Horrie the War Dog Page 8

  Brooker told Gill and Moody they would go on despatch-riding duties under the battalion’s Corporal Thurgood.

  ‘Well this is it,’ Gill said, ‘this is what we signed up for. Not quite the charge on Beersheba, but we’ll be in the thick of it.’

  ‘I dunno,’ Moody replied with a wry grin. ‘We’ll be going a little quicker than the troopers and they didn’t have anything like Stukas coming at them. And the tanks in the Great War weren’t quite like the Panzers that blasted through Poland.’

  The Stukas whistled by in the skies for the first time on 13 April and created a different atmosphere in the region and in the battalion’s moveable base as it reached the foot of Mount Olympus where it would create its HQ. The gunners marched out to join the Anzacs, which had withdrawn already to a point about 15 kilometres north at what was called the Olympus–Aliakmon Line. The next day would be the beginning of the real war for Moody and Horrie.

  9

  DOG OF WAR

  The morning of 14 April featured blues skies with just specks of fluffy cloud that would not hold back the Luftwaffe. Moody was up at dawn. He received orders to ride to the front with a message.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Brooker told him, trying to sound relaxed when he wasn’t, ‘it won’t be your death warrant. The Stukas will have bigger targets to hit than you. You’d only be collateral damage, if you were very unlucky. There will be more problems with shelling. Just keep your head down and don’t panic. You have an important job to do. Good luck to you and Horrie.’

  Horrie heard his name mentioned. He looked up, his head cocked in enquiry.

  ‘Yes, mate,’ Moody said, ‘you’re coming with me. None of our mates will be in the camp until the afternoon. I’m not leaving you on your Pat [Malone].’

  The dog waddled up and stood on his hind legs, his paws high on Moody’s legs in reaction to the reassuring tone. Moody gathered his pack, put on his greatcoat and signalled to Horrie, who jumped up and nuzzled into position more eagerly than before. Moody adjusted his goggles, revved the bike and was away to the front. He began his trek up the road to Servia Pass and then the Alaikmon River where he was to deliver a despatch to the battalion’s A Company Captain A. L. Vincent with the Anzac force.

  Moody kept up a fair pace for a few kilometres but was soon retarded by thick mud, which he had to skid his way through here and there. He came across the result of the Luftwaffe’s renewed efforts now that the Stukas could be extricated from their own mud impediments. The odd house between villages had been flattened and burnt out. Towns themselves had been partially destroyed. The shells of trucks, destroyed almost beyond recognition, littered the road and its sides. The stench of war—dominated by acrid smoke—became stronger as Moody gunned his machine, swerving to veer off the road in order to bypass oncoming cars, carts and trucks filled with fleeing refugees and their belongings. More telling than anything was the boom of the guns, which were coming nearer now as Moody could see the beginning of Servia Pass, which he had to negotiate to reach Captain Vincent. Moody glanced down at Horrie to see how he was coping with the scenes of misery. Despite the cold, his little head was out and his eyes darted this way and that, taking in every possible image as if it was a duty to note everything. He yapped at refugees, more in sympathy, especially for the odd dog or horse or cow, and his look lingered a fraction more on a dead animal lying by the road. It put Horrie in a sombre mood, which was very different from the one he had during the reception in Athens and towns now well south of them. Moody spoke the odd word of encouragement to the dog as his own heart beat faster the nearer they came to the hot spot. He was fearful of what lay ahead and if he would complete his mission, let alone make it back to HQ. Moody was beginning to be concerned too about the decision to take Horrie.

