Soldier of the Horse

by Robert W. Mackay

  Toby was grunting in pain as the bullets took their toll. Ten yards to go, and a grey-coated figure, rifle at his shoulder, fired, lifting his eyes to Tom’s at the last instant. Tom’s sword-thrust took the man high in the chest and he fell over as Toby swept by. Tom kept his grip on his sword and let his arm swing back, Toby’s forward motion dragging the weapon from the slumping body.

  Tom knew they’d never make it to the second line of Germans. Toby barely responded as Tom reined him hard to the right to get back to the first line. The horse stumbled and crashed to the earth amid the German soldiers and, as Tom went down, he reversed his sword and drove it two-handed through a prone gunner, like a man driving a crowbar into hard ground. What was left of the squadron pounded past Tom, men yelling, stabbing, dying as the German barrage continued.

  Tom’s right leg was pinned under Toby, the big horse thrashing and screaming as he tried to get up. Tom grabbed tufts of grass, slippery with blood, and pulled himself clear. More bullets thudded into Toby’s body, even after he lay motionless.

  Horses, some to Tom’s amazement still with riders up, milled around. Withering fire poured from the second line of Germans. Tom was desperate to get clear of the ongoing hail of lead and trampling horses but he couldn’t get up. His legs were in agony, felt as though they had been hit with sledgehammers. He tried to crawl on his belly closer to Toby’s body, but his holster and ammunition pouches caught in the grass. Undoing his webbing, he let the Webley and other gear fall away as he pulled himself in close behind Toby’s mercifully still form and hunkered down, tin helmet pulled low. Peering from under the brim, he saw a few surviving Straths ride or run on foot into the woods to escape the hammering German guns.

  Gradually the volume of fire eased and the surviving Germans withdrew to their second line. The sounds of battle gave way to the moans and shouts of men calling for help, the halting hoofbeats and pitiful neighing of horses wounded and bleeding and falling. Tom felt rather than heard the moan deep in his own chest as the pain in his legs intensified. His left arm throbbed with the grinding quality of a toothache. Blood oozed from his shredded trouser legs and puttees.

  Tom heard a groan and a muffled curse. Gus Dunnett, pale and sweating, hitched his way through the churned-up earth to join him. “Hope those bastards don’t come back,” he mumbled, jaw clenched. “How bad are you hit?”

  “My legs,” said Tom.

  Dunnett was holding a hand to his belly, blood coursing between his fingers.

  Above the racket of shooting still going on in the wood, Tom heard shouted commands from the direction of the second German line. He peered over Toby’s withers and saw a detachment formed up with fixed bayonets, marching toward him, close enough that he could make out the rank insignia on their grey uniforms.

  He dropped down. “Buggers want to finish us off.”

  Wishing he had held onto his Webley, he turned to see Dunnett crawling away. Tom wondered where he was going, then saw what Gus was up to. A German Mauser lay on the ground ten feet away. Dunnett stayed flat, propelling himself with his legs and one arm. Finally he stretched and managed to reach the rifle, pushing it stock first toward Tom who leaned out to grasp it.

  Tom quickly checked the weapon over, sliding back the bolt and inspecting the chamber. Empty. But the magazine had at least two rounds in it, maybe more. Muddy but serviceable. Hoping for the best, he looked over Toby’s body.

  The German detachment had covered much of the intervening ground and was no more than fifty yards away. Tom tried but failed to get his left arm up on Toby’s body to form a rest and grasp the forestock of the rifle. Dropping the weapon to the ground, he lifted his left arm with his right, placing it on Toby’s rib cage. Everything went black for a second or two as pain shot into his shoulder and neck.

  Picking up the rifle with his right hand, he lodged it in his left and pulled the stock to his shoulder. Open sights. He cycled a round into the chamber, focussed on the first enemy soldier that came into his line of sight, and fired. The man dropped. Tom pulled back the bolt to eject the empty shell and cycle in another round. He fired again. He missed. Slow down, he said to himself. Slow down, or you’ll soon be dead.

