Horrie the War Dog Page 11

  ‘Yeah,’ Murchison agreed, ‘but where from?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, sport,’ Arch said, ‘Bash and I can get anything to work.’

  They passed several burnt-out vehicles before Arch pointed to an Australian truck, which appeared in bad shape. Bullet holes pockmarked the sides and the roof had two big dents from bomb fragments. They stopped. Archie and Bash bustled straight into action. They hot-wired the ignition. The engine coughed and died. This happened several times while the others surrounded the trucks, watching for any possible attackers. The two Kiwis slid under the truck and after some mechanics’ talk, fiddled with the engine. Inside ten minutes they had the vehicle’s engine purring. The rogue ‘crew’ jumped in, and they bumped off down the road, slipping into alarming road dips caused by bomb craters.

  After another hour they were stopped at a roadblock by a small Anzac force.

  ‘Halt!’ an Australian voice called.

  ‘Yeah sure, mate,’ Murchison replied, ‘we’re all diggers.’ And with a laugh added, ‘Well, honorary ones, anyway.’

  *

  Don Gill had become lost searching for the battalion personnel in two missing trucks near Larissa. Travelling past the town, his bike had broken down after he had been driven off the road in a Stuka attack. He was close to a truck that had also taken evasive action sending up a wall of dust. It was just the sign that Stukas and single German Henkel bombers looked for. Minutes after the first attack, one such lone Henkel could be seen wheeling around at low altitude in the distance. Gill was about to find better cover when he saw six of his battalion gunners jump from the truck with their weapons. The sergeant among them called: ‘Aircraft! Action! Fire!’

  The Henkel came swooping so low that it looked as if it might land. The gunners fired and caused the pilot to be distracted enough for him to jerk the controls. The plane’s bullets whistled over the gunners and into a swampy field beyond the road. The Henkel pilot pulled out of his skimming ride and climbed away. Gill yelled to the gunners.

  ‘Can you shoot?’ the sergeant called back.

  ‘Yes!’ Gill replied. He was ordered to grab a weapon from the truck and line up next to them, which he did. The Henkel came in again as Gill, cool as ever, assembled the weapon. He was looking through the sights as the German plane swung low at them. All the gunners opened up too early this time, except for Gill, who was not quite ready. He aimed just as the Henkel dropped two bombs, one which slid over the other side of a mound, and another that seemed right on them. But it did not explode; instead it clunked hard onto the ground about 20 metres clear of them, dead centre in the road. Gill kept firing as the Henkel roared away. The plane seemed to tilt a fraction, then a thin trail of smoke spiralled from it, causing it to lose altitude over the hills on the horizon. The gunners did not wait to hear the crash or see if smoke billowed up. Gill joined them as they all dashed for the truck, aware that the unexploded bomb could detonate. When they were a few hundred metres away, the sergeant offered Gill a smoke. ‘I think you got yourself a “kill,” cobber,’ he said, low-key. ‘Congratulations.’

  One by one the gunners shook his hand without much more than a grunt and a brief grin.

  ‘Bit of a lucky strike,’ Gill said, matter-of-factly. ‘Haven’t fired one since practice at Salisbury Plain.’

  The sergeant shook his head, dragged on his cigarette, smiled and said: ‘It’s never lucky when you hit ’em, Dig, never.’

  Like Murchison, Gill had little choice but to stay with this splinter group. But he was happy to do so. Seeing the calm manner in which they had set themselves up ready for combat, he knew they would have a chance of reaching south to the battalion base, with a slice of luck.

