by Roland Perry
‘Look out, man,’ Paterson said, ‘that horse will kill you!’
‘No sir, me and this hoss is very well acquainted,’ the American said, using his enormous forearms to push the pony aside. ‘But you and that big fella—man, you’re brave goin’ in there with him!’
‘I think I am brave,’ Paterson agreed, and they both laughed.
‘This hoss, he’s kinda predictable, even the way he kicks. But that Bill o’ yours, you never know with him.’
4
EGYPT
About halfway through the voyage the convoy was made aware that it was travelling to Egypt, not Europe. Instead of gazing up at the triangular elongation of the Eiffel Tower in the crowded metropolis of Paris, the world’s most sophisticated city, the lads would be photographing the squat triangular marvel of the pyramids in an almost empty desert. There were no high-kicking French girls in sight or to gossip about, just dead pharaohs inside the pyramids and out of sight. Most adjusted. Many had joined up just for the travel anyway. They were tourists in an unexpected land displaying boisterous ignorance and interest in everything.
Harry Chauvel, who would command the Light Horse, had been in London. He arrived at Maadi, a European suburb five kilometres from Cairo, to greet them. He was a short, thin Australian aristocrat who rode so well that he always seemed grand in the saddle. He was forty-nine years of age and just ‘young’ enough for service. Chauvel was originally from Tabulam in New South Wales, but later based at his cattle station over the border in Queensland at Canning Downs South. Despite his upper-class mien, his farm background and natural leadership capacity meant he was really born to rule, or at least command. The chance to exercise this was in the military and with the Light Horse. His Boer War experience fourteen years earlier had toughened him. He was determined to make a mark in war at the next opportunity and it seemed to be coming fast. Chauvel, like Paterson, was on a horse at two years of age, and had been on one every day of his life since. There was no more elegant horseman, and he understood his animals better than most and perhaps even with more sensitivity than he did humans. But he cared for both in war and was the type of commander you wished for if you were on the front line. He was not prone to panic or hasty decision-making. Chauvel was more cautious than cavalier. He had an excellent sense of when to wait, pull back or strike.
His men and horses had been on his mind during his recent trip to England. Chauvel did not like what he saw at the training camp at Salisbury Plain, which he likened to Siberia. He diverted his Light Horse to Cairo, where conditions would be far better for everything from equipping and preparation to just existing. There were problems in gaining fresh water, and the troopers grumbled about that with good reason, but it was a minor complaint compared to what would have confronted them in the freezing English winter of 1914–15.
Chauvel’s brigade of 1560 men consisted of three regiments, each of about 520 men. He had trained many of the 75 officers, including his second-in-command, the uncompromising but brilliant Major William Glasgow, forty, who had a fine record in the Boer War. There were also men of outstanding quality who would be in war for the first time, including Michael Shanahan. Chauvel had noticed his skills as a leader and horseman early on and had influenced his rapid promotion on merit. Like John Monash, who commanded the other (soldier) brigade in Australia’s 2nd Division, Chauvel believed in promoting natural leaders regardless of background or rank. They were confident that in the heat of battle this would count in a big way at every level
Chauvel appreciated Shanahan for another reason. The lieutenant had an uncanny way with animals: he was a ‘horse whisperer’, although he never actually whispered. He spoke softly, understandingly. There was something in his relaxed, non-predatory manner that caused horses to respond to his ‘suggestions’. Shanahan neither bullied nor pleaded. He became any particular horse’s new best friend. He carried sugar lumps and sweets all the time, but this did not explain even a fraction of his freakish ability with them. They were simply part of his repertoire of inducements and cajolery with the mounts. Shanahan would sidle up, have a quiet chat, pat them in the places they liked best and slip them an edible ‘present’ rather than a ‘reward’.
When asked about this, he replied with a smile and a scratch of his jaw: ‘Well, you wouldn’t give rewards to your best girl, would you?’
