• Complain

Ion Idriess - Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail

Here you can read online Ion Idriess - Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 2017, publisher: ETT Imprint, genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

Romance novel Science fiction Adventure Detective Science History Home and family Prose Art Politics Computer Non-fiction Religion Business Children Humor

Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.

Ion Idriess Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail

Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail: summary, description and annotation

We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.

The true story of Horrie the Wog-Dog who was adopted by the Australian Signal Platoon of the M/G Battalion, in spite of all rules against keeping pets, and how Horrie not only won his stripes as a valuable addition to the group but had the further distinction of being smuggled into Australia on their return. The Wog-Dog was sneaked into Greece, went through the evacuation, carried messages as well as proving a dependable warning against air attacks. He went to Syria and Palestine, never learning to tolerate Arabs - he suffered cold and sickness, he fell in love with Ishmi, he was bombed off his ship and he never once was found during all necessary cover-up travelling. A story for all dog lovers, in spite of heavy Australian slang and style, of a dinkum Aussie who was kept, protected and loved by dinkum Aussies. Sentimentality over canines seldom misses fire. - Kirkus Review (USA)

Ion Idriess: author's other books


Who wrote Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.

Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work

Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.

Light

Font size:

Reset

Interval:

Bookmark:

Make

This edition published by ETT Imprint, Exile Bay 2017

ETT IMPRINT

PO Box R1906

Royal Exchange NSW 1225 Australia

First published by Angus & Robertson Publishers Australia 1945. Reprinted 1948 (three), 1949, 1951, 1955.

First published by Bobbs Merrill in the USA as Dog of the Desert, 1945.

Idriess Enterprises Pty Ltd, 1945, 2017

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission.

Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.

ISBN 978-1-925416-98-5 (ebook)

ISBN 978-1-925416-99-2 (paper)

Design by Hanna Gotlieb

CONTENTS

11.

1

INTRODUCING THE DESERT, THE PUP, AND THE REBELS

A LAND of the dead. An oasis vanishing in the breathless heat. Sands of Egypt more pitiless still by reflection from parched black rocks. This is the Western Desert, the eerie land that was. On the edge of this desolation was our military camp, in the Ikingi Mariut area.

A phantom land. For that distant eastern city had long since vanished as the mirage was vanishing now, leaving bare the black range. Among those rocks were innumerable caves, the sepulchres of thousands of mummies. Truly, death had long since conquered this land which once built proud cities pulsing to the activities and voices and feet of men, women and children. I wondered what those folk had looked like. Fantastic now to imagine this desert was once a land flowing with milk and honey. But such was an historical fact in the pages of time.

Nothing, surely, could ever now live in this desolation.

With relief I dismounted from the cycle, wiped a sweating brow. Which introduces you to me, J. B. Moody of the 6th Division, A.I.F., training in Egypt for whatever the future might hold. A toss-up, I knew. Heads to join the sleepers of the desert, tails to see dear old Australia once again.

Somewhere in the distance behind, Don my mate was clinging to his motor cycle, bumping over rock to squish into patches of shifty sand. With eyes staring straight ahead he would be clinging to his machine, nursing it to the engines limit, using all the desert cunning he knew while seeking to learn more, more.

We were playing a game, a game of approaching war. The knowledge gained was destined to save our lives when the armies of death came sweeping over the land. I pencilled a compass course on a slip of paper and buried it under a tiny clump of stones. I mounted again and rode away on that course, never deviating.

Dons job was to follow me and locate that heap of rock, then follow on in the compass course.

A difficult job, to find the hidden course then ride straight as an arrow across broken desert, locate the course again, then speed miles farther in a different direction as indicated by the hidden instructions.

When commencing our game Don would allow me a start of fifteen minutes from the Wogs bakehouse, a rough shed where the bread and sand were baked for the troops by Arabs under the supervision of Tommy soldiers. Don would then follow on, catch me if he could; if not, he would locate me at the end of the final stage.

This morning I was now on the last stage. I chugged along to the end and dismounted. Propping the cycle up, I sat in the ridiculous shade it offered and dreamily lit a cigarette, awaiting Don.

