We all ended up here in 1916 after Gallipoli, before the Australian army was split from the Light Horse, who stayed here and defeated the Turks. I was in one of the regiments. By 1918 we’d knocked them out of the Middle East for the first time in 400 years.’ He poised to stare at Murchison before adding with emphasis, ‘for what it’s worth today.’
‘You’re living in the past, old man,’ Murchison said.
‘But it’s a past that fortifies me, inspires me,’ Brooker said, ‘and it should do that for you too. But you are pig-ignorant of it.’
Brooker and Murchison tended to be fractious in their disagreements but it was all in the interests of the favourite digger pastime of ‘knocking,’ or abrasive, good-natured ridicule, which an individual had to counter verbally or accept with a grin.
‘Is this where Bill the Bastard … you know, won a horse VC or something?’ Harlor asked as he tinkered with a piece of equipment.
‘Correct,’ Brooker replied, ‘go to the top of a rather average Rebel class.’ He looked down at Horrie. ‘Pardon me, Horrie. Gordie goes to second place after you, of course!’ The dog wagged his tail, more for being mentioned rather than comprehension. ‘Bill was a grand Waler, biggest by weight, and the bravest of the 200,000 neddies we sent here to fight the Turks. He didn’t get a VC, although he should have. His rider, the legendary Michael Shanahan, got the DSO for his efforts in that battle. But if you were looking for one individual standout performer in six hours of fighting on that fateful night of 4 August 1916 it was Bill. When some troopers were going through ten horses, he just ran on and on. Shanahan said he covered the equivalent of 20 Melbourne Cups, with one break to bring five troopers on his back out of the front.’
Most of the Rebels had heard Brooker tell his story before. But no one interrupted him. They were captivated as their train rattled slowly on, especially when he pointed out the mountains of sand around which the Battle of Romani took place. The tale came to life.
‘Has the area changed much?’ Moody asked.
‘Yes, a lot,’ Brooker said, pointing to vines and crops cultivated on neat farms. ‘Never saw that sort of thing then. It was just rough, inhospitable desert. Now you’ve got towns and this train running through it, along with a water pipeline that admittedly was begun in 1916 because of the war then.’
‘Makes you think we should do it back home in the north and the outback,’ Moody observed. ‘There is a worse desert here than in Australia.’
The others nodded their agreement. The train rumbled on through the Sinai and into Palestine and a camp at Dier Suneid, which appealed to the Australians. It featured orange groves, whose green foliage contrasted with the one-spectrum yellow sand. The groves were surrounded by deep green cactus, which was clipped and under control in contrast to the growth nearer the coast at the ancient fortress city of Gaza where it grew wild and created substantial ‘walls.’ On arrival, Brooker talked of the final battle for Gaza, and the Australian mounted charge of 31 October 1917 at Beersheba, 70 kilometres further inland.
‘Greatest mounted charge in history by our boys,’ he said.
‘Hang on,’ Gill challenged him, ‘what about Napoleon? He had many thousands of cavalrymen in his charges. There were only 800 in the Australian 4th Brigade at Beersheba.’
‘I stick by what I said,’ Brooker retorted. ‘Napoleon only had to outnumber his opponents with men, horses and swords—the Austrians or whomever—and he won. The bookies wouldn’t take bets on him! But our boys charged against 4500 entrenched Turks, artillery, machine gunners, snipers, not to forget the Hun air force rolling out bombs on them. They were the longest shot bet of that war. Their charge took courage of the highest kind and they triumphed.’
‘I agree with Poppa on that one,’ Moody said. ‘I want to take photos at Beersheba.’
The Rebels were united for the first since the Western Desert when Bill Shegog turned up at the camp having recovered from his motorbike accident. Big Jim Hewitt, who’d been ill, was also there. The reunion called for a celebration. Both men had heard about Horrie’s exploits and they thought he was skinnier.
‘We tend to think of him as “athletic,” ’ Fitzsimmons said deadpan as he patted a very pleased Horrie, who seemed happier than anyone that all his team was back together. Hewitt made sure that he was given a big feed of scraps from the officers’ mess. He feasted on them, much to the envy of the Rebels, who were adamant that the officer ‘left-overs’ were far superior to their own monotonous food.
The Arabs in the region seemed friendly enough but the Australians were forewarned to chain their rifles in the tents as they had in Libya, and told not to leave valuables there. If anything the locals were bigger thieves than in the Western Desert. The diggers in both wars never adjusted to the Arab way of claiming anything that was not bolted or chained down as theirs. On their second day at this camp, a pucker, lean visiting British officer with a trim Hitler-like moustache lectured the Australians about ‘tolerance’ and remembering to appreciate that Palestine was the Arabs’ land and that ‘you are all seen as invaders, whether British or Hun or Italian.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Murchison interrupted him, ‘but how do Arabs deal with other Arabs who steal things? Do they show tolerance?’
