One late afternoon, Lieutenant Hewitt and another officer, Captain Ken Bartholemew, who had just joined the battalion from Australia, marched into the Rebels’ tent unannounced. They were accompanied by Horrie’s old enemy, Sergeant-of-the-Guard Ross Fitzgerald. The 49-year-old Duntroon-trained Bartholemew was said to be from military intelligence but no one knew why he was in the Middle East. He was short, rotund and with a similar appearance to King Edward VII, the (current) King George VI’s grandfather, right down to the neat beard. All the Rebels were present, either playing cards or fiddling with radio equipment. They stood to attention. The captain had only recently heard about Horrie’s exploits from Hewitt, who observed, rather than took part in, the inspection.
‘So you’re the infamous rabble known as the Rebels,’ he said, ‘the little group of signallers with the biggest AWL and brawling reputation of the Gunners.’
Each Rebel was nervous and most suspicious of Fitzgerald’s presence. Had he come to find Horrie? Had he heard a rumour about the hidden dog and informed on them? Moody prayed that Fitzgerald’s scent would not cause Horrie to growl or bark. The captain began by inspecting kits. He put his nose into Moody’s bag.
‘Ugh!’ he said. ‘You’ve had a dog in here, Private, have you not?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Moody said, his eyes so fixed on Fitzgerald that the big man looked away and began fossicking under beds. ‘Donated him to the local police a week ago, sir.’
‘Very noble of you,’ the captain said.
‘Be careful, Sergeant,’ Fitzsimmons warned Fitzgerald. ‘I handed in all Private Murchison’s snakes for destruction, but one big asp slipped away. We think he may come “home,” so to speak, every so often.’
Fitzgerald got off his knees, indicating he was not fond of reptiles. The thorough inspection went on for 18 minutes.
‘I must say you lot have come a long way from the slovenly beginning in the Western Desert,’ Hewitt said, pointing to the neat piles of packs and equipment lined up with centimetre perfection at the end of each bed. ‘Must give credit to Sergeant Brooker, and you too, Corporal Featherstone.’
‘I think you should know,’ Captain Bartholemew said, hauling himself up straight and eyeballing Moody, ‘that your precious little doggie went AWL from the police station a few nights ago.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Captain. We thought he had such a good home there.’ Moody looked around at the other Rebels, who shrugged and sighed. ‘Perhaps we should organise a search party to look—’
‘That’s enough, Private Moody,’ the captain snapped, ‘you will do nothing of the sort. If the dog is lost, it’s a good thing for him, for I am a very good shot at a distance or close range.’ He paused as if for theatrical effect and added: ‘I am told by the Sergeant-of-the-Guard here that the dog—’
‘Horrie, Captain,’ Hewitt said, ‘that is his name.’
‘Yes, well, whatever you call him, he may well turn up at your tent, so we shall keep a look out.’
‘I’m sure Private Moody will hand him in if he does,’ Hewitt reassured the captain with a salute as the three men left the tent. Several of the Rebels fell back on their beds and groaned.
‘That bloody Fitzgerald! What the hell was he doing at the inspection?!’ the Shegog asked in disgust. ‘He’s not our sergeant.’
‘Poppa is away on assignment for the day,’ Harlor informed them.
‘Someone should take Gerry out into the desert and shoot him,’ Shegog muttered as he reached for his whisky flask. There was silence for a moment. The others began rolling cigarettes or filling pipes to calm their nerves. Darkness was falling.
‘Horrie needs a reward,’ Moody said after lighting up. He slid his bed and the concealing mattress aside. He lifted the boards and Horrie took two leaps and a scramble with his paws at the lip of the hole to hoist himself out. Moody waited until it was dark before wrapping him in a towel and walking to the edge of camp and a scrubby area where he let Horrie down to bound around for some much-needed exercise. Moody relit his pipe and made a mental note to record in his diary that he had just been through the tensest moment of the war for him. This included when bombs were dropping and Stukas were strafing in his direction. Not even the ride through Servia Pass in Greece held more terrors than the inspection. They were events where he could have been killed in any second. But that tent scrutiny of every nook and cranny had had his heart palpitating and his mind racing. He watched Horrie rooting around and then come bounding to him for a pat.