  God, get us through this, he thought, working the bolt one more time. Was this the end? He saw one of the Germans pointing at him, waving a pistol. An officer, or a noncom. Got you, he thought, and fired. The man went down, spun backward by the force of the bullet.

  The German patrol wavered as another soldier fell. Someone besides Tom was firing at them, someone to his right, maybe from the wood. So at least some of the boys in there were still alive. The Germans turned and hurried back to their second line. Tom watched as they formed up and withdrew to the southeast, away from the forest, away from the scene of the battle. He shot once more, fearful that the enemy would yet return to finish off the wounded Canadians, and hit a man in the back. His companions left him where he fell as they marched away.

  Left arm and shoulder on fire, legs numb and blood pounding in his brain, Tom let the Mauser drop and turned to lie with his back against his dead horse, his left arm cradled to his belly. Horses and men—his comrades—lay dead or dying, scattered across the grassy field. The battle in the wood continued, and stray rifle bullets still whined through the air.

  How many dead? Not many survivors. He felt light-headed, but then the pain flared up through his legs again, pulling him back to his own terrible reality. Maybe he’d die right here, bleed to death in a Picardy field beside poor Toby.

  His mind wandered to thoughts of home, Winnipeg, his family. Images of Ellen flared and faded, along with thoughts of jail and the Kravenko jailbreak. For some reason the young face of the blond German boy he had killed outside the listening post flashed in front of him.

  It’s over for a lot of the boys. And for me. I wasn’t happy with one wound—now I’ve got more than enough. Dazed, he looked around for Dunnett. Gus was right beside him, turned on his side, facing Tom. His hand was no longer on his belly, and the blood no longer flowed. He was dead.

  Poor bastard. He looked down at his own legs, splayed out in front of him, at Toby, lying still, at the other huddled shapes on the ground, men and horses. Poor bastards.

  BLIGHTY

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “This one’s gone,” said a laconic voice.

  “Leg wounds here. Give me a hand,” said another.

  Not sure if he was dreaming or conscious, Tom felt hands push him onto his side and roll him onto his back. Everything went black and silent; then he felt dizzy, as if he were in a bunk at sea, swaying and lurching—was he back aboard the Cape Wrath ? Sudden agony in his legs made him try to move them, to sit up.

  “Hold still, Sergeant,” barked one of the voices.

  Tom was on a stretcher, four men carrying him. He lay face up, fully booted and spurred. Spurred for sure—whenever the men at his feet let the sides of the stretcher sag together, the canvas bulged down with his weight, his legs dropped and his spurs dug into the ground, sending pain shooting through his calves.

  The stretcher-bearers bent double as bullets still whipped through the air. As they passed a tree with a cluster of men around it, Tom could make out Lieutenant Harrower, back from his patrol, bent over Gordon Flowerdew who was slumped, back against the tree. He was waving off the men, who seemed to be urging him to get onto a stretcher.

  “Wait,” called Flowerdew. He lifted a hand. “Macrae—you’ll be all right? You finished the charge?”

  “Yes, sir. I finished the charge.”

  “A lot of the men didn’t make it, did they?”

  “No, a lot of them didn’t,” Tom almost sobbed to himself. He couldn’t summon the strength to reply or to hold his head up to look around anymore, but as the bearers pushed on he saw tears streaking the battlefield grime on Flowerdew’s face.

  They took him to a horse-drawn wagon, pressed into service as an ambulance. The iron wheels and wooden spokes had no give to them, causing the other wounded stretc
hed out beside him to groan with every bump. Two hours later he was in an aid station on yet another stretcher, a doctor in a blood-stained gown bending over him.

  “Get the trousers and puttees off him. I’ll be right back.” A soldier cut away the field dressings that had been applied right over his clothing by the bearers. Next came puttees and trouser legs, followed by bootlaces, and then he eased off Tom’s boots. They joined the heap of bloody clothing on the ground.

  “You’d better look at my left arm, too.” The sleeve of his tunic was added to the pile.

  Tom shivered, his torso and right arm still in full uniform as it were, his other limbs exposed to the elements.

  “Couldn’t stay out of it, eh, Sergeant?” the orderly remarked.

  “Guess not. How do my legs look?”

