Loyal Creatures Page 3

  Boat trip wasn’t pretty. Hundreds of troopers and hundreds of horses crammed below decks. Six weeks of it.

  There were some miserable creatures down there.

  Horses and blokes.

  We blokes chucked our guts for the first few days. But we all agreed it was worth it. Biggest adventure of our lives. Seeing the world. Doing our bit. Copping the glory.

  Plus some of the blokes made friends with the nurses.

  ‘You alright?’ said Dad as we swabbed the bunk deck for the twentieth time.

  ‘Nothing to it,’ I said. ‘Bit of vomit-mopping. Good practice for when Joan and me own a pub.’

  It was harder for the horses. They didn’t have medals to look forward to, or letters from home.

  Most of the other horses were in a state on account of the ship rolling and plunging. Some were so bruised and lathered up they had to be put in slings and hoisted off the deck.

  Not Daisy.

  She was staggering a bit, but calm and balanced. Like she’d thought the whole thing through and accepted how it was.

  When she saw us, course she let us know she didn’t love it. Put her ears back and flared her nostrils and tried to stamp on our feet like they were going out of style. I explained I couldn’t personally get us there any quicker because I wasn’t the captain, but she just gave me the eye.

  I didn’t blame her. Nor did Dad.

  ‘We volunteered,’ said Dad as we brushed her. ‘She didn’t.’

  He was right. Daisy and me were best mates, but sometimes on that voyage she probably felt like she was just a loyal creature being dragged along as part of some malarky.

  Plus there was her daughter. A two-year-old on a sheep property out west. Who probably didn’t even know her mum was off to war.

  Looking at Daisy I marvelled at her.

  If she wanted to put her foot through her lunch bucket, that was alright with me.

  Some of the horses didn’t make it.

  Ones down on the third level copped it worst. Hot as hell down there. Damp and dark. Fresh air scarce as French perfume.

  Pneumonia, some of them.

  Daisy was on the middle level and we got her up on deck for exercise as often as we could.

  One day, halfway round the deck mats, we heard a splash.

  I went to the railing for a squiz.

  ‘Jeez,’ I gasped.

  There was a horse in the water. Not thrashing and struggling, just lying still. Slowly sinking into the greeny-grey depths.

  Another splash. Another horse.

  I realised what was happening. The vets were sliding dead horses out of a loading bay in the side of the ship.

  Seven of them.

  Shook the blokes bad. It would, seeing your horse dumped at sea. Seeing it die on dry land is bad enough.

  I went back to Dad and Daisy.

  ‘Second lot this week,’ said Dad.

  ‘Don’t let Daisy see,’ I said.

  We didn’t. But I reckoned she knew.

  Nights were worst. Complete blackout in case German warships spotted us.

  Bloke lit a match one time to put ointment on his feet. Nice bloke, my age, name of Otton. Knew hundreds of songs, which helped pass the time.

  Sergeant put him on a charge.

  They used to pick on us young troopers.

  ‘How can the Huns see us down here?’ said Otton. ‘My teapot’s got more portholes than this tub.’

  ‘I’m not charging you for the blackout offence,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’m charging you for the gawd-awful singing.’

  ‘Jeez,’ said Otton after the sergeant had gone. ‘Any more of this and I’m joining the Turks.’

  Johnson, the sharpshooter who wanted live Turks for target practise, grabbed Otton by the throat.

  ‘Say that again,’ said Johnson, ‘and you’re a goner.’

  ‘It was a joke,’ I said to Johnson, trying to pull them apart.

  ‘Hyperbole,’ said Otton.

  Johnson scowled. I knew how he felt. I didn’t have a clue what a hyperbole was either. Judging from their frowns, neither did most of the other blokes.

  Johnson threw himself onto his bunk.

  Otton gave me a grateful wink.

  ‘What’s a hyperbole?’ I said to him.

  Otton shrugged.

  ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I just like the word.’

  I nodded. Me and Dad were self-educated too.

  ‘Hey, Mr Ballantyne,’ said Otton to Dad. ‘You read the paper. What’s a hyperbole?’

