Bill the Bastard

by Roland Perry

  Olden had his troopers, plus twenty packhorses and mules headed by Bill, line up for the 30-kilometre ride into the unknown, with one secret intention in mind. Allenby had issued strict orders that no British (meaning Anzac Light Horse) troops were to enter Damascus itself, but every artery from it had to be cut off. The reason for this directive from the commander-in-chief was not explained to Chauvel. It had been given to allow Lawrence and his Arab army into Damascus first. In other words, Olden was expected to secure the city so that Lawrence and his Arabs could march in and claim they had liberated and taken the Syrian capital. There was a delicious piece of British double-dealing in this. The French had been promised Syria in the British–French carve-up of the Middle East after the Turks had been forced out (the so-called Sykes–Picot agreement of 1916), but at the last minute the British had decided to make it seem as if the Arabs had won Damascus. The Arabs in turn would say that they wished the British, and not the French, to share the spoils of Syria with them. If the Light Horse attacked the town and took it, this would ruin the British–Arab game.

  When Chauvel directed Olden to secure the town, he told him: ‘You are to cut off the Turks and keep them bottled up in the city. The C-’n’-C has directed that on no account are you to enter the city. However, clearly, if there is no way to cut off the northern exit, you will have to go through Damascus to reach it. If you go through the city, you may encounter resistance. In that case you may have to change your plans. You may even have to fight the Turks and secure the surrender of the city. Do you understand, Captain?’

  ‘Yes, General,’ Olden said with a straight face and thoughtful stroke of his clipped moustache. ‘You want the Light Horse to take Damascus.’

  ‘Very good, Captain. But you never received that command from me.’

  ‘Of course not, General,’ Olden said with a wry look before he frowned and asked: ‘What about this Lawrence fellow and the Arabs? We hear rumours that Allenby wants them to appear to “conquer” Damascus. Our journalists are being ordered to report events that way.’

  ‘Off the record, Captain, that will not happen. The Arabs will not risk the possibility of confronting 20,000 Turks, no matter what their rumoured state of disrepair.’

  ‘No, you’re right, General. They prefer hit and run tactics. They never charge, at least in big numbers.’

  ‘The Arabs will wait and see what happens to you, Captain, when you and your troopers try to cut off all the arteries into the city.’

  Olden’s face creased into a smile. ‘My boys will relish the opportunity, General, I can assure you of that. Some of them have come all the way from the Nek for this moment. We all have long memories.’

  ‘That’s why the 10th have been given the moment, Captain.’

  He shook hands with Olden and added: ‘I know you’ll seize it.’

  The regiment began its advance by descending the steep mountains to the Barada River where they watered the horses. Olden trotted up and down the line and noticed that one horse was not drinking.

  ‘Sergeant!’ he bellowed. ‘Why is that one not at the river?’

  ‘That’s Bill the Bastard, Captain.’

  ‘I know who it is. Why isn’t he being watered?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to drink. No one can make him.

  Believe me, Captain, we have all tried to get him there.’

  Olden trotted away and returned a minute later.

  ‘Sergeant, take all Bill’s packs off him and distribute them with the mules. Then bring Bill up to the head of the column. Saddle him up, reverse the stirrups and put a spare pair of boots in ’em.’

  This seemed a quirky request, but all the officers and NCOs were trained to expect the unexpected from Olden. And they knew he studied military history obsessively.

  ‘Excuse me, Captain, but doesn’t that represent a fallen general or somethin’ at a funeral?’

  ‘Not what I have in mind, Sergeant. Genghis Khan began the practice when he wanted a horse sacrificed to serve his fallen warrior in the next world.’ He patted Bill. ‘But we are using it differently, more in the later tradition of the caparisoned horse symbolic of a warrior who will ride no more.’

  The order was carried out. All the horses were nearly watered. Bill was delivered to the head of the column lining up behind Olden.

  ‘Can you guess why Bill is at the front?’ Olden asked a lieutenant.

  ‘You want to mount him, Captain?’

  The other lieutenants laughed.

  ‘Good God no! I’d rather remove a tiger’s tooth without a tranquilliser.’