‘That is not the point, Private!’ the officer snapped. ‘And don’t interrupt again!’
‘No, sir, of course not, sir, but we have been told that the Arabs chop off the hands of fellow Arabs who steal—’
‘And they chop off something else if they thieve their wives!’ Fitzsimmons chimed in, much to the mirth of the assembled gunners.
The seething officer put them both on charges of insubordination (which were later dismissed after Hewitt’s intervention).
Without having to be told, Horrie took it upon himself to guard the Rebels’ tent. One evening when they were all absent and in the mess hall, he patiently sat outside the tent roped to a pole, his head resting on his paws, and one eye on the passing parade. As darkness fell, two young Arab youths sneaked up on the tent. Horrie leapt and caught one by the leg. His needle-sharp teeth bit deep into the youth’s calf. He screamed in agony and just managed to crawl clear of Horrie. The youths fled, leaving a trail of blood. Horrie was furious. He tried to bite his way through the rope, but gave up. He was still agitated when the Rebels returned, but his mood changed to one of joy. Later, they were told of his defence of the tent by other battalion members who witnessed his efforts.
‘I wish we had him for our tent,’ one gunner remarked, ‘we’ve had two damned rifles stolen in a week!’
News reached the Rebels in mid-May 1941 that Murchison’s mates Archie and Bash had been killed at one of the key battle-points on Crete, Maleme airfield. They had been fighting in a New Zealand contingent against the incoming waves of German paratroopers. Murchison took it hard. He had survivor’s guilt for not staying on the island with the courageous Kiwis. They had been set to leave but at the last minute decided to stay and join the several thousand New Zealanders still on Crete in what may have been last stands against the enemy. Murchison’s mood changed from his usual cheerful self to one of solitary anger. Often he only wanted Horrie’s company. The dog gave him unconditional affection without trite conversation, which was ideal for Murchison’s state of mind. After a few days of this, he sprang to life when the group was told that the village of Dier Suneid was off limits.
‘Bugger that!’ he said. ‘Are we Rebels or what?’
‘I don’t think you boys should go near it,’ Brooker said, shaking his head. ‘The women are really beautiful but dangerous and beguiling. They know how to do the dance of the seven veils in the ancient art of seduction.’
‘Dangerous? Why?’ Murchison asked.
‘Might have disease; syphilis, for instance.’
‘Arh, that’s bullshit. Old wives’ tales from the last war. We’ve all got rubbers.’
‘Careful, Murchie!’ Fitzsimmons said in mock warning. ‘You can’t erase syphilis. Stays with you, indelibly for the rest of a shortened life.’
‘You blokes are chicken!’ Murchison sneered.
‘Okay; don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Brooker said, before his face creased slowly into a wry grin. ‘But perhaps I should come along, you know, in case there’s trouble.’
‘No thanks,’ Murchison said, ‘wouldn’t want you to catch something.’
That evening when it was still light, Horrie was tied to the tent pole again.
‘Can’t take you, old mate,’ Gill told him, ‘your prejudice against the locals rules you out.’
Horrie barked in protest but to no avail as Moody, Gill, Murchison and Featherstone walked to Dier Suneid, almost hidden on the road to Gaza by an orange grove that cactus threatened to engulf. It was surrounded by a two metre mud-brick wall, which had only one narrow, rickety gate entrance. The four ‘tourists’ entered and walked down a lane so narrow that the mud-brick buildings either side seemed to merge into a dead end. They passed several Arabs. Two camels and their minders brushed by going the other way. The lane meandered on until widening under stone archways and leading to homes with small front yards. It ended at a town centre with a square no bigger than two tennis courts. Urchins kicked a mottled soccer ball and dodged and weaved among donkeys, dogs, chickens and two camels. There were about 20 stalls doing a slow trade with a few Arabs and a handful of British soldiers. The still-lingering heat of the day and alien, mingling smells of sewage, dung, food being cooked and other aromas that the Rebels could not distinguish had them screwing up their noses. Locals eyed them with curiosity. Ringing the square was an assortment of shops, all in need of repair and selling unappetising fruit, vegetables and an odd assortment of toys and figurines. Several Arabs sat under the awning of a cafe that sold coffee and cakes. Murchison was first to notice women in long dresses inside the dimly lit cafe.
‘Hey,’ he whispered to Moody, ‘those girls are not wearing the traditional head garb. Their faces are uncovered. They’re not the “dusky maidens” Brooker conjured for us. They’re more “mature,” I’d say, but they look pretty sexy!’