This homily always brought a raised eyebrow and nod of agreement. Michael Shanahan was a practical soul. He gave orders to his men with a little more vigour than he did to the horses, but again without bullying them. If a Light Horseman needed disciplining, he would take him aside and have a fatherly chat for, like Chauvel, he was a generation older than the average trooper. This approach garnered the respect of each man under him. They would go anywhere with him and carry out any of his wishes. Each trooper knew that Shanahan would never ask his charges—man or horse—to go anywhere he would not go himself. The men wanted to show as much courage as him, and that was all he asked. He didn’t want heroics. He did want teamwork and a strong bond among all his troopers. That way he knew they would look out for each other no matter what the threat. They knew too he would look after their interests before his own. This carried up the chain of command to both the 2nd Division’s brigade commanders, Chauvel and Monash. It seemed to augur well for whatever lay ahead.
There were some 8000 horses left with Chauvel’s brigade after 220 of them died on the sea voyage, three times the expected attrition rate. The losses were caused mainly by pneumonia, brought on by the overcrowding and lack of ventilation on the lowest deck, which Bill had so aggressively avoided. Some twenty or so of the total lost were washed overboard from the top deck, which once more vindicated his apparent ‘attitude’ to the uncovered stalls. About 3000 of the Walers were ridden or marched about two kilometres to the Nile for watering. The remaining 5000, Bill among them, were taken to nearby irrigation canals. The idea was to exercise all the equine contingent up to their readiness for mounted work. Even he was bracketed among those that would be ridden, although all the remount section would soon be aware that ‘the Bastard’ was still some way from being broken in fully, if it were even possible.
A problem arose when the feed prescribed by the Australian vets ran out. The horses had to endure Egyptian barley straw (tibben). Bill refused it at first then became a reluctant eater, letting the vets know of his discontent by shaking the feed bag and kicking at the same time. It was his form of protest until oats, bran and chaff arrived.
In February 1915, Harry Chauvel called Banjo Paterson to a meeting about his work in the war. Paterson was already writing and sending despatches back to Sydney but most were not being published. He was not an ‘official’ correspondent. It irked him. Chauvel sympathised, telling Paterson that this was a different ‘encounter’ than in the Boer War where they had first become acquainted.
‘Then I’d better go to a theatre where I can report,’ Paterson said.
‘You can always work at the remount division,’ he was told.
‘You think I want to sit in Egypt minding horses while war rages in Europe and somewhere near here?’
‘It is a most worthwhile job.’
‘Get someone else. I’m a writer first and a nag minder a long way second!’
After a short silence, Chauvel said: ‘Just know, Banjo, that you are always welcome here. If you do change your mind I will have you promoted and you can be involved in controlling the remount show.’
‘Thanks but no thanks.’
With that he took a boat to England and managed to gain a job as an ambulance driver on the Western Front. That didn’t last long. By late March 1915 he was on his way back to Australia, even more disgruntled than he had been before he enlisted.
5
MISMATCH
Chauvel began mounted training when the horses were fit, and Bill was among the thousands of horses broken out for troopers. One large Victorian trooper from Cudgewa on the Victorian border, Gerry Henderson, demanded to be ‘matched�
� with him. Henderson, a close-eyed amateur boxer with a lantern jaw, weighed in at 120 kilograms. He was out of condition. Henderson was told about Bill’s reputation for being a little ‘rough’. The big man was not bothered when the lean, 25-year-old Sergeant Aidan Sutherland from Golspie, Scotland pointed him out from a wooden hut office near the entrance to the remount depot.
‘I’ve busted bigger buggers than that bastard,’ Henderson boasted with a burst of unintended alliteration. ‘Has he been broken in?’
‘Not completely,’ was the cryptic reply from black-haired, dark-eyed Sutherland, who had an almost permanently whimsical look and unruffled manner.
‘Either he has or he hasn’t.’
‘Bit tricky wi’ this one,’ the Scot said with a slow grin. ‘A few have ridden him, but not for long. He’s real temperamental. Wants his own way all the time.’
‘Ah, there are plenty like that,’ Henderson said. ‘He looks okay. I’ll take him.’
Sutherland pointed to the requisition register, indicating his signature was required. ‘I’d advise you to try him out first, laddie.’
