Soldier of the Horse

by Robert W. Mackay

  Tom grabbed René’s leg and pulled him back as a hail of bullets whistled through the underbrush, slapping the tree trunks behind them. The two soldiers scrambled back the way they had come, keeping low, René limping worse than ever.

  When they reached the woods where Toby was tethered they were gasping for breath. Tom picked up the reins, mounted, and took his left foot out of the stirrup so René could use it to climb up.

  René stood and looked at him for a moment, flexing his wounded leg, then handed Tom the rifle.

  “Get up, René. We’ve been here too long.”

  René mounted behind Tom, who dropped the rifle into its boot and started Toby back toward camp.

  “That was a good horse,” René said. “I couldn’t leave him.”

  “Okay,” said Tom.

  “I reckon you’re in trouble for staying.”

  “Well—I guess I couldn’t leave you.”

  “I’ll get another horse. Another Gabriel.” René fiddled with the edge of his bandage, which was oozing blood. “And this ain’t no Blighty.”

  They rode double for a couple of miles, then Toby started to stumble. Tom climbed down and led him, with René now in the saddle. They stopped at a creek so Toby could drink, and Tom unbuckled the feed bag to give Toby the last of his oats. They pushed on, anxious to rejoin the regiment, Tom insisting René ride, even though Toby was all in. He sure as hell wasn’t skittish anymore.

  “One more hill to climb, old boy,” Tom said, and gave Toby a scratch behind his ears. They kept going, and at times Toby rested his long head on Tom’s shoulder as they walked.

  The sun was low on the western horizon when they stumbled by the first sentries. Tom reported to Flowerdew, relieved to find that Simpson had made it back safely, then delivered René to a first aid man. He was near collapse when he was finally able to unsaddle Toby, wipe him down, and feed him. Ferguson had seen Tom at the horse lines and rustled up a tin of cold bully beef stew which Tom wolfed down before falling onto his bedroll, fully booted and spurred, his poncho for shelter against a drizzling rain.

  In the instant before he slept, an image of Toby came to mind. His horse had been nervous and unsettled in the morning, just before Tom had spotted the enemy. If they had been a hundred yards closer to the Germans before seeing them, he, Simpson, and René would be bloating corpses, bled out on the Picardy grass. Next time he’d pay more attention to what Toby had to say.

  The following morning, while the 1st Troop was standing to their horses and awaiting the day’s orders, Sergeant Quartermain called them together. “As you know, Lieutenant Tilley has been appointed to headquarters squadron. Lieutenant Harrower will be our new troop leader, but he’s still on course. He’ll catch up with us in a couple of days. I’ll be acting troop leader, and Sergeant Macrae will be troop sergeant until Lieutenant Harrower gets back.” He nodded at Tom. “Designate horse-handlers. We’ll be reporting to Flowerdew up close to the lines, and fighting a rear-guard action. As soon as we’re there, the handlers are to form up a half mile back. We’ll need them in a hurry.”

  An hour later, the 1st Troop of the Strathconas was moving forward at a ground-eating trot, Troop Sergeant Quartermain at its head and Tom, as second sergeant, bringing up the rear. The horses and riders followed in pairs, nose to tail, strung out like a hundred-yard-long serpent that wended its way over the French countryside. The men were grim and silent. Tom checked his sword, rifle, and ammunition bandolier for the hundredth time. Word had it that the German advance was rolling on, and the French and British were retreating across a thirty-mile front. Valiant rear-guard actions were being fought, with some units overrun and wiped out, luckier ones escaping to fight again.

  The troop had to stay off the roads, which were clogged with retreating soldiers, artillery, supply wagons, trucks. Civilians too were on the move with wheelbarrows and carts—anything that could be collected at short notice. Children and domestic animals added to the confusion.

  Tom could see they were approaching the battle zone; there was no longer a stationary front. Sporadic German shells burst randomly across the landscape. Hoarse noncoms and junior officers bawled commands as thousands of men with whatever equipment they could carry retreated, heading in the direction opposite to the cavalry. They looked beaten, shoulders slumped, faces pale with exhaustion.

  “Close up, dammit,” Tom grumbled at the men ahead of him, who had allowed a gap to open up between them and the riders ahead.