  ‘There are 12,000 Turks in the first garrison, Lieutenant. If we have to go down the road and cross the river to engage them, what is the first thing they will see?’

  The lieutenant nodded understandingly. ‘They will see us being led by the most powerful charging horse,’ he replied, ‘but riderless with stirrups reversed.’

  ‘Exactly. It will put the wind up ’em, Lieutenant.’

  ‘But what will they think of him riderless? Would the Turks understand the tradition?’

  ‘Don’t know, but like you, Lieutenant, they will be confused, and that is what we want in our enemy. Confusion.’ He reached across and stroked Bill’s mane. ‘Tell the sergeant to pass the word down the line,’ he said, ‘Bill the Bastard is symbolic of all our fallen cobbers from the Nek and elsewhere. They are gone to God, but they are with us today!’

  Olden looked back along his column as the sergeant carried out the instruction. Many troopers reacted with a yell and raised fist. After a few minutes Olden held up his right hand.

  ‘Forward!’ he called.

  They crossed the river and headed for the Dumar station where a train had drawn up. The horsemen of the lead squadron drew their swords and charged around a bend in the road. Some 800 Turkish soldiers were bunched in a disorderly fashion ready to board the train that would be escaping west to Beirut. When they saw Bill and the lead horsemen thundering in their direction, many raised their hands high. Olden called for their surrender, along with another 200 Turks on board. He turned to one of his officers.

  ‘Quite a haul here,’ he said and, pointing to the large batch of new prisoners, added: ‘Select a troop and look after this mob. But don’t march ’em off yet. I want to see what’s on this train.’

  Another troop of thirty-two boarded the train and moved through each carriage. They found a storage compartment with four chests and a dozen boxes. One of the chests was jemmied open.

  ‘Ooh!’ a sergeant said, wide-eyed. ‘Better call the captain in.’ Olden boarded the train and was shown the chest. It was filled with gold and silver coins.

  ‘Ah, me hearties,’ Olden exclaimed, ‘what do we have here? Treasure! Wonderful! I can see this melted down for a million tooth fillings.’ He ordered the chests taken from the train. ‘You’ll need a truck for this lot.’

  Olden cut open the boxes himself.

  ‘Cigars!’ He smiled. ‘And good German ones too.’ He ran one past his nose. ‘Great aroma!’ He had them quickly distributed to every trooper. Olden opened other boxes and found bottles of cognac.

  ‘Goodness me!’ Olden said, using a knife to lift the top off a bottle. Enticing fumes wafted out. He sampled a swig of the cognac and handed it around, saying: ‘Very smooth. The German commanders did live well in Damascus.’

  ‘There is quite a lot of other loot, Captain,’ a sergeant said. ‘Should we use the packhorses to take it to the base?’

  ‘No way, Sergeant,’ Olden said. ‘I won’t have Bill and his cobbers used for such mundane activity. See if you can acquire another truck. No, better still, get our Turkish contingent here to carry their own stuff. But not the gold, silver, cognac or the rest of the cigars. They must be trucked.’

  Olden ordered his force to mount up. ‘Pass it down the line,’ he said to a lieutenant, ‘I want every trooper who smokes to light up when we hit the run into Damascus. Will give us a very classy look!’

  Olden leant across to
Bill, offering him a cigar. The horse sniffed and rejected it.

  ‘Only smoke carrots, eh, Bill? Smart horse.’

  Soon the force, minus the guard troop, was riding off. Fifteen minutes later they were blocked on the road at the bottom of the gorge by the destruction caused by their fellow troopers’ brutal blockade in the night. Human and animal bodies and broken transport littered the way. Olden ordered a work detail to clear the path. He and his officers watched the grisly business as dead Germans and Turks were piled up.

  ‘Show a bit of respect, boys!’ Olden called out to the detail. ‘Line up the bodies in rows. They will be buried later.’ Olden noticed that his men were sobered by what they were seeing as the detail worked. He guessed that many were thinking that these victims could be them if things went wrong in the next few hours. He thought he should lighten the moment.

