Soldier of the Horse

by Robert W. Mackay

  He shook off the thought and walked to the horse lines. Stopping by Ranger, he picked up a curry comb. Ranger nickered and swished his tail, twitching his skin in anticipation. Tom brushed his horse from nose to tail, the rhythm soothing his mind, while he concentrated on nothing but the task at hand. When he finished, he went in search of Bruce and Fergie. Paris it would be.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The main rail line from Amiens south to Paris ran, straight as an arrow, down the spine of France. Four of the dozen Canadians in the passenger compartment played poker, hoping to increase the cash saved up out of their pay before they hit the fabled city. Tom and the others watched the countryside glide by, interrupted from time to time when they were shunted to a siding to allow northbound trains to pass. Tom looked out at a series of railcars loaded with glum-looking French Zouaves, colonial troops, headed toward the charnel house of the front.

  The mood of his comrades presented a fine contrast. The card players shouted in triumph or cursed, depending on the throw of the cards; Tom, Gordon, and Bruce sporadically joined the game. The three of them had a bottle of brandy between them, with cheap glasses bought in the station. Before they were thirty minutes out of Amiens most of the liquor was gone.

  The men were not shy about their requirements: food, liquor, and female company topped their list of priorities. Of Tom’s section, one was away on a course to learn the latest in radio communications, one was confined to camp for his misdeeds, and one was hospitalized. The latter, like many of his Canadian comrades, had been a little too uninhibited in his youthful and energetic pursuit of female company, having chosen the objects of his affection while his mind was clouded by strong drink. To compound his error, he had not heeded the sergeant-major’s exhortation to always use a condom, and the resulting syphilis ensured he would not be available for the firing lines either in Paris or on the front for some time.

  They arrived at the Gare du Nord late in the day. Tom had the address of a hotel that catered to servicemen on leave, so they commandeered taxis and, after protracted negotiations with the drivers, piled in and were taken to the Normandie, a four-storey building a few blocks from the Paris Opera.

  Tom threw his bag on the bed and started a bath running. It had been months since he had been afforded such a luxury, and after stripping to his underwear he laid out his shaving gear and breathed deeply of the warm, steamy air. Shaving with hot water and a mirror that was more than a piece of tin balanced on an upturned ammunition box was an unimagined indulgence. He soaked for an hour in the tub, adding hot water from time to time, resolutely thinking about everything except the war. Afterward, he dressed in his only clean uniform and went down to the lobby.

  Gordon was there, smoking a French cigarette, and the two of them went in search of food. At the end of the block was a small restaurant named for its proprietor, Jacques, who, they assumed, was the Frenchman who waited on them; Mrs. Jacques was no doubt the aproned lady in the kitchen. There was no menu as such, just a blackboard with a couple of items scrawled on it. M. Jacques sadly admitted that due to the exigencies of war he could not supply the restaurant’s advertised veal or chicken specialties, but, much to Tom’s amusement, he did have a highly recommended stewed rabbit. In the meantime, would the gentlemen care for a litre of the house wine?

  “S’il vous plaît,” Gordon responded. “Make it deux litres, if you please.”

  Their friend Jacques was happy to comply and to keep the wine coming. The rabbit stew was indeed delicious: “Much superior to snowshoe hare,” said Gordon. Tom was dismayed to find he could eat only a fraction of the food on his plate; his stomach had shrunk from the months of short rations.

  The long day in the railcar, the alcohol they had consumed there, and now the rich food combined with an excess of wine took its toll.

  “Me for bed,” Gordon said. He looked a little dazed.

  “I feel like I haven’t slept in a month. Let’s go.”

  They paid their bill and returned to the Normandie, where they had to wake the concierge to get in. It wasn’t even midnight, their first day of leave, and all Tom wanted to do was sleep. As he and Gordon parted company in the lobby, Tom commented, “I bet when you signed up in Winnipeg you never thought you’d fight your way to Paris, and end up eating a snowshoe rabbit.”

  “That was no snowshoe rabbit, my boy. That was a French lapin, very highly prized in the salons of the rich.”