‘I’m not anyone’s “laddie”, alright, mate?’
‘And I’m not anyone’s “mate”,’ Sutherland replied pleasantly enough, ‘except for my girlfriend, alright?’
‘Yeah, right, mate,’ Henderson said absent-mindedly as he wandered over to the fence near Bill and examined him.
Sutherland laughed. ‘Got a wee verbal tic, have we, everyone is a “mate”, even people who are not?’
‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I want this neddie, okay, mate?’
‘Sure, but as I said, it would be wise to just run wee Bill around the depot for a wee-while.’
‘Haven’t got time for any “wee-wees”, mate. We have to assemble in the desert in an hour.’
‘Okay, then, trooper,’ Sutherland said, and added with an intriguing smile, ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Sutherland entered the corral and took Bill out. The horse seemed unconcerned. Then again, he often did. Henderson made the usual greeting noises, but gruffly, letting the animal know who was boss. Bill hardly blinked. He only turned his head when Henderson produced a short jockey’s whip. He flicked a fly near the horse.
Henderson led Bill to a mounting yard where his gear was stacked. He planned his first route march with a thousand other troopers who were being addressed in the desert by Chauvel that day. The word was that the commander had something to tell them about their immediate mission and destination. Bill was tethered to a fence. He looked on more placidly than ever as his new ‘master’ loaded up with the trooper’s kit: a bandolier (trooper’s cartridge belt); belt with four pouches; bayonet; wire cutters; 150 rounds of ammunition; rifle; and a water bottle. The last item was about the most essential accoutrement for the day. It was already 35 degrees Centigrade in the shade, and locals tipped it would climb to more than 45 degrees.
Next, Henderson began to arrange other items on the compliant Bill, who seemed to be asleep. On went the military saddle, followed by a haversack containing one carryall with one piece of soap, one towel and one meal. This was wedged between the saddle and the base of Bill’s neck. His eyes were wide open now with his body being invaded and covered. An overcoat, waterproof ground sheet, blanket, horse brush pad, mess tin, and a canvas bucket were piled on. A feedbag was looped over Bill’s neck and pulled to the side so that he couldn’t get at it. This was followed by a picketing peg, heel rope, linking rope, and a leather horseshoe case with spare shoes and nails. The weight on Bill’s body tallied about 80 kilograms. Henderson mounted, making the total haul on the horse some 200 kilograms. Bill remained impassive.
Henderson urged him to move out. ‘C’mon, get going!’
Bill just trotted a few paces and stopped.
‘What the . . .?!’ Henderson dug his stirrups in and whipped Bill across the shoulder. Bill shook his mane, as if he found this action most disagreeable.
‘I get it. You’re Bill the slow Bastard!’
Bill started to trot again. Henderson began to dovetail with a score of other mounted troopers heading east of Cairo to the desert near the Nile. Bill became more animated, wriggling his trunk and jerking his neck.
‘That’s it. Get used to the bloody load, cobber.’
Bill picked up the pace. Henderson yelled with delight. Bill was soon into a steady gallop. Henderson tried to rein him in but couldn’t. Bill’s pace picked up some more, almost as if he were not concerned at his rider’s valiant attempts to pull him up. The horse seemed to be enjoying himself. The exercise appeared good for him. By this time, Henderson was in front of about a hundred other troopers, who were urging him on. Then Bill slowed like a locomotive coming into a station. Inside half a minute he was stock still. Henderson cursed and dug his heels in again. Bill responded with a guttural sound. He rushed forward like a bull, head down, ears pinned back and tail straight. Then he pulled up and bucked, swinging his barrel body to the right and pivoting.
Henderson was a good horseman. Normally he may have been able to control this movement but the weight of his gear tipped him out of the saddle. He landed with a thump in the sand that was heard by all the other troopers. Bill turned and rushed close, almost as if he was going to trample the big man. Then he dug his hooves into the sand, stopping a metre from the squirming Henderson. Bill backed off and delivered a signature curl of the lip. Henderson struggled to his feet fuming. He had landed on his coccyx and was in pain. Bill trotted ten metres away and stopped with his back to his rider, who endured good-natured jeering from troopers swooping by. Henderson cursed the horse and a few mates who called out comments.
