Soldier of the Horse (16 page)

Tom, up on Ranger, his new ride, went off on a morning exercise with the other members of his section under the relaxed leadership of Lance-Corporal Hicks. The eight horses and riders meandered down the road toward the nearest French village, a couple of miles away. After a fifteen-minute warm-up they broke into a trot.

It was March 1916, and change was in the air. Not only had the brigade finally become mounted, they now wore British army helmets for the first time, replacing their cloth caps. Artillery shells exploding overhead had caused a high percentage of wounds among the Allies, even more than bullets. The helmets took some getting used to, but Tom felt safer with the extra protection.

Their formation was now known as the Canadian Cavalry Brigade, made up of three Canadian regiments: the Strathconas, the Dragoons, and the Fort Garry Horse, which had replaced the 2nd King Edward's Horse. They were more “Canadian” than ever, but ironically, the brigade was now part of the British army command structure, serving separately from the rest of the Canadian Expeditionary Force.

They were well back from the immediate area of the front, and Tom, as always, was astounded at the peaceful countryside that showed no sign of the carnage a few short miles away. Rolling hills with scattered woods and fields, golden brown with last year's stubble or lying fallow, stretched one after another to the distant horizons. Hedges with new, bright green foliage snaked along shallow waterways. Villages were tucked into folds in the landscape, seeming none the worse for wear considering the total devastation just over the horizon. He was amazed to see no fences—it was countryside suited to horsemen, or an invading army. There were no natural obstacles; they could have galloped for miles without hindrance but for occasional streams and gullies. Just like the prairies, Tom thought.

The blue sky and clear air, combined with the thrill and exercise of a morning ride, lifted the men's spirits. Tossed aside were the memories of the brutal times in the trenches. They were young and healthy, and they were alive. They had survived the hell and uncertainty of two-week rotations in the front lines for most of a year.

“Beat you to the bridge,” shouted Bruce Johanson, and kicked his horse into a gallop.

Hicks didn't hesitate a moment. “Like hell,” he said, and spurred after him.

Tom and the others gave chase. The mass of men and horses thundered the half mile to a small bridge, clattered across, then slowed their mounts to a walk on the far side to cool them off.

Tom rode beside René Carbonnier, the wiry, half-breed veteran and career soldier who had boxed him to a draw on the
Cape Wrath
. Tom had heard that René had twice made it to the dizzy height of corporal, but brushes with authority and regulations, usually related to excessive consumption of alcohol, had propelled him back to the ranks as a private.

“What do you think, René? Are we going to hang on to our horses?” asked Tom, as the men followed a circular route back to their camp.

“You never know what the damn army's going to do next.” René thought a while. “Those trenches are no place for a cavalryman. Let the infantry and the artillery blast a hole in the lines, then we'll gallop through and put the sword to the bastards.”

It wasn't the first time Tom had heard that sentiment. “If our last months are anything to go by, blasting a hole in the lines is going to be the tough part.”

“I figure we'll get our chance. Sooner or later we'll have a crack at them in the open, then watch out. The cavalry has always been special. We do the cleanup.”

“Those poor guys in the infantry look pretty beaten up.”

“Yeah—and they were trained for the trenches. We weren't. Doesn't matter. The cavalry is the cream on the top of the milk jar. We can fight in the trenches if we have to, or we can fight on our horses.”

Since he found himself in the army anyway, Tom had happily accepted the fact that he was on horseback, at least part of the time, not constantly marching and slogging around in the mud. He was impressed by his fellow Strathconas; they were tough, elite horsemen—professionals. From the commanding officer to the lowest-ranking shoveller of horse manure, they saw themselves as heirs of a glorious tradition of mounted warriors. The exploits of the regiment in the Boer War and the élan of their brigade's leader, the aristocratic Brigadier-General Jack Seely, only added to the mystique.

Some of the villages they encountered were in valleys along rambling streams; some were on hilltops or ridges, where they commanded views all around. Tom was reminded of fairy-tale picture books that he had read as a child. The villages typically were made up of houses and shops built right to the edge of the streets. The buildings abutted one another, presenting a solid front to passersby. Many streets were cobbled; others simply earth and stone packed by centuries of use.