  *

  Later Gill’s group stopped for a further smoke and feed off the main road and down a dirt track to an olive grove close to a creek. They came across a group of eight Greeks who looked dispirited and bedraggled. Their leader explained they had not eaten for two days. The gunners offered them food and drink, which the Greeks readily accepted. After a half-hour, Gill and the gunners decided to have a wash in the creek. They were all filthy and had not had this chance at luxury for days. Finding soap in the truck, the Australians stripped and entered the creek, spreading along it about 30 metres. The Greeks remained smoking and eating, which was their luxury moment too. A few minutes later a squadron of Stukas came floating by high above from a southerly direction, indicating they had probably dropped all their bombs for that particular run. But when they saw the band of Allies, they decided to change course and strafe them, hoping for an extra bonus kill or two at the end of a day’s work. The Australians called for the Greeks to take cover, and did so themselves, jamming close to rocks in the creek. But the fatigued Greeks seemed to have a careless attitude. They sat where they were and continued to eat and smoke. The Stukas hit in a one-off run and bullets spat and kicked up dust right through the camp. Three Greeks were hit. The Australians dashed out of the creek to help. One Greek had been killed and the other two were injured. The gunners, who all knew first aid, dressed the wounds. But within 20 minutes a second Greek died. The little Allied party buried the two men and took off in the truck with the third victim, who had been hit in the arm and shoulder.

  When asked later why they had not tried to find cover, one of the Greeks said that they’d had so many narrow escapes that they thought their chances of being hit were the same whatever they did. It was a little too fatalistic for the pragmatic gunners but they understood the reason for the attitude, and the odds.

  *

  The next morning, 24 April, Murchison’s band of Allies drove to a Greek inn in the village of Ulanda, which was the home town of a couple of the team. The innkeeper and several other locals were regaled with the story of the previous night’s escapade. Wine, beer and whisky were soon being consumed. Murchison broke into a song about his battalion’s division (the 6th) and ‘Old Blamey’s Boys.’ He was off-key but wine had oiled his tonsils enough for a stirring rendition, which boomed out into the street. He climbed onto a table. The Greeks and Kiwis surrounded the table and tried to sing along, with Stavros explaining a few of the lines he could comprehend, which included a chorus of: ‘Old Blamey’s boys, 6th Divvy boys, Fighting for victory, liberty, democracy . . . !’

  They were in full cacophonous flight when Brooker and Moody walked in. Murchison jumped from the table just as Horrie, his behind in a permanent whirl of joy, struggled from Moody’s coat to greet Murchison, who picked him up and held him high.

  ‘Horrie!’ he yelled to the rogue group. ‘This is the most important member of my battalion! He is our angel dropped into the desert to become our watchdog! Saved every one of us at some time or another!’

  The Greeks crowded in to make a fuss of Horrie, who couldn’t get enough of it. Murchison told them of the dog’s exploits. Horrie began licking Murchison’s dirt-smeared face and blood on his tunic. Moody noticed it and asked if it was his.

  ‘No, mate,’ Murchison said, removing his German officer’s cap, ‘the claret belongs to a very dead enemy officer.’ He handed Moody the cap. ‘As does this . . .’ and tapped the Luger, ‘and this . . .’ indicating the knife in his belt.

  Murchison told the tale of their night. As he did so, Horrie wandered outside and along the street, looking for a butcher’s shop. He passed an overcoated man of about 35, wearing a black beret and sitting on a bench, sketching buildings in the street. Horrie stopped to sniff a parcel on the bench. The man muttered and lashed out with his boot. It caught Horrie a glancing blow on the side. The dog yelped and jumped back, more in fright than hurt, just as Moody came out of the inn looking for him.

  ‘Hey!’ Moody called. ‘Don’t you touch that dog!’

  He hurried up to the man and remonstrated with him. The man pretended not to understand and went on sketching. Moody was in two minds about reprisals, but after a quick examination of Horrie, whose pride had been hurt and nothing else, decided against it. He picked up Horrie and w
as walking back to the inn when a middle-aged Greek woman approached him. She kept pointing at the man on the bench saying under her breath: ‘Kataskopos! Kataskopos!’

  Moody brought her into the inn, where she spoke to the Greeks. It was soon ascertained that the man was not from their village. He had been sitting and sketching for several hours. The woman said he was more interested in the military moving through the village, especially the trucks’ markings, than drawing the quaint shopfronts. Three of the Greeks from Murchison’s rogue group slung their rifles over their shoulders and hurried out. Murchison, Moody and Brooker followed. When the man noticed the group marching his way, he jumped from the bench, grabbed his parcel and ran out of the village.

  The Greeks broke into a run after him. One fired his rifle above the man’s head. When a second bullet whistled closer, the man stopped and raised his hands, one of which still clutched a sheaf of papers; the other held the parcel. Murchison was angry. He wanted to deal with the man.

