Soldier of the Horse

by Robert W. Mackay

  The afternoon bouts attracted off-duty seamen as well as the troop’s officers. There was great excitement while the various matches played out to the cheers of teammates and jeers of the opposition. Tom watched as Cowboy Johanson pursued a lanky private who took advantage of his long reach to stay out of range of Bruce’s flailing fists.

  Sergeant Planck, who was in Bruce’s corner, yelled at him as he mopped off his face between rounds. “What do you think you are, a bloody windmill? Keep your right up and jab with your left.”

  A seaman rang the bell and Johanson leapt at his opponent, swinging his fists like a navvy with a sledgehammer. His opponent grinned and backpedalled, then slipped a wild punch and caught Johanson with a hard right. Johanson sat down with a thump. Planck and Quartermain charged in and pushed the other fighter away. Tom jumped forward and helped Planck get Johanson to his feet; blood leaked from one nostril. The victorious soldier skipped around the ring, arms in the air, as the crowd clapped and whistled.

  Gordon Ferguson and Tom sat Johanson on a nearby crate. “Nice try, mister,” said Ferguson, “but I think ye’d do better to stick to bronco busting. Just hope ye show more against the Germans.”

  Johanson grinned through a split lip. There was blood on his teeth. “I don’t figure to box with Fritz. I’ll club him with my bloody Ross rifle if it comes to that.”

  A buzz went up from the crowd behind them as another bout came to a close with no clear winner and no casualties.

  “Macrae. Alton. Get the gloves on,” Sergeant Planck yelled.

  Tom swallowed hard. Alton was a tough guy, comfortable with the gloves on, and Tom had no desire to be in the ring with him for three rounds.

  Ferguson pushed him forward and Planck tied the gloves on. “Ye can do it, Tom,” Ferguson yelled.

  He found himself standing in the jury-rigged ring, suddenly remembering that Inkmann had taken Alton aside after he had words with Tom. That could only mean trouble, and here it was.

  Planck whispered hoarsely into his ear. “You’re going to have to protect yourself. Be patient and wait your chance—he’s too good a boxer. Keep your hands up and your feet moving.” He nodded at a sailor and the bell rang.

  Alton danced, shuffled to his left around the ring, and advanced. Tom swung to his left as well, hands tucked close to his face. They circled warily, trading jabs for the first minute or so. Tom moved forward, peered over his gloves, threw a harder left. Alton easily evaded the punch and snapped a left of his own off Tom’s forehead. Tom shook his head and stepped into Alton. They clinched, and as Quartermain pushed them apart a sudden searing pain shot from Tom’s lower back up his torso. You son of a bitch, he thought. A cheap shot in the kidney.

  Tom bent forward, clutching his left arm to his side. His knees felt as though they were made of rubber. Alton landed two businesslike punches on his face and Tom sagged. Before Alton could hit him again Planck was into the ring and holding Tom around the shoulders. He pushed him into his corner and sat him down on an overturned bucket. Ferguson crowded in. He wiped Tom’s face with a wet cloth and it came away bloody.

  Tom had trouble focussing but he could make out Alton in the opposite corner, relaxed and waving his gloved hands to the cheers of his teammates. Beyond him, Lieutenant Inkmann stood with his peaked cap pushed back, a satisfied expression on his face.

  Planck knelt in front of Tom. “That’s enough for you, laddie,” he said. “I’m throwing in the towel.”

  “The hell you are.” Tom forced himself to his feet. “Ring the bell.”

  “I’ll grant you your nerve, but not much in the way of brains.” Sergeant Planck shook his head, and looked over his shoulder at the opposite corner. “Corporal Alton is a back-alley fighter,” he said. “Just keep out of his way for two minutes—hands up. Remember to keep those feet dancing. Watch him in the clinches—he’s bound to try something else.”

  The bell rang, and Tom strode directly to the centre of the ring. Alton looked at him and shook his head, grinning at the crowd. Tom crouched, hands raised to guard his chin, elbows low to protect his body.

  Alton stepped forward and they exchanged punches. Tom stumbled back, breathing hard, while Alton closed in. They clinched; Tom jammed his arms under Alton’s and thrust his elbows out to protect himself against another kidney shot. Quartermain came in to wave them apart and as they separated Tom threw himself at Alton. His left hand went behind the taller man’s neck so he couldn’t pull away, and his right fist smashed into Alton’s nose. Blood sprayed onto Tom’s face and shoulders as he stepped back. Alton went down like a sack of coal falling off a wagon.

  Pandemonium broke out as the bell was rung again and again by the excited sailor.

  “Attaboy, Tom!” yelled Ferguson.

  Tom heard a muffled voice. “Macrae. Macrae.”

  He looked around. It was Alton, a wet towel held to his face. “One more round,” he yelled. “One more round.”

  The crowd went quiet.