  Then he noticed that the road ahead was deserted, giving him second thoughts about going on. Horrie was growling. The roar of his bike engine had drowned him out, and other noises had been submerged by the distant boom of artillery guns. Then he slowed his pace to about 50 kilometres an hour. Horrie was struggling to get out. Moody heard at first a low whine from somewhere. It became louder until it was a sound like ‘a thousand screaming banshees.’ Moody felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as a Stuka swooped and then dived perpendicularly. It spat bullets either side of his bike, causing mud to splatter up. Moody lost control of the machine for a second. It wobbled as he steered it off the road into a ditch of thick mud, which cushioned the crash and fall as Moody was thrown clear of the bike. He looked up to see the attacking craft climbing high in a long, lazy circle. Then he felt down into the coat for Horrie, who had not made a peep. Before he could assess the dog’s condition, a second Stuka came zooming down with an ear-piercing blast that seemed louder than the first plane. There was nowhere to run now. Moody pressed down further into the mud as bullets pinged close. His attention turned once more to Horrie, worrying that his silence meant he had been hit and killed. Then a third German dive bomber careered from out of the sun much lower than the other two. It seemed to almost skim the road at him. The noise caused the terrified animal to demonstrate he was alive. He kicked and wriggled to get out of the coat. Moody tried to calm him. He looked up at the three planes as they circled now like huge buzzards taking their time to snare their weakened prey.

  Moody was riveted by the devil’s head insignia on the planes, which he could see clearly. He imagined the sadistic pleasure his masked tormenters were getting from the fear instilled into their would-be victims on the ground.

  Moody’s instinct was to get back on his bike and speed off. He righted the machine and blew hard with relief when it started first go. After an initial kick of panic, Horrie, apparently unhurt, was whimpering. Moody was just back on the bike when he heard a truck screech up close by. He jerked his head around and heard the most soothing words imaginable at that frightening moment: ‘You all right, Dig?’

  A bare-armed Australian driver, wearing a slouch hat and with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, looked down at him with a hint of concern. Moody assured him he was okay, as he explained that the planes had forced him off the road.

  ‘Yeah, the ditch was handy for you,’ the driver responded, his voice as calm as if Moody had just had a flat tyre rather than three Stukas doing their best to kill him. The driver enquired about his condition a second time and when Moody reassured him, the driver pointed ahead. Still with a languid, matter-of-fact tone, the driver advised him to race to Servia Pass, while warning that the Stukas would be back on him in a minute. Then the soldier drove off, crunching through the gears that would allow him to build some speed, but seemingly without being overly concerned. It was the inspiration Moody needed. He looked up to see those planes still circling, as their pilots and gunners appeared to be waiting for the best chance of a kill. Moody leaned over the handlebars and built to top speed. He passed the truck driver who had stopped for him and was soon weaving his way by another five vehicles, with ‘spotters’ on running boards scanning the skies. He was just ahead of them, still a few kilometres short of the pass—which was more a dip in a mountain than a constructed access—when the planes came hurtling at him with that now familiar and shattering high-pitched sound. Moody negotiated the cratered, slippery road and then slewed off it. He bounced away from the bike and dived for a ditch, holding Horrie so that he would not be squashed.

  Moody looked up to see the Australian convoy of trucks halt and their occupants, some carrying rifles, run for the ditch and fields 50 metres from him. The planes let go bombs, which fell close, and fired their guns. Some of the soldiers lay on their backs and fired in defiance. Then the planes climbed high and away once more and the diggers rushed back to the trucks, started them up and were on their way. This happened twice more short of the pass as the German pilots seemed to enjoy this uneven cat-and-mouse ‘game.’ They hit one truck, disabled a second and wounded at least three men. At that rate, it seemed likely that the convoy might not even reach its destination with the loads of weap
ons, food and equipment. After the fourth attack, Horrie’s courage returned. He was wriggling and barking. His stump of a tail was active. His ears were up, listening, concentrating, and waiting for the sound he would hear long before any human. Moody let him jump free. Horrie dashed along the road, sat, stood stock-still and then sat again. Then he bounced around barking at the sky. Moody waved at the convoy’s lead truck and pointed at the dog and sky. He shouted warnings. Seeing this, the driver didn’t wait for the word from the spotter on the truck. He called for everyone to dash for cover. This caused a chain reaction as all ten vehicles were abandoned. The planes careered in low. With plenty of warning, diggers lined up the planes and fired, causing one of the attackers to jerk about as if hit or trying to avoid enemy fire. Two bombs were dropped, causing Horrie to scamper for a furrow. The planes were one thing for him to ‘manage.’ He could hear them coming. He could see them roar overhead. But the sudden explosion of bombs was something he could not get his overactive mind around. There was no warning for him to pick up, no sound, and the falling devices were too fast and small for him to see. Yet still he growled, less certainly and without breaking into a defiant bark.