‘You are worth it, mate,’ he whispered as he bent down to pick him up, ‘every second of hell we are putting you and ourselves through.’
Next trick was to train him to stay quiet in Moody’s pack. This took up to two hours and must have been uncomfortable for Horrie. But he was dedicated to Moody and his directives, with complete trust in whatever these moves or games meant. He seemed aware that he just had to put up with them if he wanted to remain with the Rebels. After a few nights’ work, Moody had only to place the pack on the ground and Horrie would attempt to climb into it himself. They practised on a route march, which was far more of a test in the heat of the day than the cool of the night. Despite his stoic efforts to remain still and quiet, Moody knew he had to be suffering, so he shaped a plywood frame to fit inside the pack. This allowed Horrie to sit up and stopped the pack from collapsing in on him. Moody then cut out the back portion of the pack, which rested against his (Moody’s) back, and this allowed Horrie more air. The missing back portion was replaced by crisscrossed string to keep the dog from slipping out. Horrie seemed satisfied with the modified pack.
When the camp was disbanded early on 10 March 1942, Moody arranged for a friend and devout Horrie supporter, Barry the Butcher, to keep the dog hidden in the canteen until he could be picked up that night. Snug in the pack the following morning, Horrie left with the battalion, which moved to its Gaza embarkation point on the Palestine railroad. A piece of luck occurred when Moody and Gill were able to hitch a ride in the guard van on the train. Horrie jumped out of the pack and stretched his legs for the slow journey to Tewfik near the Egyptian border. He was placed back in the pack when the battalion alighted from the train and lined up for an evening meal. Moody was obligated to leave his pack with all the others. He went to some trouble arranging it so that Horrie was upright. Moody became aware of someone behind him, watching. It was Captain Bartholemew.
‘Something precious in there, Private?’ Bartholemew asked.
Moody thought his heart had missed a beat. He turned to face the captain without responding. The captain broke into a smile.
‘I like dogs very much,’ he said, dropping his voice, ‘but keep him well out of sight. Not everyone feels like we do.’
Moody had never been more relieved. The captain had surprised him after his behaviour at the tent inspection, but he guessed it had been an act in front of Hewitt, who loved Horrie but would have to support his confiscation and killing, and Fitzgerald, who hated the dog and would love to have seen him executed.
At 7 a.m. on 12 March the Rebels prepared for the 6.5 kilometre march to the port of Tewfik. Moody was concerned that Horrie could wilt in the early morning heat. He had Gill carry him while Moody marched close behind, encouraging the dog all the way. This worked and the battalion rested in tents for the night, which allowed Moody to sneak him out for exercise again. Then came the final big test on the next day, which was particularly hot, when there was a final 6 kilometre march to the ship, the USS West Point. Gill carried him in his backpack again and Moody stepped close behind once more, whispering words of hoped-for comfort in the blazing heat, which had the dog panting. But he remained motionless. Every few hundred metres, Moody wet his fingers with his water bottle and poked them through the top of the pack. Horrie licked them, and Moody could hear his tail swishing against the plywood.
They reached the wharf and looked up at the mighty ship, which had been the USA’s answer to the UK’s Queen Mary. It would carry about 8000 Australian troops, mainly from 6th Division, including more than 600 from the 2/1 Machine Gun Battalion. Horrie was still panting when Gill placed him on the dock in the face of a light breeze that gave him some relief.
‘Now for the biggest worry of all,’ Moody muttered to Gill, ‘the final inspection.’
But there wasn’t one. Moody picked up the pack for the small boat ferry to the USS West Point manned by American sailors. By some judicious manipulation and promises of alcohol, which was forbidden on this ship, Moody and Gill commandeered a cabin with a shower. The six beds in it would be taken by Rebels. There was still much covering up to do and no risk could be taken, but Horrie could run free in the crowded cabin among close friends.
‘You are a very lucky little fella,’ Fitzsimmons said, tapping his nose, ‘you are on the way to Australia!’