  Laughing, Tom climbed the stairs to his room, threw off his clothes, and collapsed into bed.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Tom slept until noon, then went for a late breakfast at a sidewalk café. He strolled in a shopping area and bought postcards he planned to mail home later. The day was blustery, with a weak sun breaking through the clouds. He hiked the Champs Élysées as far as the Arc de Triomphe and crossed the broad Seine, a stiff breeze propelling him from the Eiffel Tower up the Left Bank. The grandeur of the city astounded him.

  He felt clear headed and calm, and was even mildly amused by the efforts of Gypsies to sell him a “guaranteed gold ring, monsieur,” which they pretended to have just found on the street. Groups of French, British, and colonial soldiers on the streets were reminders that there was a war going on, but they, like him, were on leave and wide eyed at the sights of Paris. There were no young and few middle-aged civilian men to be seen.

  Every new vista made him wish Ellen could be there to see it with him. He couldn’t resist a return to the hotel in the late afternoon for another bath, then wrote a long letter to her. He refused to accept her decision that it was over between them. He would be back, and he loved her.

  When Tom emerged from his room his comrades were nowhere to be seen, so he ate a solitary meal with a half bottle of red wine in the hotel dining room. Growing tired of his own company, he prowled the lobby and was given a note from Ferguson. It had an address, which he handed to a taxi driver.

  The Café de Paree catered to Allied servicemen. When Tom opened the door he was assaulted by a roar of sound, and it took him a moment to discern Canadian voices singing—if it could be called that—“Mademoiselle from Armentieres.” The atmosphere was thick with blue smoke from pungent French cigarettes and Players pipe tobacco. Shutting the door behind him, he stepped into a long, narrow room. The back section, farthest from the street, was two levels, with half flights of stairs going up and down from the floor he was on. The bar was to his left, running the length of the main floor. A sweating Frenchman in a stained apron was wiping it with a rag.

  Tom walked toward the rear and saw Canadian shoulder flashes on a uniformed figure on the lower level. He looked down the stairs and was greeted by a shout from Bruce Johanson.

  “Hey, Tommy. Made it at last—come on down here. Got lots of room.” He slid sideways on a bench at a table, propelling the girl next to him farther in, then lurched to his feet. “The rest of the boys are here already,” he shouted. He pushed Tom onto the bench and squeezed in behind him. “Meet Yvonne. She likes Canadians.”

  Yvonne was a petite brunette with lots of makeup. Her hair was cut fashionably short, and she wore a white, low-cut blouse and a dark red skirt.

  “Ferguson, look who’s here,” Johanson continued. He waved at a passing waiter. “More wine, garçon.”

  Tom looked around. Lots of Strathconas were there, scattered among tables, sharing them with women who ranged from late teens to middle age. At the very back of the room was a tiny dance floor, with an accordion player jammed into the corner. Two couples bounced off each other and the surrounding tables to the merriment of the onlookers.

  The waiter brought him a glass, and Yvonne poured it full.

  “Merci,” he said in his best French accent.

  She smiled.

  Tom danced with Yvonne, and she held him close. Her breath was hot on his throat; her right hand caressed the back of his neck. The music slowed, and she moved even closer, her body clinging to his.

  The accordion player took a break, and Tom went in search
of the washroom, a tiny space with a fly-specked mirror. For the first time since he had been on leave, he looked, really looked, at himself. In the harsh overhead light he was shocked to see a thin, haggard face peering back. God, he thought. That’s not the same man who was raised on the banks of the Red River, the man who loved and won Ellen.

  Well, Tom, he said to himself, you’re a free man now, and you’re having the time of your life. Good joke. He went in search of his cap and left the café to walk the lonely streets of wartime Paris.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Tom had been back with the regiment for a week, and it felt as though he had never been away. It was December 1, 1917, and Lord Strathcona’s Horse was in action in No-Man’s-Land near a place labelled Chapel Crossing on their British maps. A seventy-seven-millimetre shell exploded on the other side of the cutbank beside the sunken road where Tom, already face down, was making himself as small as possible.