  ‘It means go to bloody sleep,’ said Dad. ‘All of you.’

  Sleeping was hard with the heat and with blokes muttering and with things crawling on you. But you got used to it. Had to. Couldn’t go six weeks without a kip.

  One night I woke up. Somebody was shaking me.

  ‘You’re talking in your sleep,’ said Dad’s voice in my ear.

  ‘What was I saying?’ I mumbled.

  ‘You were calling out to Joan,’ said Dad. ‘Some­thing about ointment.’

  ‘Did the other blokes hear?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said about six voices. ‘Now go back to sleep, you mongrel.’

  I couldn’t. After about an hour, I went up on deck. It was just getting light. Gold on the horizon.

  I stared.

  Was that land up ahead? Or just cloud?

  I heard footsteps behind me. Thought it was the sergeant. Only sentries were meant to be up here at night, but I didn’t care.

  It was Dad.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t want to,’ I said. ‘Case I yell more stuff out. Other blokes’ll think I’m scared, going on about surgical supplies.’

  Dad squinted at the horizon.

  It was definitely land.

  ‘Every bloke on this ship is scared,’ said Dad. ‘Ones who say they aren’t are lying. Nothing wrong with being scared. Comes with the job.’

  ‘Are you scared?’ I said to him.

  Dad didn’t say anything for a bit. Kept looking at the horizon. The gold was turning red.

  He turned to me and nodded.

  Egypt was foreign, but the weather was Australian.

  Heat and dust. Flies I reckoned I’d met before in Dubbo.

  At the dock they put us on trains. Horses in open carriages, blokes in seats.

  We didn’t stay in our seats long. Hung out the windows getting an eyeful.

  We were back on dry land, so we loved it. Crowds, markets, some very impressive piles of bricks, exotic pong of strange tucker.

  Train went slow out of the city, so we got an eyeful of something else too.

  Local horses doing it tough.

  Real tough.

  Local blokes were excavating a ditch. Using the poor nags to drag rocks and dirt. Me and Dad had seen mistreated horses, but nothing like this.

  Poor blighters hadn’t had a decent feed in weeks. Bones in gunny sacks. They could hardly stand.

  One couldn’t. Dropped to its knees. Bloke went crook at it with a whip. Another bloke slashing at it with a cane.

  The troopers next to me at the window started yelling at them.

  ‘Come on,’ said Johnson, swinging his leg out the window. ‘Let’s sort those mongrels out.’

  I was with him. You don’t treat animals like that.

  Next thing a sergeant had his face in ours.

  ‘Anyone leaves this train,’ said the sergeant, ‘they’re on the next boat home.’

  We all thought about this. Stepped back from the window.

  Dad pulled me into my seat.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ he said. ‘Back home we’d take those clowns round the back of the pub and give ’em a lesson in animal husbandry. But this isn’t back home. We’re visitors here. They do things their way, we do things ours.’

  I didn’t say anything. I was still staring out the window, watching the cane rise and fall.

  ‘This lot aren’t the enemy,’ said Dad. ‘If the Huns and Turks hadn’t come
in knocking the place about, these blighters’d probably have more tucker for their animals.’

  I pulled my eyes away from the window.

  Dad knew stuff, so he was probably right.

  But still.

  The camp they took us to was huge. Stuck out in the desert. I couldn’t see a single pyramid, sphinx or battlefield in any direction.

  Tents to the horizon. Horse lines longer than our main street at home.

  ‘Jeez,’ muttered Dad. ‘They’ll need some water for this lot.’

  Some of the troopers were drilling a well. Wrong spot, we could see.

  Daisy could too. She stamped her feet and tossed her head like she did sometimes when humans were being dopes.

  ‘Go and show ’em,’ said Dad, giving me a nudge.

  The blokes drilling weren’t water monkeys like me and Dad, so it wasn’t their fault.

  ‘Best to read the scrub,’ I explained to them. ‘In parched country like this it shows you where the water is.’

  ‘Engineer sergeant showed us where the water is,’ said one of the troopers. ‘And he can dock pay, so we’re listening to him.’

