Ernest crouched low and crawled up the long hill towards the
cavalry position. He made slow progress, falling into foxholes with almost
every step, and tripping over old defences and all the detritus left after the
battle. Bodies buzzed with flies, bloated and warm in the morning sun, and
cartridge shells were so numerous they crunched under Ernest’s boots. At one
point he found an old signalling wire, and followed it hopefully, but it led
only to a dead signaller, still clutching his cable box. Ernest tacked across the
width of the hill, and finally got close enough to hear what was happening over
the other side of the ridge. With the noise of the guns he could not hear the
words, but he could tell from the tone of voice that he was hearing Officers
rallying their men. Ernest crawled
forward on his elbows, cautiously, since he ran the risk of being shot if he
caught anyone by surprise. He slid down the lee of the hill, and only then risked
lifting his head up. Below him were a
couple of soldiers, busy checking a wound to a horse. He spoke just loudly
enough for them to hear him, and had his hands up over his head before they
turned round, weapons ready. Once he had
assured them that he was a British Infantry Sergeant they looked at him with
astonishment.
‘You’re a long way off your mark, Sarge.’
‘I’ve got a message to deliver from Colonel Kerford. I volunteered to take it.’
‘Would that be a message for his son?’
‘It would, if he’s the Officer In Charge at the moment.’
‘At the moment, Sarge, he’s the only officer we’ve got. We had a bad couple of days.’
‘Yes, I heard. I’m sorry.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘We did everything we were trained for. And more. It’s the horses I can’t stomach. Seeing them in pain just cuts me up.’
Ernest patted the horse standing patiently between them. ‘I need to get on.’
‘Captain’s down that way. In the trees with the wounded. Horses, and men.’
Ernest thanked them. As he turned towards the trees, the soldier called after him. ‘Sarge – I don’t suppose – the old Colonel didn’t say anything about us, did he? Like what we’re doing next, or…’
‘He said he was very proud of the cavalry, that you had all fought valiantly.’ Said Ernest.
‘Well, better than nothing then. Nice to know the top brass know we exist. Cheers, Sarge.’
In the shadow of the trees, Ernest could hear Gabriel speaking quietly and softly, reassuring someone. Ernest slowed down as he approached, not just to avoid spooking any horses or men, but because he could not get past the smell. The stink of the rot and damp in the trenches was always with him, so much part of his life that he barely noticed it, but this was different. This took him right back to his childhood in the market. It was fresh blood and old meat, decaying and clotting in the heat and light. Ernest found his eyes were watering. He turned sideways into the breeze and edged into the trees, calling out for Gabriel, but trying to keep his movements slow and calm. He was aware of the horses stamping and whinnying, pulling at their halters. Their pain and panic was another physical sensation in the woodland. He found Gabriel standing in the centre of a glade, his pistol on the forehead of a prone horse. There was the sharp crack of the pistol shot, and the horse shuddered briefly, before its muscles slackened in death. As Ernest walked up to greet Gabriel, he could see the tears making clean tracks down the young officer’s face.
‘Ernest! My God, where did you come from? Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine. I came to deliver a message from the Colonel. Gabriel – I am so sorry – about all this. This is terrible.’
‘You’ve been in the trenches. You must have seen worse.’
‘Not horses.’
‘Sentimental fools, aren’t we? They’re just bloody animals, but they’ve more fight in them than half of my fellow officers. They never give up, never retreat, never refuse a jump.’
‘Last week six of my men spent a whole day digging a couple of ponies out of the mud, where a gun limber had crashed over on them. It took them every ounce of energy they had, but they did it.’ Said Ernest.
‘I’ve shot ten horses since last night.’
The two men looked at each other, unable to say anything further. Finally Ernest shook himself, and said ‘You’d better have this message. But you need to hear it in private. It’s somewhat personal.’
‘You’re a long way off your mark, Sarge.’
‘I’ve got a message to deliver from Colonel Kerford. I volunteered to take it.’
‘Would that be a message for his son?’
‘It would, if he’s the Officer In Charge at the moment.’
‘At the moment, Sarge, he’s the only officer we’ve got. We had a bad couple of days.’
‘Yes, I heard. I’m sorry.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘We did everything we were trained for. And more. It’s the horses I can’t stomach. Seeing them in pain just cuts me up.’
Ernest patted the horse standing patiently between them. ‘I need to get on.’
‘Captain’s down that way. In the trees with the wounded. Horses, and men.’
Ernest thanked them. As he turned towards the trees, the soldier called after him. ‘Sarge – I don’t suppose – the old Colonel didn’t say anything about us, did he? Like what we’re doing next, or…’
‘He said he was very proud of the cavalry, that you had all fought valiantly.’ Said Ernest.
‘Well, better than nothing then. Nice to know the top brass know we exist. Cheers, Sarge.’
In the shadow of the trees, Ernest could hear Gabriel speaking quietly and softly, reassuring someone. Ernest slowed down as he approached, not just to avoid spooking any horses or men, but because he could not get past the smell. The stink of the rot and damp in the trenches was always with him, so much part of his life that he barely noticed it, but this was different. This took him right back to his childhood in the market. It was fresh blood and old meat, decaying and clotting in the heat and light. Ernest found his eyes were watering. He turned sideways into the breeze and edged into the trees, calling out for Gabriel, but trying to keep his movements slow and calm. He was aware of the horses stamping and whinnying, pulling at their halters. Their pain and panic was another physical sensation in the woodland. He found Gabriel standing in the centre of a glade, his pistol on the forehead of a prone horse. There was the sharp crack of the pistol shot, and the horse shuddered briefly, before its muscles slackened in death. As Ernest walked up to greet Gabriel, he could see the tears making clean tracks down the young officer’s face.
‘Ernest! My God, where did you come from? Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine. I came to deliver a message from the Colonel. Gabriel – I am so sorry – about all this. This is terrible.’
‘You’ve been in the trenches. You must have seen worse.’
‘Not horses.’
‘Sentimental fools, aren’t we? They’re just bloody animals, but they’ve more fight in them than half of my fellow officers. They never give up, never retreat, never refuse a jump.’
‘Last week six of my men spent a whole day digging a couple of ponies out of the mud, where a gun limber had crashed over on them. It took them every ounce of energy they had, but they did it.’ Said Ernest.
‘I’ve shot ten horses since last night.’
The two men looked at each other, unable to say anything further. Finally Ernest shook himself, and said ‘You’d better have this message. But you need to hear it in private. It’s somewhat personal.’
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