  Moody stood and carried him to the bike as heads bobbed up in the fields beyond the road. Diggers began scurrying back to the trucks for another incremental crawl forward. They called defiant abuse at the planes. Some waved at Moody with a thumbs-up sign. Those in the front few trucks were well aware now that the small dog with the big bark was the best early-warning system. Moody patted Horrie.

  ‘Might have saved a couple of dozen lives, my little mate,’ he said, stroking him. ‘Very good boy! Good fella!’ Horrie tried to lick him. A few minutes later, there was a further attack from three Stukas and Horrie again was first to ‘spot’ them, his bark sending dozens of diggers running for cover. More bombs fell and he was disturbed a second time by the sound that he had no warning of. Moody was also frightened but somehow his responsibility for the dog helped steady his own nerves at critical moments. There were plenty more yells of thanks from the diggers as they rushed back to their trucks. They realised that Horrie’s efforts were making the prime occupation of avoiding death less difficult.

  Moody, followed by the convoy, reached the mouth of the pass, but the road itself now was an increased impediment to progress as potholes became bigger and bomb craters nearly covered the path. Each hole was filled with mud and slush, which made the bike ride a nightmare. Moody had to stop several times and walk the bike around the blocks. His staggered run now took him by the ancient town of Servia on Mount Olympus’ western side. The classical architecture had been mostly destroyed and homes were burnt-out shells, some still smoking from recent bombs dropped by the Luftwaffe. To make appearances worse, Servia seemed to have been made a ghost town. Only a lonely dog, which received a sympathetic bark from Horrie, was visible. The inhabitants were now part of the exodus south.

  On the road through the town, an Australian road patrolman on a motorbike warned him that German artillery was shelling Servia Pass. When he ascertained Moody had not made the run before, the patrolman pointed to the pass and told him to go hard for it. At its head, he was to wait for the flash of the guns. When he saw them he was to ‘beat it through the bend before they fire the second shell.’

  With the chilling experience of the combat zone backing his words, the patrolman added: ‘Don’t worry about the first shell. It will be at you as soon as you see the flash. If it has missed you, then go for your life.’

  Moody was more nervous than ever before. If it has missed me? he thought. He could feel his heart pounding as it had in the mud ditch during the Stuka attacks. The patrolman asked if he was frightened. Moody assured him he wasn’t when he couldn’t recall being more so, and the discussion turned to the dog. Moments later, Moody, with Horrie tucked well down, was off at speed for the pass. He heard the sound of a plane above but it did not seem to be coming low and Horrie was not reacting to it. Pushing the bike hard, he reached the second bend as instructed and pulled up beside a stationary Australian truck. The driver had alighted. He was in the road watching the head of the pass.

  ‘How you going, Dig?’ Moody asked.

  ‘Not bad, Dig,’ the soldier said as he waited for the guns’ flash as outlined by the patrolman, and then added more urgently, ‘Here she comes!’

  Moody followed him as the driver dashed for a ditch. An explosion followed, which he predicted would land artillery shells right on them. But it missed, instead landing hard on the embankment to their left. The driver reassured him there would a moment’s respite now as he stood and brushed mud from his jacket. He warned that because the Germans were using a large mortar gun, they were capable of firing off a quick additional round of shells. Then the driver noticed Horrie. Moody took him out and the dog dashed about, making a tail-wagging fuss of both men.

  ‘What a bonza little mate you have there!’ the driver said, bending to pat Horrie. Frowning, the driver then suggested that he take Horrie until they were at the end of the pass. The road was broken up so badly, he added, that Moody would find it difficult to control the bike while dodging the enemy mortar fire. Moody agreed and handed Horrie to him. The driver took off with an anxious and perplexed Horrie watching through the window to see if his master would follow. Moody waved, jumped on his machine and made his run for the pass. He could not concern himself with the shells. It was nerve-racking enough just manoeuvring past all the craters and potholes on the badly damaged road, which was greasy with mud and oil. As shells whirred, spat and exploded around him, Moody leaned low over the handlebars, for psychological protection, if nothing else. The chances of being struck in the pass’s confined space were higher than on the road. The showers of shells were whining in at him. Moody felt the hot ‘whoosh’ of the burning metal whistling close. The acrid smell in the pass was suffocating. The shells sprayed and bounced off the mountain’s walls and there were no ditches or trenches in which to dive for cover. Moody had nothing on his mind but reaching the end of the pass, which he did after the most hair-raising ride of his life. As he slewed the bike to a stop, he had never felt more relieved. Even the fresh sounds of combat close by in the mountains were not as daunting.