  “Goddamn whizz bangs,” said Bruce, on his left. The men hated the high-velocity, mobile German 77s. The bang of the gun firing could not be heard until the shell had shrieked past, thus giving almost no warning, unlike the low-velocity howitzers that lobbed huge shells, often from miles away, but with the sound of the gun forewarning any potential target.

  Tom and the rest of C Squadron were in reserve. A and B Squadrons were lending assistance to the Royal Canadian Dragoons and other Empire forces in an attack at Chapel Crossing. C Squadron’s 1st Troop sergeant had been sent ahead to get further instructions from Colonel Docherty, who was up with the lead squadrons.

  The steady racket of rifle, machine gun, and artillery fire from the forward positions attested to a hot action under way. Below the rim of his helmet Tom could see René Carbonnier crouched up against the cutbank on the other side of Johanson. Carbonnier looked up, past Tom, who turned and saw the troop sergeant running toward them.

  “Holy shit,” the sergeant yelled, and threw himself face down beside Tom. “The old man has been killed.”

  All the men within earshot crawled closer. It was as if the battle had stopped.

  Johanson was the first to speak. “What happened?”

  “He was talking to me—he wanted us to bring up the Hotchkiss machine gun and give some covering fire—when he got shot in the head. Sniper. The major has taken over.”

  Tom felt cold. How could the commanding officer of the regiment, the “old man,” be killed? Lieutenant-Colonel Docherty was figured to be indestructible. He had been in the army longer than Tom had lived, had held every rank up to regimental sergeant-major before taking a commission. Although Docherty, in his mid-forties, had only recently assumed his command, he had long been a familiar father figure. Tom knew that every man in the regiment would feel more vulnerable and alone than he had the day before.

  The men around Tom looked stunned. Somebody clambered over the backs of his outstretched legs. He turned and saw René Carbonnier who continued crawling until he was face to face with the sergeant.

  “Where’s the colonel?” Carbonnier asked.

  “Right where he was shot. But they were loading him on a stretcher to take him back.”

  “Where did the shot come from?”

  “Not sure, but probably a grove of trees to the right front of us.” The troop sergeant raised his voice. “We’re still in reserve. Sit tight and keep your heads down.” He moved off cautiously from cover to cover, talking to knots of men as he went.

  Darkness fell and a half moon rose, the noise of battle easing to sporadic firing. The troop sergeant came back and ordered the men to slip to the rear. They would not see action that day.

  A few moments later Tom looked around and realized that only he, Johanson, and Carbonnier were still up against the bank in the sunken road. Johanson and Carbonnier were talking quietly. Tom couldn’t make out what they were saying. “What are you two waiting for? Let’s get out of here,” he said. He turned and started to crawl away from the front.

  “Hold it.” Bruce grabbed Tom’s ankle.

  “What’s going on?”

  “René wants to get into the action.”

  “Don’t be crazy. Our troop has been ordered to the rear.”

  “They won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

  Tom stared at Bruce. Why the hell would he want to go into harm’s way if he didn’t have to?

  René said, in a flat voice, “I’ve been in this regiment a long time. It’s my family. Someone got the colonel.”

  The sniper, for God’s sake, Tom realized. He’s after the sniper. He glanced at Bruce, who ducked his head and shrugged. “Someone’s gotta cover his back.”

  “You’re both nuts.”

  René and Bruce had been watching each other’s backs ever since they had both excelled as riders back at Fort Osborne Barracks, but this was too much.

  “You want to miss the fun?” Bruce slithered after René who was inching to his right, down the sunken road.

  Carbonnier was sometimes a hard man to talk to; if he had made up his mind, there wasn’t much Tom could do about it. Giving him a direct order would have no effect. But Bruce was Tom’s closest friend so, his heart in his mouth, he went after them.

  Tom couldn’t tell precisely where the front was, but he could make out a party of dragoons, partially dug in behind a low ridge. From miles away in the direction of the enemy lines came the thunder and growl of howitzers. Shells whistled overhead, some buzzing, some screaming, low and high velocity. The dragoons answered with occasional rifle and machine gun fire.