  ‘If he’s a bloody spy, we should execute him!’ he yelled.

  Brooker and Moody restrained him.

  ‘Let them handle it,’ Moody said. ‘It’s their village and he’s Greek.’

  ‘Yeah, and take that bloody cap off before someone puts a bullet in you by mistake!’ Brooker said. It was a sobering thought for Murchison, who pocketed the cap.

  The Australians, with Horrie back in Moody’s coat but with his head poking out inquisitively, watched as the Greeks examined the papers that the interloper was reluctant to hand over. They discarded the artwork and became animated over the other hidden sheets. The Greeks abused and spat on the man. They marched him about 30 metres into some woods. Less than a minute later, two shots rang out. After administering their rough justice, the Greeks returned and showed the Australians about 20 sheets. Each carried notes on all the Allied vehicles, personnel and other military details. The parcel had two pieces of equipment hidden under meat that had attracted Horrie. The signallers recognised parts of a radio transmitter.

  Murchison led them all back to the inn. He took one of the watches he had rifled from the German officers, placed it on the counter as payment and ordered drinks for everyone. Brooker pocketed the watch, telling Murchison he would regret selling it. More Greek soldiers wandered in and the party continued. But some home truths were revealed. Murchison was adamant that the Anzacs would have to evacuate. He spoke of what he had just been through and how fragmented the Allied and Greek armies were now, just marauding groups like his little rogue force. In his euphoric state he reckoned that the Greeks could be organised into a resistance movement in the hills.

  ‘And how long would that last?’ Brooker asked. ‘The Germans would overwhelm us easily. They have the numbers. They’ve got a dominant air force and tanks.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Murchison replied, ‘so if we got tired of fighting we could commandeer fishing boats for a chug-chug across the deep blue Mediterranean to Egypt, couldn’t we?’

  They were soon drowned out by the roar of applause for the news that Turkey had declared war on Germany. Greeks jumped on tables and chairs and began singing. The party atmosphere increased and the alcohol flowed. Soon the patrons were overflowing into the street. There was wild talk about what Turkey’s intervention could mean. Further speculation fuelled rumours that the British might rush more troops and more equipment to Greece for a counterattack.

  ‘Why would Churchill bother about the “underbelly of Europe” now?’ Moody asked as they went outside to be heard, ‘when the Germans have effectively won Greece and he has more than enough on his hands in Western Europe?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Brooker said, ‘we are finished here. It’s going to be a backs-to-the-wall fight all the way.’

  Just when they were contemplating the immediate future, Horrie began barking. He darted towards a lean figure so covered in mud and grime that he was almost unrecognisable until his distinctive throaty voice greeted them with ‘G’day, Rebels!’

  It was Gill, who was embraced by a relieved Moody. Horrie did a little jig. Gill’s arrival with news that Featherstone, Fitzsimmons and Harlor had been found and were back at camp called for another round of celebratory drinks. Brooker was overjoyed that his little band of Rebels was back together, almost, and intact. And there was a further positive feeling that during the day many of the 6th Division’s combat troops had reached the area. There were plenty of soldiers left in what now seemed a lost cause.

  ‘You know what day it is tomorrow?’ Brooker asked. ‘It’s Anzac Day—25 April. A good omen that the Rebels are united again . . .’

  13

  NIGHT RIDERS

  Intelligence reached Brooker that the Germans were planning to drop a force of paratroopers about 160 kilometres south of them at Corinth. Their main objective would be to blow up the canal bridge there, which would cut off the long divisional convoy in its attempt to reach the south for a possible evacuation from the ports—but not from Piraeus, which had been ruined by the Luftwaffe. As soon as darkness began to fall, the trucks were assembled. Brooker allowed the Kiwis and Greeks who had been with Murchison to join the battalion. The Greeks piled into the battered truck at the end of the convoy that had brought them to Ulanda. Despite appearances, it was running well enough. Archie and Bash offered to travel with them, but the Greeks insisted they could handle the crowded vehicle, which was also stacked with supplies, as were most of the others.