  Toby mounted a slight rise and Tom had a view of the troop, thirty-three mounted men with Quartermain in the lead, in a ragged line ahead of him. Other troops were off to the left and right, sometimes in plain sight on the rolling French landscape, sometimes obscured by groves of trees or hillocks. A quarter mile ahead he could see a group of dismounted men, and as he got closer he recognized Lieutenant Gordon Flowerdew, who was waving them on. The riders reached the advance party, where Quartermain and Flowerdew had a hurried conversation while the troop dismounted, rifles in hand.

  “Good luck, boys,” yelled Johanson as he wheeled away on his charger, lead ropes from Toby and four other mounts in hand, away from the front lines. He and six others had drawn short straws and would serve as horse-handlers. Flowerdew ordered Quartermain to move to the left to direct the men on that side, and kept Tom close to await developments.

  At Flowerdew’s direction the troopers spread out a hundred yards on either side of him and Tom, dropping to the ground behind a low wrinkle that ran across the field. Tom edged up beside the lieutenant, who was sprawled belly down across a heap of soil between two old shell craters, scanning the near horizon with his field glasses.

  Within minutes they heard the heavy rattle of machine gun fire and the roar of trench mortars. Two dozen khaki figures burst from a scraggly grove a quarter mile in front of them, running hard, straight at them. Tom could see they were British Tommies, some without helmets, eyes wide in their white faces. They stumbled past the line of Canadians and collapsed.

  “How bad is it?” asked Flowerdew.

  A sergeant gave a hasty salute and gasped for air. “Bloody awful, sir. This looks like the real thing. Thousands of the buggers coming straight for us. Heavy machine guns raking our position. Trench mortars, field guns. The captain said to get out, stayed behind with ten volunteers to man our Vickers. I hope to hell he makes it.” He looked around. “I lost six men on my way out.”

  “Get your men to the rear, Sergeant. We’ll fight a delaying action from here—then we’ll be dropping back too.” Flowerdew turned back to his glasses.

  Hell, thought Tom. This could be bad.

  The brigade had been responding to often-contradictory orders as the French and British forces tried to slow the enemy. The cavalry was stretched thin. They would be up before dawn, saddled and ready to go, standing to their horses; with luck they’d be under their ponchos, horses tended to, by midnight, after a long day in the saddle.

  Most days brought a brush with the enemy. Numerous firefights had broken out where German patrols or columns had broken through British or French lines. Sometimes the response would be a quick mounted skirmish, and sometimes, like today, the Straths would dismount and act as infantry.

  Tom watched the line of trees as the rattle of small arms increased, then died down. The men peered forward. Tom saw Flowerdew’s glasses steady.

  “There they are,” said the lieutenant.

  Now Tom and the rest of the troop could see them too, a scant half mile away, grey-clad men swarming out of the woods. Flowerdew had deployed a Hotchkiss machine gun fifty yards to the right. Lowering his glasses, he turned to Tom. “Sergeant, get over there to the gunners. For Christ’s sake stay down. Tell them to hold their fire until they hear my Webley.” He undid the flap on his holster, pulled out his revolver, and rested it across his left forearm.

  Tom backed away, then squirmed off to his right to reach the machine gun. The gunner, a corporal named Slade, knelt behind the Hotchkiss, right hand on the pisto
l grip, his finger outside the trigger guard to prevent accidental discharge. His loader, Private George Cunliffe, lay beside him, ready to feed in the metallic strips of ammunition. Gordon Ferguson was nearby, rifle at the ready.

  “What the hell does he think I’m going to do?” snorted Slade. “He already told me twice himself to wait for his signal.” Slade had the habit of whistling “Tipperary” through his teeth when he was nervous. He was whistling it now, getting on Tom’s nerves.

  “Didn’t your mother know any other songs, Slade?”

  Slade checked the rear sight on the Hotchkiss. “Sure, Sergeant. And you better hope this baby doesn’t jam, or we’ll all be singing ‘Lili Marlene’ in German and saluting Kaiser Bill in our next march past.”

  Tom turned toward the advancing enemy. At least Slade had stopped whistling. Tom was sweating in spite of the chilly March air; a fitful sun broke through but brought no heat. He forced himself to breathe, watching the oncoming Germans. After he had counted a hundred of them, he stopped. The Canadians were badly outnumbered; it was a question of holding up the enemy advance for as long as possible.