  I climbed on a pile of crates and took a squiz.

  Otton and a couple of grease-smeared troopers climbed up too.

  ‘Look for the scrub patterns,’ I said, pointing.

  The troopers were both frowning, not convinced.

  ‘Takes experience,’ Otton told them, tapping his nose and looking at the wrong patch of scrub.

  ‘Takes the mickey more like,’ said one of the other troopers.

  ‘You four,’ roared a voice. ‘Off those crates.’

  We got down.

  A large engineer sergeant was looking like he was about to burst his pipes.

  ‘Are you part of this deployment?’ he growled at me.

  ‘No, sergeant,’ I said. ‘Just arrived.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said the engineer sergeant. ‘You’re on your first charge.’

  ‘Fair go, sarge,’ said Otton. ‘He’s a professional. Got a degree in Water Location and Advanced Well Insertion from Sydney Uni. What if he’s right?’

  The engineer sergeant gave me and Otton a long look. Then he turned to the troopers in the deployment.

  ‘You blokes hit water yet?’ he said, pointing to the drill rig. ‘Bosworth? Lesney?’

  The two blokes who’d been up on the crates with us shook their heads.

  ‘And you reckon this new chum knows better than me?’ said the engineer sergeant.

  Bosworth and Lesney both hesitated, then shook their heads again.

  Otton was nodding.

  The engineer sergeant narrowed his eyes and gave Otton and me another very long look.

  ‘Right-o,’ he said. ‘Prove it. If you hit water before dark, I’ll drop the charge. If you don’t, you’re both in solitary for a week.’

  After me and Daisy chose a spot, and the drill rig hit water, I showed the other blokes how to keep it flowing out of the sand by knocking holes in the bore tube.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ said Lesney. ‘I’ve been a news journalist for three years and I didn’t know that.’

  Bosworth snorted.

  ‘You’ve been a trooper for three months,’ he said, ‘and you don’t even know the Arabic for beer.’

  Lesney and Bosworth wandered off, arguing.

  ‘Thanks for getting that sergeant off my back,’ I said to Otton.

  ‘No sweat,’ said Otton. ‘You got Johnson off my back, so now we’re commensurate.’

  ‘Commensurate?’ I said.

  Otton grinned.

  I got the gist.

  The engineer sergeant came over.

  ‘Effective as of now,’ he said, ‘you two are in the water deployment. I’ll speak to your commanding officer.’

  Otton wasn’t delighted by the idea.

  ‘Actually, Sarge,’ he said, ‘I can’t work near water. My feet go mouldy. Plus it’d be a waste. I’ve got an advanced diploma in Military Strategy and Hand-To-Hand Combat from Tamworth Technical College.’

  The sergeant wasn’t impressed.

  ‘The thing you’ve got an advanced diploma in, Trooper Otton,’ he said, ‘comes out the rear end of bulls.’

  I put Daisy back on the line and went to find Dad.

  He was unpacking in our troop’s tent.

  ‘I’m in the water deployment,’ I said. ‘I’ve been co-opted.’

  Dad grinned.

  ‘Two days in Egypt,’ he said, ‘and you’re speaking army.’

  ‘There’s a spot for you too,’ I said. ‘Otton doesn’t want it. They’d bust a gut to have you.’

  Dad shook his head.

  ‘Not this time, mate,’ he said. ‘This one’s yours.’

  I stared at him. Dad and me were a team. The water unit needed his experience as much as it needed mine.

  More.

  What was going on?

  ‘Comes a time,’ said Dad, ‘when a bloke’s got to strike out on his own.’

  I agreed, but not yet.

  Back home, after the war, that’s when I’d be striking out on my own, with Joan.

  ‘Let’s find the blacksmith,’ said Dad. ‘I want him to take a look at Daisy’s feet. She’ll keep going forever, but you’ve got to make sure her shoes are right.’

  I knew that.

  Why was he telling me that?

  Why wasn’t he doing something much more important?

  Getting himself a new horse.

  A week later the penny dropped.