  He waited until the detail had finished its job then addressed a sergeant with all his officers listening: ‘You heard about Napoleon, who asked his dresser to bring him his red shirt when he saw an enemy army coming to a hill-top opposite?’ The others waited. They all loved Olden’s humour. ‘His dresser asked why he wanted his red shirt. Napoleon said, “Because when I am wounded my men will not know it”. His dresser asked if he wanted his red trousers too. Napoleon thought that would be a good idea. Just then he looked up to see another three enemy armies appearing on other hill-tops. He said to his dresser: “Better still, bring me my brown trousers”.’

  The listeners laughed and it seemed to take the tension out of the moment. Seconds later he held up his cigar and commanded: ‘Light up!’

  The troopers lit cigars. Olden motioned again for them to ride out.

  The long column built quickly to a gallop, which created a swirl of cigar smoke above them and another of dust below them. They took the first turn out of the gorge and soon could see the tips of Damascus’s minarets, sparkling in the day’s first light. They were on the direct road to the city and its spread of green gardens made even more colourful by flowering fruit trees. The sweet aroma of jasmine and the whiff of citrus flowers in the cool orchards were sharp and pleasant in the crisp autumn air, providing a contrast to the heady pungency of the cigars.

  Bill pounded along in front, pulling the rope connecting him to a minding trooper.

  ‘He’s setting a hot pace!’ the trooper called loudly so he could be heard above the rumble of hooves. ‘Must think he’s in another bloody Jericho Cup!’

  The gorge was on the left. On the right was the river and the railway, separated from the road by a high stone wall. Military barracks came into view about 500 metres away across the river. A big body of Turkish troops inside the compound could be seen from the troopers’ elevated position. Some Turks hastened to the walls with rifles, others could be seen running inside the building. Olden lifted his binoculars.

  ‘They look a very sorry lot,’ he said. ‘Watch ’em, boys. Remember they belong to Mustafa Kemal. If the bugger is there, they will fight.’ He lowered his glasses. ‘We’ll soon find out.’

  They galloped on. A bridge was ahead.

  ‘Do we cross the river, Captain?’ a lieutenant asked.

  ‘Not unless they fire at us.’

  ‘They’re lifting their rifles!’ a lieutenant called.

  ‘Swords drawn!’ Olden yelled. With that, about 370 weapons glinted in the sunlight as they were unsheathed from scabbards. No shots were fired. The troopers rode past the bridge. Olden pulled out in front and held his sword aloft. He built the pace to a fast gallop, creating a shroud of dust and a rumble that was heard in the city. Citizens wandered to the main artery’s entrance gate to see the troopers thundering their way.

  ‘The British are coming!’ an Arab yelled, and the cry was repeated again and again, drawing more curious onlookers. Crowds built up in the streets. They had been waiting all night for this moment when they expected to be liberated from their long-time Turkish masters.

  Olden slowed the column as they approached the open gates to the city.

  ‘Keep column formation!’ he ordered at the top of his voice.

  There was no hostility, no resistance. Instead, they were surrounded by well-wishers. Women threw garlands from windows. Men offered them drinks, fruit and other food. There were gasps at the sight of the Light Horse, and Bill drew the most awed expressions. The Walers were fitter and larger than their own horses, and Bill would have seemed like a giant. Despite the excitement, he remained calm until one exuberant young Arab tried to mount him. Bill reacted by lifting his front half high. The Arab slid back hard onto the cobblestones and limped away, wincing in pain, much to the amusement of the mob. Onlookers now backed away from Bill and created a path forward.

  Some in the crowd revealed their allegiances. There were rugged mountain Arabs—the Druse—who had filtered in at night over the last week from the distant Hauran mountains, uniformed gendarmerie, European-suited Syrians, Jews, Greeks, Armenians, and even some Turkish civilians. They were all excited. Rifles were fired into the air. The troopers reached for revolvers. Some horses reared up. The Anzacs soon realised the shooters were not hostile, but it unsettled them. How were they to know the difference? Snipers were rife when they entered cities. Many a trooper and horse had been killed this way.