  The moon went behind a cloud, and they took advantage of it to run, doubled over, along a shallow depression that angled in an easterly direction toward the Germans and past the ridge occupied by the dragoons. They hugged their rifles to their chests, making as little noise as possible. After covering several hundred yards they could make out a small wood. Skeletons of beeches were stark against the sky, but lower down was a tangle of branches, undergrowth, and the splintered trunks of shell-shattered trees.

  Again they hugged the earth, rifles cradled in forearms, with elbows, knees, and feet pushing them, snakelike, over the churned-up ground. Tom’s straining ears detected scrapes and clinks as René led the way to within a hundred yards of the wood. Still sheltered by the dissipating cloud, they came to a halt in a shell hole.

  “You reckon the sniper’s still there?” asked Tom in a whisper.

  “Guess we’ll find out,” said René. “You boys stay here. I’m going to circle to the right and try to get behind him. If you wave a helmet around he’ll fire. Maybe. Then we’ll see.”

  Soundlessly, René was gone into the night. Tom was glad Bruce was still in the shell hole with him. What the hell was he doing here? They were between the lines, and their own troops could fire at them by mistake. Somewhere ahead a German sharpshooter with a hair trigger was waiting and watching, as seconds, minutes, half an hour dragged by.

  “Long enough,” said Bruce.

  It was a whisper, but Tom jumped. He watched, mesmerized, in the breathless way an audience will watch a circus tightrope walker climb onto his partner’s shoulders, as Bruce eased his helmet off and raised it six inches over the lip of the shell hole on his rifle barrel.

  Nothing happened.

  Bruce lowered his helmet and fumbled in his tunic pocket, producing a match and thumbing it with his nail. Tom squeezed his eyes shut to preserve his night vision as the light from the match flared and died. Bruce again put his helmet on the end of his rifle. He looked at Tom and shrugged, then slowly waved the helmet once again. Silence, and Tom breathed more easily.

  Suddenly a rifle cracked, and there was an instantaneous, resounding bang as sparks flew from the helmet, which spun to the ground. Bruce dropped his rifle and fell to the bottom of the hole, covering his face.

  Tom had a death-grip on his Lee Enfield, his eyes and ears straining. He reached for his friend but kept his eyes in the direction of the trees. Seeing nothing, he crouched down beside Bruce. In the moonlight he could see b
lack liquid oozing between Bruce’s fingers.

  There was a thrashing sound and a muffled moan from the direction of the wood, followed by the rattle of a distant machine gun. Bullets sprayed the earth at the top of the shell hole, then moved away. Blind fire from the direction of the German front.

  Tom listened but heard nothing more. He put his rifle down to help his friend into a sitting position. Pulling a dressing out of his pocket and easing Bruce’s hands away from his face, he applied the fabric over a wound above his left eye. Bruce’s other eye blinked in the faint light.

  “How bad is it? My head is killing me,” said Bruce. “What the hell happened, anyway?”

  “Shut up,” hissed Tom. “Hold this in place.”

  While Bruce put his hand on the dressing, Tom got out a bandage and wrapped it around his head. Risking a quick visual sweep from the lip of their shelter, he could make out nothing significant. Feeling around, he located Bruce’s helmet and rifle. The helmet had taken a round right on the rim, which was bent downward as if it had been pounded with a blacksmith’s hammer.

  “A chunk of the bullet must have ricocheted and hit you, you bloody fool.”

  For once Bruce had nothing to say. He lay back with a groan.

  Tom didn’t know what to do. René might have taken out the sniper—or vice versa. How long should they wait? He would eventually have to lead Bruce back, hoping to get out of No-Man’s-Land before daylight. He heard a low whistle from the direction Carbonnier had gone and peered cautiously, rifle at the ready. René crawled into view and slid over the lip into the hole. He looked battered. His tunic was stained with blood, and he was protecting one arm, holding it across his body.

  “You wounded? Did you get him?”

  “Got slammed with a rifle butt, I think,” said the Metis. “Two of the bastards. When the sniper shot at you boys, I jumped on him and slit his throat. But he had a spotter, and he clubbed me on the arm and shoulder before I could get clear of the first guy. He should have shot me. I’d dropped my bayonet but I snatched it back up and got him, too.”