‘I’d pick you up, Gerry, but you’re too big and fat!’ red-headed Bluey Harold yelled.
‘Thought you could ride, mate!’ skeletally thin ‘Swifty’ Thoms said with a guffaw.
Henderson hustled towards Bill, trying to regain what little dignity he had left, for there were few things more humiliating than an experienced bushman being dumped so unceremoniously.
‘Wait you . . . why I oughta . . .!’ Henderson snorted. He staggered up to Bill. Just as he reached for the saddle, Bill bolted another thirty metres away. Henderson was left stumbling and nearly fell again. He cursed so hard that his deep voice went up an octave. Bill waited. He still had his back to his rider. When Henderson was ten metres away, Bill took off again, then stopped once more, now some forty metres away. Henderson was sweating profusely under the weight of his accoutrements. He needed a drink, but the water bottle was on the horse. He wanted his rifle, but that too was wedged close to the saddle. In battle it would be slung over his shoulder.
‘I am going to stick you!’ he yelled, but his sheathed bayonet was next to the rifle. Any animal would have comprehended that this human’s tone was menacing and threatening. Bill trotted the 600 metres back to the remount depot, leaving Henderson to trudge his own way back laden down with his gear. Each step sent a searing pain through him.
Sutherland hustled out of his office to greet Bill. He looked to the horizon and could see the gesticulating figure of Henderson shimmering in the heat on the sand. Twenty minutes later he stumbled into the depot, still cursing. Sutherland stood close to Bill, shocked that Henderson was yelling that he would bayonet the horse.
‘No killing of my steeds, trooper,’ Sutherland said, standing between Bill and his would-be killer. The Scot was no more than 174 centimetres and, while fit, about 70 kilograms wringing wet, which was not much more than half the size of the angry trooper. Henderson tried to brush past. Sutherland put his fists up. They were about to engage in a bout of fisticuffs when Bill took off again. He stopped near the gate to the horse corral. Sutherland hurried over and opened it for him. Henderson, still weighed down with his gear, was left standing, his fists in the air. He waddled towards the gate yelling that he wanted to ram his bayonet into Bill’s heart.
‘You won’t even catch him to retrieve your wee bayonet wi’ that attitude,’ Sutherl
and said defiantly.
‘Then I’ll get me mate’s fucking rifle and shoot the bastard!’
‘I wouldn’t do that either. The commander loves his horses. You’d be on a wee charge and on the first boat outta here back to Australia.’ Sutherland allowed himself a brief chuckle, adding, ‘Along with two hundred other diggers being sent home wi’ syphilis! You can’t go sticking or shooting your animal just because he dumps you on your not-so-wee arse. We wouldn’t have a remount horse left if every trooper reacted like that.’
The remark gave Henderson pause. ‘You gave me the bloody horse!’ he blurted.
‘You accepted it. I have your signature. Said you could ride anything.’
Henderson gazed into the corral where Bill was having a drink at a trough. ‘What about my bloody gear on ’im?’
‘I’ll remove it and have it sent to your tent by packhorse.’ Sutherland grinned. ‘I’ll make sure it isn’t Bill.’
Henderson’s face flushed again but before he could abuse Sutherland, the sergeant added with a conciliatory grin, ‘Get over it and I’ll buy you a wee drink tonight . . .’
6
THE HORSELESS
LIGHT HORSE
Chauvel broke the disappointing news to his Light Horse Brigade. They would not be taking their mounts to the battle zone. Only a few score of packhorses and mules, and a handful of speedy steeds, would accompany them, the latter for passing urgent messages or mail. Bill the Bastard’s bulk, strength and endurance meant he would be in that small equine allotment, but as a packhorse. The war theatre would be ‘somewhere’ in the Aegean, Chauvel informed his bewildered men. He told them that the terrain of sharp ridges and thick scrubby ravines would be unsuitable for Light Horse or cavalry action. The men would be going to the war zone as back-up infantry.