‘Yeah, not quite as Brooker described,’ Moody agreed, ‘but they’re on the game for sure.’
Featherstone and Gill warned Murchison not to venture in.
‘Just look at the wogs with them,’ Moody said, ‘cutthroat types. We don’t want any trouble. Leave it be.’
‘No, bugger it,’ Murchison mumbled, ‘I’m going to see what’s what. I keep thinking of Archie and Bash. You never know when your number’s up.’
Noticing the hesitation, one of the men in the cafe stood and beckoned Murchison in. He had a short beard and wore a headdress and clean white robes with gold inlay lining. Three other Arabs looked on with vacant expressions, while a couple played a board game in one corner.
‘Looks like Lawrence of Arabia wants to offer you a cigarette,’ Fitzsimmons said, ‘and maybe something else.’
The Arab in well-pressed clothes smiled, exposing one lonely tooth. He motioned his hand at the three women, all in their late thirties or early forties. Murchison wandered in. The others sat down and ordered coffee. One of the women served them. She was tall, with wide hips, and she showed ample cleavage under a green blouse. Murchison offered the Arab an English cigarette, which he accepted. The Arab grinned and asked him in fractured English if he would like to smoke a pipe with him.
‘Don’t get too cosy with the boss cocky, Murchie,’ Moody warned, ‘never know what they’re offering.’
‘It’s their kind of tobacco,’ Murchison said, and then, addressing the Arab, asked, ‘Tobacco, right?’
The Arab smiled and nodded. The tall woman stepped forward holding a saffron-coloured substance, about the size of a golf ball, in her hands. She placed it on a small table and began preparing a decorated silver pipe with a black mouthpiece. The woman placed the saffron ball on some charcoal in a large bowl on the table. She handed the pipe to the Arab who held the end of it close to the ball and commenced to suck. The charcoal embers glowed; the ball’s edges became tinged with brown as the Arab inhaled the smoke. When it was drawn well, he handed the pipe to Murchison, who nodded and accepted it. Despite Moody’s protests, Murchison was intrigued to try this ‘Arab-style tobacco.’ The woman looked on with interest. As Murchison inhaled, she too smiled for the first time. She sat on the chair next to him, one elbow on her knee and her chin cupped in her hand as if she was fascinated by his reaction. The other two women moved close too. Murchison liked the result. His face relaxed. After a third round of inhaling, his expression lightened further. He had a beatific smile.
‘Hmm,’ he said with a delighted, questioning expression, ‘never had tobacco like this before.’ The others were preoccupied with their coffee. Fitzsimmons rolled himself a cigarette, after refusing the Arab’s offer to make his own variety for him. The Rebels sipped the black coffee in tiny cups and it reminded them of the Greek-style offerings that they all liked. They commented on the more bitter taste. They added sugar lumps and munched on the cakes, which tasted like halva, the sesame sweet that they had enjoyed on Crete. Moody smoked his pipe and mulled over a perplexing, pocket-sized book, Arabic for One Shilling. He tried speaking to the other Arabs. One stared ahead as if he had not been addressed. This response made Moody think his pronunciation had to be terrible. He spoke to a second man, who seemed startled and shook his head.
‘Is it my bloody accent?’ Moody mumbled to himself as he tried to memorise ‘hello,’ ‘pleased to meet you,’ and ‘good morning.’ Seeing his difficulty, a sultry female with outsized brown eyes wandered over, beckoned to him to give her the book, and then examined it. Without a word, she tossed it back to him with what seemed a disdainful glance and then walked away with a languid swing of the hips. She sat on a bar-stool inside the cafe, lit a cigarette and then smiled seductively at Moody, who resumed his language ‘study.’ He was uncomfortable in this indulgence of Murchison’s whim, and none of the other Rebels could relax. A group of boys gathered in an attempt to sell them other food items. The Arab owner waved a dismissive hand at them, but the boys pressed closer.
‘Jeez!’ Murchison muttered with a confused expression after his sixth turn at the pipe. ‘Is this a bloody earthquake or what?!’
He tried to stand but couldn’t. He fell back in his chair. His face was pale. He made a second struggling effort to stand. His feet wouldn’t obey his brain’s simple command.
‘Reckon I’m gunna chuck,’ Murchison uttered as he finally made it to his feet and stumbled into the street and vomited. Moody walked to the charcoal bowl and looked down at the now brown ball, which was almost absorbed into the charcoal. The grinning Arab boss handed him the pipe, with a gesture indicating he should try it. Moody sniffed the end of it and blinked an understanding. The unfamiliar odour made him cough. Just at that moment, Horrie burst into the square at the double, growling and snapping at any local in sight. He made a beeline for the boys outside the cafe.