  I’d been out for an early morning gallop with Daisy. Just a quick one. She was still getting her sand legs after the boat trip. When we got back, the news was all over the camp.

  An order had come through. Some of the Light Horse outfits, including ours, were getting back on a boat to fight in the Dardanelles.

  On foot.

  Leaving the horses behind.

  ‘Where are the Dardanelles?’ I said to Dad.

  ‘Arse-end of Turkey,’ said Dad. ‘Pommy generals started an invasion and lost the plot. Me and some of the other blokes are going over to give ’em a hand. Reinforce our blokes already there.’

  ‘I’m going too,’ I said.

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yes I am,’ I said. ‘What’ll Joan’s parents think if I pike out?’

  Me and Dad were face-to-face, so worked up we didn’t see the engineer sergeant come over.

  ‘I’m going,’ I yelled.

  ‘No you’re not,’ yelled Dad.

  ‘I’ll second that,’ said the sergeant. ‘And that’s an order.’

  I was done for. I might have got round Dad, but not the army as well.

  ‘Horses need you here,’ said Dad. ‘They’ll die of thirst with these clowns.’

  The engineer sergeant made Dad and me shovel horse poop for the rest of the day. But he didn’t tell Dad he was wrong.

  After a lot of shovelling, I calmed down.

  ‘The horses need you just as much,’ I said to Dad. ‘Why aren’t you staying?’

  Dad just shovelled in silence.

  I didn’t get it. Dad was in the Light Horse. Why did he want to go off to some lump of rock and fight on foot?

  Then I did get it.

  The white feather.

  The bloody mongrel white feather.

  After that I didn’t try to stop Dad.

  Wanted to?

  Course I did.

  But I could see he didn’t have any choice, so I stuck by him. He’d done that for me all my life. Now it was time for me to do it back.

  That’s what I told myself, standing there in the first light as Dad and the other blokes got on the train for the docks.

  ‘Oo-roo, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘Good on you, son,’ said Dad quietly.

  I cupped his face in my hands. Hadn’t planned to. Just did.

  ‘Watch your arse over there,’ I said. ‘If you cop one, Daisy’ll be ropeable. She’s hard enough on a bloke’s feet as i
t is.’

  Dad smiled, touched me on the cheek, and got on the train.

  ‘Say g’day to Mum for me,’ I called.

  Soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. In case he misunderstood.

  But Dad smiled and waved.

  I watched the train choof off into the distance.

  Typical Egyptian desert dawn.

  Red as all get out.

  Rumours started a few weeks later. Army censors had been trying to stop them for months, but word finally trickled through.

  Dardanelles was a dunny. Turks up on the high ground, our lot copping it down below.

  I tried not to worry about Dad.

  Over the next few months I tried to stay chipper, waiting for proper news. Worked hard in the water deployment. Wrote letters to Joan. Waited patiently for her next letter to make it to Egypt.

  Daisy helped take my mind off things. Early every morning we did a long gallop out in the desert.

  One time a couple of officers on horseback pulled us over.

  ‘G’day trooper,’ said one. ‘Nice horse.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, trying not to be too friendly.

  An officer could requisition a trooper’s mount if he liked the look of it. This bloke obviously knew horses. Not like the British cavalry officers who sniggered when they saw Daisy, just on account of her being a bit wonky.

  ‘Fine waler,’ said the officer.

  Suddenly I recognised him. The army vet who’d calmed Dad down at the docks in Sydney.

  ‘Permission to ask something, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Go ahead, trooper,’ he said.

  I reminded him about Dad and Jimmy.

  ‘What did you say to my father that day, sir?’

  The vet swapped a glance with the other officer.

  ‘We knew things in the Dardanelles were getting difficult,’ he said. ‘And that some of the Light Horse reinforcements would be required there on foot. I told your father not to fret about his mount as he probably wouldn’t be needing one for a spell.’

  I took this in.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  After the officers rode on, I got off Daisy and sat on the sand.

  I thought about Dad. What he’d done. Saved me from being a foot-slogger in the Dardanelles. How he’d never stopped looking out for me, ever. Not even when his heart was broken.