Roland Perry - Horrie the War Dog: The Story of Australia’s Most Famous Dog

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HORRIE

the war dog

The story of Australias most famous dog

ROLAND PERRY

First published in 2013

Copyright Roland Perry 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: info@allenandunwin.com
Web: www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74331 799 0

eISBN 978 1 74343 577 9

Internal design by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Set in 12/16 pt Adobe Caslon by Midland Typesetters, Australia

CONTENTS

To Jim Moodys wife Joan, and their children Ian and Leonie
and the memory of Jack Grossman
The life he had led had etched itself into his face

SACRIFICE

Jim Moody parked his car near Sydneys Quarantine Station, in the inner west suburb of Abbotsford. It was 11 a.m. on Friday, 9 March 1945. The life he had been leading over five years of war service in several theatres north and south of the globe had etched itself into his suntanned features. For someone aged 33, he had a drawn if not haggard expression, accentuated by a black moustache. Moody began walking with a little white terrier-cross on a leash. It was hot. He felt like a beer before, under strict government orders, he faced the moment of handing the dog over to the Quarantine Station. He entered a dimly lit pub, featuring dilapidated pictures of footballers and beer advertisements on the walls. Moody sat at the bar under one uncertain roof fan that battled the humidity. Three stools away was a huge, sweating man wearing a singlet, shorts and sandals. His behind was so big that it seemed to consume the seat. The man turned to scowl at his unwanted companion at this drinking hour reserved for alcoholics. Moody noticed two scars: one on the man-mountains right shoulder and the other on his right arm. Then he recognised the outsized, twisted pugs nose. At that moment the big man did a double-take, looking down at the dog sitting on the sawdust covered tiles and then at Moody.

Jesus! Ray Wallace said. Youre Jim bloody Moody! You saved my life in Jerusalem!

They reached across and shook hands.

Is that Horrie? Wallace asked with a frown.

Yep.

He looks older.

He is a few years older than when you met him in 42.

Wallace turned to the young barman. A beer for this man and a dish of milk for the dog.

We dont serve dogs, Ray.

You bloodiwell do this one! Wallace snapped. Pointing down, he added, This is Horrie. Hes famous!

The barman put down the glass he was drying and peered over the bar.

Yeah, Ive seen him in the papers! the barman said. Wish I had my camera!

Just worry about the beer and milk, mate, Wallace reminded him before turning to Moody, and adding in admiration, Ill never forget that chair you smashed on that blokes back! His knife was aimed straight at my guts. Then crash! Down he went, flat as a pancake and out like a light! All I got was a cut on the shoulder.

They chatted for a while about their war experiences. One beer became three. Moody looked at his watch.

Better be off, mate, he said.

One other thing, Wallace said, his ruddy face brightening like a beetroot. I got off with one of the nurses at that Jerusalem hospital you took me to after the fight.

Which one?

Cant remember her name.

Bonnie?

Yeah, thats it, Bonnie.

Moodys heart sank. Bonnie was an attractive red-headed woman who, the night before the chair-smashing incident, had rejected his overtures in a Haifa hotel.

Jeez she was great! Wallace chuckled. Nursed me beautiful!

Moody winced a smile and felt a little ill. It wasnt the sort of demoralising news he could cope with at that moment.

Where you off to, Dig? Wallace asked.

Got to see a man about a dog.

*

Mr John King, the very tall, skeletally thin man at the white-painted, cold front office of the Abbotsford Quarantine Station, was firm but polite in dealing with the handover of the dog.

What do you plan to do with it? Moody asked as he bent down to pat the dog.

Thats up to Mr Wardle, the Director of Hygiene, King said, bending his hunched shoulders forward to glance at a photo of Horrie with Moody in the DailyMirror and then back at the dog.

I wrote to him but he did not reply, Moody said.

Mr Wardle will reply, I assure you. He is a very efficient director.

Moody was nervous. He filled his pipe and lit it.

When will I know his... er, decision on... er... Horrie? he asked.

Youll have 24 hours notice if he... um... decides to dispose of the doggie. Otherwise he will be quarantined for several weeks.

The words chilled Moody.

Wont make a decision today, will he?

Oh, good heavens, no. He plays golf late on Friday afternoon. He wont even consider the case until Monday.

Are you open Sunday?

Yes, 11 a.m. until 5 p.m.

Ill be in to see Horrie then, Moody said, looking down at the dog. It had a baleful expression. His tail wagged for a second or two but stopped when he saw Moody striding off. Moody went to another pub, smoked his pipe and had more beers alone before driving home to his temporary postwar lodging in St Peters, in south-west Sydney.

*

At about 5 p.m. King reached Wardle in Canberra after several failed phone calls.

Make it quick, Wardle said, Ive got golf!

Yes, sir... er... we have Horrie.

Good, good.

Mr Moody wanted to know if you were going to reply to his letter.

Oh, yes. Wardle groaned. Ill make sure he receives a reply, Monday, no Tuesday, the day after you have put it down.