  Soon the truck rumbled up to him. Even before it braked and stopped, Horrie leapt from the window. After a cheery ‘Good luck, Dig,’ the driver was on his way. Moody reflected on how much he loved the loose and warm camaraderie of Australians at war, and how much of a leveller it was. He might never see the driver again or he might bump into him in some bar in Lebanon or Cairo, or Sydney. But the man had done something in Moody’s and Horrie’s interests as a simple yet selfless gesture of support and humanity. Moody didn’t wish war upon anybody but he acknowledged that it drew out the character of men: the best and the worst traits.

  Moments after the truck was on its way down one path, Moody was into the hills to the west looking for and finding the battalion’s B Company, where he reported to the Signals Unit. Once in the war zone, he became nervous about Horrie until the battalion’s Signals’ truck driver, Ron Baker, volunteered to take him back to HQ. Moody handed him over with further relief, knowing that there would be at least one or two Rebels to look after him by the time he returned. But about 20 minutes after giving up the saddened Horrie, Moody was ordered to carry a message to battalion HQ. He jumped on his bike and raced down to the pass in an attempt to overtake Baker and Horrie. This time he negotiated the pass more easily and with less concern, although the shelling had not stopped and the confined space and dark walls were still foreboding. Once past the depressing shell of the burnt-out Servia, Moody spotted Baker’s truck.

  Meanwhile Baker was alerted by Horrie sitting stock-still on the passenger seat, his head cocked and his ears trying to stay erect. He seemed to be trying to focus on another sound beyond the grumble of the truck engine. Baker was worried.

  ‘What’s up, mate?’ Baker asked. Horrie ignored him.

  ‘Gerry? Stukas? What?!’
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br />   Horrie began growling, then barking. He put his paws on the window, looked at the skies and kept up his warning. Baker pulled up the truck, grabbed Horrie and ran to the side of the road. Moody was about 150 metres behind them. He saw Baker, Horrie under his arm, diving for a ditch. Moody bumped and skidded off the road and ran for cover too. A squadron of Stukas made their now familiar dive, blaring, strafing and bombing. After three runs they climbed high and were gone.

  Moody did not reach the truck until it was at HQ. Horrie was reunited with him, and they both visited the cook’s kitchen for a well-earned meal.

  Fitzsimmons spoke to Moody just before he had to leave camp in a truck on an assignment.

  ‘I’d love to take Horrie, after what the drivers told me about his alerts at the pass,’ he said as he bent down to fondle Horrie’s ears, ‘but I can see he is spent.’

  ‘He’d go and do the job,’ Moody said, ‘but better to let him rest.’

  ‘Yes, he’s only human, after all.’

  10

  REBELS IN RETREAT

  There was a reunion of the Rebels that night of 15 April minus Fitzsimmons and Harlor, who had been rushed to the front to replace two of the battalion’s signallers, who had been killed. Everyone made a fuss of Horrie. His courage and intelligence at Servia Pass in adjusting to the terror of the Stukas, bombs and artillery had those who knew of his exploits saying that he was as important as any other individual in the Gunners because of his early-warning prowess. This assessment hastened the Rebels into working out a plan to make sure that whatever happened, he would not be abandoned. As a last resort, he would be given to the battalion doctor, Sholto Douglas, who was an admirer. His medical unit would be kept together more than any other. Moody had a word with the doctor, who was overworked and required for everything from extracting bullets and shrapnel to amputations and care for dying diggers. Douglas gave his word that he would take care of Horrie, should all the Rebels be incapacitated.