  “Bad. Lots of wounds. What did you run into, a buzz saw?”

  “Kaiser Bill’s buzz saw.”

  The doctor returned and, after a quick look, called for disinfectant and bandages. A grimace flashed across his drawn face. Tom could see that his legs were masses of raw, torn flesh, the bandage on his arm blood-soaked. He lay back while the doctor cleaned his wounds, the pain worse by the minute. He gritted his teeth, but a moan escaped his lips.

  The doctor looked at him sharply. “Morphine,” he ordered.

  As the drug took hold, Tom knew the pain was still there but felt less concern. In fact, there was really nothing to worry about. He drifted off, picturing himself paddling down the Red River in a glowing sunset.

  “Strange thing, Sergeant. Lucky,” said the doctor, snapping Tom back to Picardy. “Large number of wounds. Didn’t actually count them. But they’re all in the flesh, the outside of your thighs and calves. No bony injury.”

  “Bully beef,” said Tom, smiling to himself. He never wanted to eat the stuff again as long as he lived, but those cans of beef in his saddlebags had saved his legs.

  The calm river scene slowly changed. The night grew darker. Tom was still in his canoe. Ellen was in the bow, facing away from him. He called her name, but she did not turn. Looking down, he saw stumps of legs. He muttered, fighting the oncoming darkness in his mind, forcing his eyes open, to face the darkness of the night in northern France. The morphine was wearing off, and Tom lay sweating under a canvas roof.

  Tom remembered Ellen’s words about the war-shattered, armless sergeant, spoken so long ago in Winnipeg: “I don’t have to spend my life with Sergeant Grey. A few hours a day is one thing—a lifetime is another.”

  He was conscious when they moved him to an ambulance forwarding station, and later loaded him on a train. Hope they stopped the bleeding. Don’t want to bleed out. In spite of himself he dozed whenever he was left alone, dreaming of advancing Germans. He had the Mauser in his hands, but it was empty.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Within days he was in England, at Number Four Canadian Hospital, Basingstoke. They had sedated him again on arrival and when he came out of it he was feverish, with nerve-shattering pain in his legs. A uniformed nurse with a clipboard and pencil waited while a white-coated figure inspected his wounds and sniffed.

  “Gas gangrene,” said the doctor. “Surgery this afternoon.”

  Tom struggled to sit up. “No surgery.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Sergeant. Your left arm will be all right for now—don’t know what the final condition will be but it’s not infected. Lucky there. But,” he went on, “your calves have numerous wounds, and the flesh is virtually stripped from the outside of your thighs. Your right leg is particularly bad. It may have to come off if we’re to save your life.”

  “Then no surgery. I’ll not go back a legless man. You’ll have to fight me to get me under.”

  “Let me explain things to you, soldier. When you get shot on the battlefield, the bullets carry with them bits of clothing that get left in your body. Your uniform is caked with mud and animal and human excrement—shit, Sergeant—that carries with it the bacteria that cause gas gangrene. Those bacteria are multiplying in your legs even as we speak. The only way to beat it is to expose it to air—to cut into your legs and debride—gouge out the infection.”

  “What if it’s in deep?”

  “Doesn’t matter—the procedure’s the same. We make a hole right through the limb if we have to, keep it open for days to try to kill the bacteria. Then we cut out the infection and try to heal the wound. Amputation is a last resort, but it might be the only choice. We’ll decide once we’re in there. You’re lucky,” he added. “If your wounds were in your torso you’d be dead, because then we can’t cut out the infection without doing more harm than good.”

  “You’ll not take my legs.”

  The doctor turned to the nurse, who looked tired. “He knows the score. Surgery this afternoon. If he fights it, put someone else in his place. We have plenty more where he came from.” Turning on his heel he left the room, the nurse trailing him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Tom was adamant. They had him in the operating room, the surgeon had his mask on, and an anaesthetist waited with his bottle of ether and pad of gauze. But Tom wouldn’t let anyone near him, for fear they’d put him out and he’d wake up a legless man.