‘Let’s go!’ Moody said before chasing Horrie. The dog latched onto the trouser leg of a boy who tried to retreat and only managed to see the fabric ripped away. The Arab at the cafe gesticulated, indicating the Rebels had to pay for the food, drink and smoke. Horrie ducked away from Moody and turned his attention to the Arabs in the cafe, who backed inside as the dog barked and snarled. In the commotion, Gill and Fitzsimmons had helped Murchison out of the square and down the tight alley to the gate. Moody managed to grab Horrie, tuck him under his arm and hurry with Featherstone after the others. Urged on by the Arabs in the cafe, the boys followed, throwing stones at the Rebels, who hastened out the only gate entrance and away down the road.
Moody dared not let go of Horrie. His eyes were on fire. The hackles on his back were up. He wriggled, growled and kept glancing back at the boys who had followed them a short distance, still urged on by the Arabs from the cafe, who stayed near the gate. But with a number of other diggers and English soldiers walking past in both directions, all the village locals soon disappeared back through the gate.
‘Saved by Horrie yet again,’ Fitzsimmons exclaimed and when everyone, except the dazed Murchison, patted Horrie, he calmed down. He had gnawed his way through the rope attached to the tent pole, an act they assumed he had performed on Crete.
‘What happened to you?’ Gill asked Murchison. ‘Something you ate last night?’
‘No,’ Moody informed them, ‘that smoke Lawrence of Arabia gave Murchie was opium.’
Murchison was in a state of ‘wellbeing’ as the effects of his ingestion lingered for more than two days. When he recovered he told the Rebels he wanted to go back to the village and ‘shoot bloody Lawrence of Arabia.’
‘Aw, c’mon, Murchie,’ Fitzsimmons chided, ‘you just want a big packet of what went into that special pipe. You’ve been smiling benignly ever since.’
The others laughed.
‘Yeah,’ Featherstone agreed, ‘never seen you so generous and with such bonhomie.’
Murchison managed a smile of resignation. He had no response, for he admitted that the opium had relaxed every muscle, and thought.
‘Can see why the bloody stuff is so addictive,’ he said with a rueful look, ‘a few of the diggers have succumbed over here.’ He frowned. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking—’
‘A very dangerous side-effect of opium,’ Fitzsimmons said.
‘No seriously, I want action. I can’t stand sweating in the heat here, getting listless and bored. The whisper is that some of the battalion are putting in for transfers to the 2/3 Machine Gun Battalion. They are set for action in Syria. We are set to fight the Vichy French any day now. Our General Stan Savige is having a big say in that affair. The Allies don’t want the Nazis using their control over the Frogs, who have a mandate over Syria and the Lebanon, as a springboard for attacking Egypt. So it’s on in Syria, boys.’
‘Stan is a fine commander,’ Brooker said with an approving nod. ‘He looks after all his boys. You’ll be in good hands. Stan’s one of our greatest soldier-commanders.’ He shook his head and after a pause added: ‘To think we are going to fight the French after all the blood we spilt for them in the last war! I’ll never get over it.’
‘You must forgive them, Poppa,’ Moody said, ‘it was either collaborate with the Nazis or see Paris smashed and millions more Frogs die.’
‘Would you turn-coat like the Vichy French under Premier bloody Marshal Petain?’ Brooker asked.
‘No, but we don’t know all the circumstances.’
‘Bulldust!’ Brooker said.
In late May 1941, a few days later, Murchison managed a transfer to the other Machine Gun Battalion (the 2/3), which was bound for Syria and a battle there in June 1941. This move did not herald a major splitting of the group, but it was a sad day when he was about to march out. Murchison made a fuss of Horrie. The dog knew something was up. He bounced around Murchison, who tried to ignore him as he prepared to leave the tent.
‘When we’ve cleaned up the Frogs,’ he said after shaking hands with each man, ‘I’ll be back. I am already looking forward to that reunion.’ He paused to look down at Horrie, whose head was at its enquiring tilt, ‘especially with you, mate.’ He moved out. Horrie followed him for a few paces before sitting and watching him depart with nearly the intensity he demonstrated when he heard German planes in the distance. The dog whined a little and would not move from his vigil for an hour in the hope that Murchison would return.
The Germans defeated the Allies in Greece and Crete in May and June 1941 but, in a Dunkirk-like operation, 43,000 Allied soldiers were saved, although much heavy equipment, including artillery guns, was captured by the Germans. Most analysis blamed the loss on the enemy’s all-round superiority in tank and aircraft numbers. The Allies had about a quarter of their numbers in each field, in a situation made worse by the British not having access to airfields, which rendered the air force impotent.
The 2/1 Gunners suffered. They had 104 casualties including 77 men who were taken prisoner, and the Rebels realised how lucky they had been to escape capture, wounding or death.