Few inhabitants were to be seen when the mounted men passed through the villages. Occasional housewives or shopkeepers would appear in a doorway, shielding their eyes from the sun, watching the riders, as if they had seen it all before.

Back in England, an officer had given the men a lecture. He explained that in 1914, most Frenchmen had been only too happy to be at war with Germany once more, but the stalemate on the front and heavy losses had cooled their ardour considerably. The French wanted to reverse the results of the War of 1870, when Germany had wrested Alsace-Lorraine from France. And that was just the most recent war. For centuries, invaders had swept across the low hills of Picardy, plundering and killing, only to be beaten back until the next time. Like their ancestors before them, these villagers and farmers waited stoically for the outcome of the present conflict so their lives could be restored to normal.

♦  ♦  ♦

Sometimes Tom didn't know which was worse—living in a trench with half the regiment for two weeks or slogging it out in reserve, looking after the horses for the whole regiment. After a week away from the trenches, spending eighteen hours a day training, exercising, feeding, watering, and otherwise caring for horses, the front lines could look pretty good. At least in those spells when nothing was going on.

Life in a cavalry regiment, like any other part of the army, often meant waiting for something to happen. As the order said so many times, “Stand to your horses,” and the men, fully kitted and spurred, would stand by their saddled mounts, ready for action. For most of the war so far, the cavalry had waited in vain for the infantry and artillery to crack open a fissure in the German lines so they could charge through. Now, in the fall of 1916, the inactivity, combined with the constant, routine attention to their horses, was too much for many of them. Some of Tom's friends requested duty elsewhere.

Just a week before, George Windell brought news that Eddie Hicks—recently promoted to sergeant—had been reassigned to a Highland infantry regiment in the 1st Division.

“Guess Hicks never did get over having to bite that horse's ear on the way over,” Bruce Johanson laughed. Tom wondered if Clark, the infantry soldier he had met his first night in the trenches, was still alive.

Tom was confident in the saddle and comfortable with the regiment. His first loyalty was to his section, the small group of men with whom he fought, trained, bivouacked, and drank. They were his new family, his closest friends. If a sergeant was wounded or departed for promotion or training, a corporal could take over and perhaps be promoted into his new role. Tom had now been in the same section for two years and had been promoted, as gaps in leadership opened up, from private to lance-corporal.

♦  ♦  ♦

Tom's section was in a forward trench when Lieutenant Flowerdew located them. Flowerdew, who had risen rapidly in rank and been granted a commission, was now the lieutenant in command of C Squadron. He took Tom aside. “The Brits in the listening post out front are due for relief. Draw enough ammunition from stores for an extended stay, plus extra rations and a radio. You and your men will take over from them tonight.”

Tom was well aware of the listening post. It had once been a German dugout, a deep, elaborate underground shelter in a former trench, both of which were now abandoned and all but obliterated by shellfire. A communication trench—just a ditch, really—so shallow that it would allow German snipers on their high ground to fire on any occupants during daylight, had been dug to the post by the Straths under cover of darkness the previous night.

Tom duly drew the stores and equipment, then after midnight he and his men crawled forward on their bellies from their own front lines via the communication trench and slid into the sandbagged post. Happy to withdraw for their two weeks in reserve, the Brits did a turnover and headed back the way the Canadians had arrived. Tom's section was on its own, eight men two hundred yards in front of the rest of the Canadian troops. Eight hundred yards away across No-Man's-Land were the Germans.

The dugout, originally twenty feet deep, now measured only ten. It had been filled in partly by earth flung up by exploding shells, partly by heavy rains that had pelted down over the previous weeks. Firing steps, platforms set into the side walls, were five feet from the top. There Tom crouched and peered into the shadows, senses stretched like banjo strings. Below, in the total darkness, were the other seven men of his section. Private Walter Reynolds, a newly arrived replacement, manned a telephone connected to regimental headquarters.