  He lay prone behind the low ridge, just able to see over the stubble. His rifle was already at his shoulder, his left arm stretched out ahead of him, supporting the forestock. To his right Slade sat, exposed on the bare earth, both hands on the Hotchkiss, the vicious weapon on its portable mount between his knees, ready to pour 450 rounds a minute at the advancing Germans. Cunliffe was poised, set for action.

  Tom glanced left, to where Flowerdew lay, glasses once more in hand, his revolver at his elbow. The Germans were closer. They appeared to be advancing in groups of a hundred or so, scattered across the horizon from left to right in front of the Strathconas.

  God, Flowers, Tom screamed silently, let’s give them a blasting and get the hell out of here! Somebody had told him Flowerdew was out of sorts because Lieutenant Fred Harvey, another Strathcona, already had a Victoria Cross, and Flowers was itching for a chance to earn one as well. Not now, Tom said to himself. Not now. Go for it when I’m not around.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his nose. The nearest Germans were no more than two hundred yards away, a small group of twenty or so, the point men alert and cautious. Come on, Flowers, shoot that Webley of yours. Tom became aware of a bird singing, an incongruously cheerful song of ascending notes repeated over and over. His body ached with the strain of lying doggo, mortal enemies now only a hundred yards away. He lined up his sights on the nearest German.

  Just as Tom thought Flowerdew must have fallen asleep, his Webley spoke and at once Slade opened up with the Hotchkiss, right in Tom’s ear. Tom squeezed his trigger and fired, and his target went down. The Germans kept coming, advancing across the open field in spite of the hail of rifle and machine gun bullets slashing into them. Tom’s nose twitched at the smell of gunpowder. Finally the Germans fell to the earth, ground to a halt in the deadly Canadian fusillade.

  “Hold your fire,” yelled Flowerdew.

  Slade had already stopped firing, and the riflemen on the ground reloaded their magazines in the sudden silence. Tom’s hands were shaking as he inserted the recharged mag and slapped it into his Lee Enfield. He kept one eye on the Germans, vague shapes hard to make out in the stubbled field. Too far away for them to hit us with grenades, he realized with relief.

  Sergeant Quartermain scuttled along behind the troopers. “Steady, boys. Won’t be long.”

  A group of Germans got to their feet and ran forward. Tom fired, everybody fired, including Slade and his machine gun. The Germans went down. Another group off to the left dashed forward and were met with a hail of lead. Just as they fell to hug the ground, another ten stood to run forward for a few seconds. Sudden movement behind the Germans caught Tom’s eye. It was a team of horses that galloped straight toward the Canadians, then swung a hundred and eighty degrees and stopped, revealing a two-wheeled field artillery piece, a 77 mm, its stubby barrel peeking out between steel armour plates. Men leapt up to unhitch the team, which then trotted away.

  Another wave of Germans was advancing, stolid and implacable. Tom fired. Answering fire ricocheted around him. He glanced toward the 77 in time to see it buck and recoil as a shell whistled overhead.

  “Slade, get the gun, get the gun!” roared Quartermain from behind them. Slade redirected his weapon to fire steady bursts of .303 rounds in the direction of the German artillery piece, hoping to knock out the gunners.

  The German infantry kept coming, going to ground within fifty yards of the beleaguered Canadians. Once again Tom saw the German 77 fire, and instantly there was a tremendous crash as the shell hit the earth right in front of Slade’s Hotchkiss. Slade was flung backward, where he lay groaning. His Number Two, Cunliffe, didn’t move, splayed face down.

  From the other side of the machine gun, Ferguson threw himself into Slade’s position and realigned the barrel to face the Germans. Tom crawled over and crouched beside him. “Do you know how to work this thing?”

  “No time like the present to learn, eh? Feed it to me.” He pulled the Hotchkiss’s butt to his shoulder and bent over the rear sight.

  Tom was startled by screams from the enemy and a flurry of bullets that hit the ground all around him, one ricocheting off the Hotchkiss’s front mount. A half-dozen Germans were only feet away. Ferguson jerked the rear of the Hotchkiss down to elevate the gun and fired continuously. Tom, desperate, fed in a fresh strip of bullets then seized his own rifle, firing again and again. The Germans faltered and fell. Survivors crawled backward. The mortally wounded moaned among the silent dead.