Don Gill, with his steady brown eyes and quiet smile, dark hair brushed any old way, slight of physique but wiry as whipcord, Don who would stand by a mate to the last. We were attached to the Signal Platoon as dispatch riders.

Hearing the sound of the approaching cycle my attention was attracted by a whitish object. In surprise I saw it a small pup racing from rock to rock, a grim earnestness in his obviously tiring movements. He poked his small nose under rock after rock, striving with might and main to lever up the impossible weight, only to dash away to another rock. As he panted past I fancied his eyes held the glare of despair. Not even noticing my presence, his straining attention was directed to the lizards he was so futilely chasing.

Poor little beggar, I thought, thin as a scarecrow, hes desperately hungry.

What is it? inquired Don as he dismounted.

A funny little white pup; looks as if he hasnt had a feed for days.

A pup! Away out here! Where on earth could he have come from?

Perhaps hes been abandoned by some Italian family who feared the bombing at Alexandria.

Hes just about knocked up.

Yes.

Do you reckon hes an Arab dog? I asked doubtfully.

Could be anything from the look of him, replied Don. A foreigner for certain. Doesnt understand our language.

Here pup, good dog, here boy! cajoled Don.

He ignored us for a while; then as if for the first time attracted by human voices, he stood and pantingly surveyed us, quaintly defiant and suspicious.

What a comical little joker, laughed Don.

He was funny. His coat was a dusty white emphasized by a sandy-coloured stripe running along his back. On quaint, stubby legs he stood barely a foot high. The front legs were bowed like those of a miniature bull-dog, his long body out of proportion to his height. His extraordinarily intelligent little face was pinched and forlorn, with an expression now changing from dire suspicion to one of inquiring hope. His stub end of a tail rose erect; his sharp little ears alternately stood to attention then dropped at ease.

Hes doubtful about us, said Don. Hes not sure whether he can trust us.

He certainly looks like he feels. I suppose the poor little fellow has been chivvied from pillar to post.

To our sympathetic voices the outcasts tail wagged invitingly. Then he regarded us in expressive imitation of a question mark.

He thinks we might help him, grinned Don. Come here puppy, old boy.

The pup answered with a knowing leer.

Hes not to be won with salt on his tail, smiled Don. Well have to win his confidence somehow.

We advanced towards him, cracking our fingers. He stood his ground.

Hes frowning, laughed Don. Wont give an inch of ground if he can help it;

Then I developed a brain wave.

Lets chase lizards with him, I suggested.

I gave him a hand by removing a rock under which a particularly fat lizard had evaded him. His little stub wagged furiously; he charged in to the kill only to finish up with a mouthful of sand while the lizard darted under another stone. The pup wheeled around with a yelp of frustration, gazed up with such an air of Now, wouldnt it? that I hadnt the heart to laugh at him.

We toed over another stone, and as a lizard scuttled away the pup was after it with an excited yap. Again and again his little stub tail waggled thanks for helping him, he chased lizard after lizard but all escaped him. He gazed up with irresistible brown eyes appealing for further assistance.

Please take this seriously, he seemed to say. Im very hungry.

He would let us touch him now.

I could feel his little ribs were only just covered by his silky, short-haired coat.

He doesnt seem to have been doing well, I remarked.

Poor little pup, sympathized Don, and patted his head. Youre a little outcast and far from home. Youve got no home at all now.

We gained his complete confidence. Wearily he rested his chin on my arm and closed his eyes.

What are you going to do with him? asked Don doubtfully.

But I knew he knew what we would do.

Youll have to be jolly careful, cautioned Don. Pets are frowned on, while the strict rule is that no pets are to be allowed to the troops when we march from camp.

How many rules have the Rebels broken? I asked.

Don grinned.

It was a problem to get him back to camp. Impossible to ride over this country one hand and hold the dog in the other, advised Don. Youd better leave your machine and ride pillion.

Next page
Light

Font size:

Reset

Interval:

Bookmark:

Make

Similar books «Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail»

Look at similar books to Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.


Reviews about «Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail»

Discussion, reviews of the book Horrie the Wog-Dog: The Original Tail and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.