Murphy the Hero Donkey: A true WW1 story
The remarkable true story of an amazing and loyal donkey during World War I.The true story of a small grey donkey called Murphy, chosen to be a trusty ‘ambulance’ during the bloody Gallipoli campaign in 1915. He carried wounded soldiers over the hilly,craggy terrain to the field hospital as the bombs and snipers’ bullets rained down. The donkey was recruited by Australian stretcher-bearer ‘Jack’ Simpson, who cared for his brave helper day and night. Murphy never gave up or complained; he worked to the point of exhaustion, saving hundreds of lives.At the end of the battle, when the time came for the donkeys to be returned to Greece, the Australian ‘diggers’ were desperate to protect Murphy - he was one of them, he was a digger and a war hero. They fixed a brown luggage label to his harness, bearing his name and status, and hoped it would secure his safe passage home.
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Murphy the Hero Donkey
A true WWI story
Isabel George
HarperTrueFriend
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperTrueFriend 2015
FIRST EDITION
Text © Isabel George 2015
Cover photo © Shutterstock 2015
Cover layout © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Isabel George asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
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Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780007584352
Version 2016-10-19
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Contents
Every man â and donkey â for himself
Brave warriors ⦠and their donkey
Into the valley of the shadow of death
Murphy enters the history books
He was a small grey donkey who, in April 1915, happened to be in the wrong place in wartime. But when Murphy was given the job of carrying wounded soldiers from the craggy battlefield of Gallipoli, he not only saved countless lives, he also became a decorated Australian war hero.
Standing muzzle to tail, the donkeys nudged into each otherâs dusty bodies as the seawater slopped against the creaking boat. More accustomed to hoofing through the hot Greek earth, the huddled beasts swayed stoically against the swell. There had been some nervous braying when the cramped vessel sailed away from the island of Lemnos, but at least this time none of the animals had panicked and leaped overboard, as sometimes happened. The donkey drivers could put up with their chargesâ mournful call, but not the feeling of helplessness when they could only stand by and watch one of the frightened creatures splutter and gasp as the water claimed them. It seemed an unfair end, especially as the donkeys had made the job of rounding them up so easy. Taken from the safety of their farmersâ barns and fields, they obligingly boarded the transport ships to make the short but hazardous journey to the steep and craggy slopes of Turkeyâs Gallipoli peninsula.
Under the cover of night, the vessels slipped into the bay as close to the shore as they could get. No breeze. No lapping of the sea on the shore. Nothing met the muffled slosh of the donkeysâ hooves as they stepped into the water and ambled towards the beach. Their drivers moved in like sheepdogs, keen to keep their charges on track and to minimise the chance of them uttering a sound that would give them away. Never one to miss a chance to eat, Murphy, the smallest of the lot, picked up a slight trot to the shore. He must have smelled something edible, as the darkness was blinding and the others seemed more intent on finding their footing rather than food. With his hairy nose down to the ground, Murphy was soon nipping at the sparse vegetation that spiked between the black rocks. There had been no food and only a little water offered on the boat, and he couldnât smell anything, not even clean drinking water where they had landed, so grabbing as much food as he could, while he could, was a good instinct.
âSomebody grab the bloody donks!â The loud whisper filled the space. Several of Murphyâs group answered with a deep bray, and within seconds they were surrounded by soldiers reaching through the shadows, their black forms illuminated by starlight as they grasped at as many bridles as they could handle at once. Murphy managed to dodge the first lot to be whisked away, only because he was head down and nose-deep in the few clumps of scrub that he had managed to discover underfoot.
âGet a move on, will you?â the voice from the darkness urged the men on. âWe need to get this lot shifted before sun-up or weâre dead where we stand. You lot,â said the officer, pointing at a group of men already staggering under the weight of their own equipment. âStrap the water containers on the donks. As far as I can see they are the only ones with the right feet to get anything anywhere in this godforsaken place.â
Boxes and crates filled with food, water, ammunition and medical supplies littered the beach, and a consignment of mules lifted from their labours in Egypt wandered aimlessly between the lot. âFor Christâs sake, get those mules loaded up before we â¦â Wharrrr! Wharrrrr! âRun for it, lads ââ