  Another whizz bang zipped overhead.

  In a brief lull, Tom heard a low monotone raised in song. “It’s a long way . . .” Tom looked around to see Slade, lying on his side, his helmet on the ground beside him. A pair of body snatchers rolled him onto a stretcher and dragged him away. “. . . to Tipperary . . .” Tom wasn’t sure if he heard the words or if they were in his own head. He glanced left to where Flowerdew lay as bullets whined in the air. He was speaking to Quartermain, who ran, crouched, to Tom’s position.

  “Your section to hold on,” he yelled. “One other section will hold to your left. We’ll pull back the others a hundred yards, then give you covering fire. You,” he pointed to Ferguson, “move back right now, with the Hotchkiss.” Quartermain rushed away.

  Tom swung his gaze from right to left, and back to the front again. The squadron was falling back, and any minute it would be his small section holding the line for as long as it took Quartermain to get dug in or at least into some sort of defensive posture to the rear. They’d have to hold off the Germans without the Hotchkiss. Then Tom and his boys would have to race back, covered by their comrades’ fire.

  Eight men, he thought. No, five. One was already in an aid station with wounds suffered the previous day and Johanson was away holding the horses. Ferguson had been ordered to the rear. Not good odds: mostly men newer to the regiment, although, like Simpson, many of those were proving their metal.

  The field in front of him looked like an anthill with its top kicked off. Everywhere, grey-clad figures tramped and crawled. As soon as the Germans realized that the bulk of the Canadians had withdrawn, they would overrun Tom’s section. He glanced left and right again. Ferguson still lingered with Slade’s Hotchkiss. It would take two men to move it, one for the rifle itself and one for the mount. Simpson was crouched, ready to grab the mount once Ferguson unclipped the automatic gun, but Ferguson didn’t look like he was in a hurry.

  Somebody came up beside Tom, and he turned to see Lieutenant Flowerdew, inserting fresh cartridges into his Webley.

  “Won’t be long now,” he said.

  “No, sir.” Tom pulled the magazine out of his rifle and refilled it, then smacked it back in and cycled a round into the breech. He spoke to the men lying or crouching to his left and right. “It’s up to us, boys. Just a few minutes. Fifteen rounds per minute, like the book says.”

  An
other whizz bang passed overhead, and there was a great shout from the direction of the German formation. They were on the move. Tom aimed at the first man he saw, only fifty yards away, and fired. Too bad we don’t have the Hotchkiss, he thought, when there was a shattering wall of sound from his right. It was Ferguson and Simpson, still there, in spite of Quartermain’s order, displaying the flexibility, even insubordination, to superiors’ orders that was the bane of the officer corps and a major attribute of Canadian soldiers. The riflemen blazed away, putting up a furious rate of fire, kneeling or lying prone. Flowerdew was on his feet, revolver outstretched in his right hand, striding forward. Tom gulped, jumped up, and followed, shooting as he walked, bullets buzzing around him like demented hornets.

  Flowerdew stopped firing, broke his weapon open, and inserted fresh cartridges. He wheeled back toward Tom and looked past him. “There’s our signal.” He shouted at Ferguson. “Pack that gun up and get back to the others. Now!”

  Ferguson looked sheepish as he jumped up, grabbed the Hotchkiss in both hands, unclipped it and ran like a startled deer. Simpson was right on his heels, the gun mount over his shoulders. A rattle of covering rifle fire flared from the Strathconas who had withdrawn minutes earlier.

  “Let’s go, boys,” Tom yelled, and the remaining men of his section leapt to their feet and ran pell-mell. Simpson stumbled under the weight of the Hotchkiss mount. Tom clutched him by one arm and Flowerdew got hold of the other to steady him as they ran toward the Canadians, who kept up a constant fire. Hope I haven’t made any enemies, Tom thought, the covering fire whistling around him.

  Just as Tom reached the line of Strathconas, the horse-handlers trotted up with their excited charges and his section scrambled into their saddles, jamming their rifles into their buckets. Toby snorted and stamped, caught up in the frenzy.

  “Off you go!” Flowerdew shouted at Quartermain, who led the mounted troop away. Tom and Toby thundered after them. Flowerdew waited until everybody was clear, then brought up the rear.