Tom climbed as quietly as he could down to the floor. He still wasn't used to the steel helmet that was now standard issue, and he banged it against a wooden post set in the wall. “Simpson,” he whispered.

Private Reg Simpson was squatting right at Tom's feet. “Here, Lance.”

Tom touched Simpson on the shoulder and bent close. “Up you go, Simps. Keep your head down and your eyes open. We're expecting a German patrol. If they see you first, we're all dead.”

Tom laced the fingers of both hands together to give Simpson a leg up, and the nineteen-year-old scrambled up the dirt wall. He was new to the regiment, having been assigned to Tom's section only three days before. He had impressed Tom with his keenness and even more, his intelligence. They had all been briefed on the situation, but Tom figured it didn't hurt to remind Simpson this was not an exercise. It was real.

♦  ♦  ♦

A boot scraped the side of Tom's helmet, and he looked up from his perch on a splintered table they had found in the dugout. Against the barely lighter sky he saw Simpson beckon him. Tom climbed up, rifle in hand.

“Heard something,” Simpson whispered.

Tom listened and heard only distant shelling. A light breeze from the direction of the German lines carried the faint scents of torn earth and cordite. A half moon was covered by a gauzy layer of cloud, leaving the slightly rising land in front of them dappled with impenetrable shadows.

He stayed with Simpson for ten minutes, then sent him down for a break, and Bruce Johanson climbed up beside Tom. “Simpson thought he heard something a few minutes ago. Make bloody sure you stay awake.”

“Okay, Tom. Heck—new guy, Simpson. Probably hearing things.”

Tom wasn't so sure. Something didn't feel right.

Flowerdew had briefed Tom's section personally and told them the Brits they relieved had conducted a trench raid against the Germans. If the Hun was true to form, he'd counter with an aggressive patrol of his own.

Johanson leaned close. “Hope the bastards do come. I want to get one for Lindman.” Lance-Corporal Lindman, a popular noncom, had been shot through the neck two weeks before. He had moaned without letup for three hours before they could get him out of their trench; it had taken him another two days to die.

The section was heavily armed with rifles, bayonets, and Mills bombs, the British hand grenades. In addition Tom had a Webley .455 revolver. If they detected the enemy, it was their job to phone headquarters and keep their heads down. A large enemy patrol could wipe them out.

Johanson covered the left front, while Tom scanned the front and to the right.

♦  ♦  ♦

Tom felt Johanson stiffen. He nudged Tom in the ribs and pointed right. Tom held his breath and turned that way. Maybe Bruce
had
heard something; he knew his own hearing wasn't as good as it had been before he encountered the brutal, explosive sounds of war. He slowly swung his head left to right and back, thinking his peripheral vision might pick up something otherwise missed. He looked back to his right, and thinking he saw a shadow move, he unfastened the flap on his holster, drawing the Webley.

A scraping noise made Johanson bring his rifle to his shoulder. Tom swung the Webley, cocked it. A figure loomed over him, and he started to squeeze when, against the grey sky, he saw the outline of a British helmet.

“Who goes there?” he hissed, and reached up to grab at the front of the figure's jacket. He pulled, rammed the muzzle of the Webley at where the face would be and connected with flesh and bone.

“I'm Canadian, damn it.”

Tom thought he recognized the voice of Lieutenant Tilley, one of the regiment's junior officers. “Who goes there, goddamnit?”

“Rocky Mountain House,” came the whispered and, mercifully, correct response.

Tom lowered his revolver, while, beside him, Johanson kept his rifle at the ready. Tom could now make out that it was, indeed, Lieutenant Tilley. He uncocked the Webley, hand shaking and heart pounding. He and the lieutenant slid down into the dugout. The men all had weapons in their hands.

“I came out to see how you were coping,” said the lieutenant. “Quite efficiently, I see.” He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe away the blood that trickled down his forehead, black in the low light.

“We weren't expecting you, sir.”

“No, I dare say you weren't. The major felt we shouldn't ring you on the phone—too noisy. Nothing going on, I take it?”