  The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. “All right. We’ll do this the hard way.” He spoke to two orderlies who stood with arms folded. “Strap him down. Can’t have you jumping around, can we, Sergeant?”

  They strapped him down, securing his torso, feet, and arms with wide canvas strips and leather cinches. The surgeon sliced Tom’s bandages from ankle to crotch, then peeled them back, first one leg and then the other. Tom groaned, teeth clamped, lips apart in a grimace.

  “Give him something to chew on, or he’ll break his teeth.” The doctor nodded at a nurse.

  The nurse put a hand on Tom’s brow, calming him. “Open wide,” she said, reminding Tom of his mother when she fed his younger brothers. She put a short piece of thick rubber tubing between his teeth.

  Tom’s body jerked, muscles seizing up, as the doctor cut away at green flesh. “The sooner he passes out, the quicker we can be done,” the surgeon commented.

  But Tom didn’t pass out. He tried to concentrate on dots on the ceiling, anything other than the reality of the present: the smell—blood, ether, rotting flesh; the doctor’s monosyllabic demands—scalpel, suture, gauze; his teeth—making the rubber tubing squeak; his grinding jaw muscles, which spasmed with a pain that was like a flea bite compared to the pain in his legs. That felt as though a bear was tearing at his living flesh.

  It was an hour before he was back on the ward. A nurse gave him a shot of morphine, and he slept.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Tom had a second surgery, and a third. He accepted anaesthetic, for the last one, because the surgeon, Smythe, told him he thought the infection was beaten and they were trying to promote healing of the wounds themselves. For now, at least, amputation was not part of the equation. Tom had skin grafts. A new technique, he was told. He couldn’t tell where the skin came from, although a nurse told him it looked like pigskin, which made him wonder if in fact it had come from a pig. That would make a good story, if he ever made it out of there.

  A wound on his right thigh up near his hip would not heal. They put him out again, and when he came to he was in agony, which became unbearable over the next four hours. Dr. Smythe was summoned, and he pulled back the dressing.

  “Thought I’d try something different,” he explained in his clipped fashion. “Gunshot wound, debrided earlier. Insufficient skin. Used catgut to stretch the remaining skin to cover the gap. Long stitches, then pulled tight. Much like lacing up a boot, really.” He ran his fingers over the area where he had operated. Tom’s pale skin was as hard as a drumhead. The surgeon flicked it with a forefinger; Tom jumped.

  “Infection’s back, and that’s not going to work.” Smythe grasped a loose end of the catgut, wrapped it around his middle finger, and pulled sharply. Tom’s hip lifted two inches off the bed; infected skin and surrounding flesh tor
e loose. Sweat popped out on his forehead, and he fell back, quivering, lips clamped.

  “Tough guy, eh?” said the surgeon. He peered at the mass of yellow pus and red flesh that dangled from the catgut in his hand. “We’ll do what we can for the infection. This got some of it,” he said, and looked approvingly at the oozing gap in Tom’s hip.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Ellen sat in front of her dressing table and regarded the face that looked back from the mirror. No longer a girl, but a young woman in her early twenties. Blue eyes, brown hair with golden highlights when the sun shone on it, pleasant features, if she did say so herself. Good posture, healthy as a horse. She should be happy.

  She sat, irresolute. Her father was pushing her to make a decision about Harry. Harry was persistent, insisting they had a future together. She had held him at bay for months now but wondered if she had it in her to continue to do so. Tom’s letters had nearly stopped, once she had told him she didn’t know what to do. And she truly didn’t; she was only trying to be honest with him. They had had such a brief time together. Her one photo of him, taken in uniform just before he left for England, was right in front of her, tucked into the frame of her mirror. Even with that to help, after nearly four years she had trouble conjuring up the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on hers. The right upper drawer of the table was open, and in it she could see Harry’s ring, still lying where she had placed it.

  Male voices drifted up from the ground floor where Ned, Ellen’s brother, was grumbling at his wife, Joan, and their infant daughter. It was late afternoon but even so, his voice was already slurred. The little girl started to cry, then fell silent. Ellen could picture Joan comforting the child.

  A few moments later she heard footsteps approach, followed by a tentative knock on the half-open door.