  The column followed the road onto the bridge that crossed the Barada River near the Victoria Hotel. The throng surged close. Bill was next to a big trooper on a Waler nearly as tall as Bill. The two horses forced a passage. Another foolhardy Arab tried to slip a garland over Bill’s head. The horse reared up and shook it off, scaring the crowd. The Australians and their mounts were in no mood to acknowledge the men and women who continued to press their appreciation on them. The troopers were alert and grim. They had not expected a festival. Nor had they expected the enemy to have fled or to be impotent.

  They made a path through the crowded streets to the Town Hall. The steps were busy with officials and well-dressed locals. It was not yet 6.30 am but the place was alive. Olden halted his column. He used an interpreter to discover that the governor of Damascus and Syria was waiting for them in the hall. Olden and three lieutenants dismounted and drew revolvers, leaving five riderless mounts at the front of the column. This was an invitation to more young Arabs to try to jump on them. Olden turned and fired his revolvers over their heads. The pranksters backed off. He led his men up the steps and along corridors, guided by officials.

  They were met by Emir Said, the man who had been left by the Turks as the nominal governor. Olden took the moment to demand the surrender of the city, which was duly accepted. He called for the surrender to be written out. Documents were signed. Olden was impatient. He ordered that the local gendarmerie keep order and prevent looting. Mindful of the fact that the bulk of the Turkish army was escaping, he wished to continue his pursuit of it north to Homs and Aleppo. He and his lieutenants hurried out, documents in hand, and mounted up.

  Olden reached across to Bill and said tongue-in-cheek: ‘Think of it, dear mighty Bill, you and I have just officially conquered Damascus and Syria.’

  Bill’s ears twitched, more from the flies than the awesome declaration.

  Olden turned to his lieutenants. ‘Bill is not impressed, but I hope you lot are. Your captain has joined a list of notables in history, including Egypt’s Rameses II, Greece’s Alexander and France’s Napoleon.’ The lieutenants were to be given the history lesson and reminded of their place in it.

  Olden then looked back along the column. It was settled and ready to move off again. He patted Bill and said: ‘Let’s see if we can collect some more Turks.’

  26

  A BULLET WITH BILL’S

  NAME ON IT

  Shanahan tore open the large parcel. He was surprised and then confused to find the carved figurine of Bill that he had given Cath Phelan. With it was a note from her husband Bob Kerr. He introduced himself and then wrote:

  I am very sorry to have to inform you Cath died a week ago from lung cancer. She wanted me
to return this wonderful horse sculpture to you. Clearly she was very fond of you. She insisted on calling our son after you. Michael is a bonny lad of nearly eighteen months, which is the hardest part of this tragedy. He will never really know what a stunning, vibrant wonderful woman his mother was. Cath told me about you and your record at Romani, and the stories about that amazing horse. I heard about Bill winning the Jericho Cup. A Sumner Reed wrote a great newspaper feature about it. Incredible! You must be mighty proud to have trained and befriended such a God-Given Gift to our cause.

  Shanahan put the letter down and wiped away tears just as Charlotte entered the room.

  ‘Darlin’, what’s wrong?’

  Shanahan pointed to the letter lying on the lounge-room table next to Bill’s replica. Charlotte read it.

  ‘Oh, my sweet, I am sorry,’ she said. ‘Was she a close friend?’

  ‘Someone I knew in Cairo.’

  ‘She named her son after you . . .?’

  Shanahan shrugged.

  Charlotte rubbed her stomach. She was due to give birth in a few weeks.

  ‘Does this mean,’ she said slowly, ‘that if it’s a boy I can call it Stanley?’

  ‘No son of my mine will be called that,’ he said with a scowl.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too English. Besides, I don’t expect any son of mine to be a butler.’

  ‘Very funny.’ She sat in his lap, being careful to avoid his stump. She kissed him lightly on the forehead and wiped away tears from his cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t matter if Stanley was a middle name, would it, darlin’?’

  The child was a girl, which avoided any immediate arguments about names. They called her Audrey Eileen Patricia. She was born on 31 October 1918, an auspicious date marking the armistice in the Middle East War and victory for Chauvel’s Desert Mounted Column. It had liberated Arab states and regions by driving the Turks out of the Middle East for the first time in 400 years.