  The 200-truck convoy moved off under the cover of darkness but the rush caused them to flick on their lights to avoid crashes or slipping off the road. Moody’s bike had broken down after weeks of hard riding in rough conditions. This led to him and Horrie and some of the Rebels travelling with Ron Baker in his truck. The dog enjoyed the freedom of not being in the greatcoat, although he never complained. It was warm and safe and he was disciplined in the cramped conditions. But now he could take up any position he liked, his favourite seat being the front where he kept a vigil on the passing parade and villages, even in the poor light. Often he would give a little whimper, having seen something that human eyes could not: perhaps a knot of people, a few sheep, a stray cow or a cat. Only twice did he do a tremulous complete circle in the seat. Ron Baker next to him assumed he had spotted dogs.

  They reached Corinth at about 4.30 a.m. A cheer went up from the front trucks when they reached the canal bridge. It was intact. The German paratroopers had not made their sabotage drop and it was assumed they would fall from the sky at dawn to make their mission less dangerous and more accurate. The convoy thundered on in one continuous snake down through the mountain levels to Argos. The road train pulled into olive groves where the trucks were given crude camouflage. The soldiers began digging trenches for protection from the expected Luftwaffe sallies. It was soon discovered that the truckload of Greeks from Murchison’s rogue group was not with them. It was surmised that their vehicle must have broken down somewhere en route. They would be isolated and caught up in enemy territory and this was confirmed when word reached the signallers that hundreds of enemy paratroopers had dropped in on the villagers in Corinth. They had rushed to lay charges on the canal bridge, which they blew up, apparently without realising that the main convoy had beaten them through by less than an hour. This sabotage was now self-harm. The German advance would later be held up by their engineers having to reconstruct the crossing. It was a rare blunder in German planning, always so precise, especially when there was no opposition to their manoeuvres.

  This intelligence meant that the battalion and other 6th Division troops could relax for an hour or two knowing that the only major threat for the moment could be from the air. The Rebels and Horrie wandered into Argos to see if they could find a cafe that would sell them food and alcohol. Moody brought his camera and his ubiquitous travel book, and reminded the others that Argos had been a substantial agrarian village for 7000 years.

  Reading from the travel book, Moody informed them that Argos once rivalled Sparta in its military strength and importance as
a trade centre. Fitzsimmons took the book from Moody and after running his finger down the page, remarked: ‘Listen to this boys: “Argos is the birthplace of the mythological character Perseus.” I find that is very satisfying to know.’

  That brought a few laughs. They found a cafe, which was just opening, and they sat down outside. Horrie dashed across the road to a small cottage and harassed a hen and her chickens.

  ‘Little bugger must be hungry,’ Moody said, and snapped an order for him stop his antics. Horrie trotted over, looking back at the hen. The cafe manager sold them wine but had no food. After sitting there for 20 minutes they were about to leave when an old woman in black wandered from the cottage across the road and offered them two trussed-up chickens. She had noticed Horrie’s enthusiasm for the hen and guessed that the Rebels might be hungry. The lads insisted on paying her, and she seemed insulted. Then she invited them to join her in her vine-covered cottage. They accepted and followed her inside the modest home, cluttered with pictures, icons and several little crosses on the walls. She bustled about and brought out plenty of olives, cheese, bread and milk and made them tea. They felt more than a tinge of guilt when she showed them photos of her husband and son, who had been fighting the Italians in Albania. With hand movements and welling eyes, she explained that they had both been killed in action. Brooker tried not to show emotion, but he and all the Rebels were touched. She was alone with just memories. They expressed their helplessness to each other as they left the sad scene.

  ‘We’re bloody impotent!’ Harlor exclaimed. ‘These people are so generous and friendly and we can’t lift a finger to help them!’

  ‘We would if we could,’ Brooker said, ‘but we can’t, okay? We must leave this beautiful country if we can. That’s it. Those are the orders!’

  They had a nervous day to contemplate their fates before the last convoy run at night to the coastal town of Kalamata, about 100 kilometres south-west. They roasted the two chickens that the old woman had prepared for them, and enjoyed the break from bully beef and biscuits. Horrie was thrown the bones and he feasted on what he could claim was his idea in the first place.