  Above the din Tom heard Quartermain say to Planck, “We gave your guy a second chance. Fair’s fair.”

  Planck looked at Tom while the crowd yelled encouragement.

  “What the hell,” Tom shrugged.

  The bell rang, and Tom again took the centre of the ring. This time Alton was cautious and kept his distance, jabbing from long range. I’ve got him, Tom exulted, and closed in, taking a punch to the cheek. Alton feinted high, slashed a low blow to Tom’s crotch, doubling him over, and hit him in the face with an uppercut. Tom saw a brilliant flash of light as he fell to the deck, men’s voices yelling furiously in the background.

  He struggled to his hands and knees, his head too heavy to lift, and toppled onto his side. The shouts of his troopmates faded into the background, like a wave dwindling on a beach. It’s a rough sea tonight, he thought, as he turned his head to the side and puked.

  Ferguson and Johanson supported him to his bunk, where he drew his knees up to his chest and passed out.

  GROUNDWORK

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The morning after they landed at Portsmouth, Tom woke from a fitful sleep to the juddering of the ancient railway carriage as it slowed to a crawl, almost stopped, then speeded up again. The train rattled and creaked, continuing northward across a low, rolling landscape. A grey sky hung close over farms and cottages. Tom looked around the railway car in the half-light of dawn. Men in khaki sat or leaned, propped against each other, as the wet, green English countryside slid by outside the window. Every inch of the carriage was taken up by semi-reclining soldiers who were draped on, around, and sometimes under heaps of packs and duffel bags. There was a steady drone of snores, coughs, and muttered phrases, the air thick with the smell of damp clothing and the sweat of thirty men in the confined space.

  Johanson’s head flopped onto Tom’s shoulder. His friend’s breath was enough to gag a rat, and Tom elbowed him; Johanson grumbled and slumped the other way onto Ferguson. Tom’s body still ached from the punches he had taken on board ship four days before.

  The train slowed again. Tom dozed, his head against the rain-spotted glass. His mind wandered, the partly glimpsed landscape taking him back to train trips across the prairies. Trips on the Canadian Pacific main line west of Winnipeg when he was a young boy, where grass stretched to the horizon; trips when he would gaze out the window of the train and daydream about the buffalo herds which, short years before, had stretched to the horizons, Indian and Metis hunters in pursuit; daydreams interrupted by the shriek of a steam locomotive . . .

  The English train’s whistle brought him upright as they slowed and stopped at a platform in a rustic village, whitewashed cottages and ancient oaks, bleak under the lowering sky. Carriage doors banged open. A tall corporal stuck his head in and shouted, “Move it, you lot. Boots and saddles. Grab your gear and fall in on the platform.”

  Tom didn’t recognize the corporal. Their own noncoms had been hived off to a different train, for some unfathomable army reason.

  A mass gro
an arose from the reinforcements.

  “Just when I was getting comfortable,” someone muttered.

  “Are we at holiday camp yet?” asked another anonymous voice.

  “Corporals piss me off.”

  The corporal shouted, “At the double,” and stomped out.

  The men dragged their gear off the train and fell in. The corporal and a lance-corporal did a head count.

  The corporal turned to the lance. “Carry on, Heskitt,” and the lance-corporal stepped forward. Heskitt was a small man sporting a thick mustache. He didn’t wear Canada badges, the brass identifiers on the shoulders of the Dominion’s soldiers. Tom figured him for a particular type, an Englishman who had found a home in the small, permanent British army, regulation all the way. He reminded Tom of Sergeant Planck, although Planck had grown in Tom’s estimation as he learned to deal less formally with the Canadians.

  Heskitt spoke up. “Listen here. Transport is waiting outside the station. You,” he said, and pointed at Tom, who happened to be at the front of the end file. “Get these men aboard. I want a head count once they’re in the bus. Report back to me. Carry on.”

  Mentally vowing never to be end man in the front rank again, Tom grabbed his pack and turned to the soldiers lined up on the platform. “Let’s go, boys. You heard the man.” He led the way around the end of the station to where a decrepit, double-decker, London omnibus waited, belching smoke. The vehicle’s red paint was faded, its height accentuating a list to one side.

  As the men struggled up the narrow steps with their loads, the ones in first tried to wedge themselves and their packs into the cramped front benches.

  “Hold on,” Tom said. “You men in front—take your packs to the back of the bus. The rest of you, form a line. Pass the rest of the packs along and stack them in the back. Jam them in. Once all the packs are on, everybody take a pew.”

  In short order, all thirty packs and bags were stowed in the rear of the bus; the men piled into the remaining seats on the bottom level and the upper deck. Tom did a head count and went in search of the lance-corporal. He looked for the single chevron on the uniform and saw him with the corporal.

  “All aboard and accounted for, Lance-Corporal.”

  Heskitt ignored him for a minute as he continued to talk to the corporal. Then he said, “Who the hell told you to separate the men and their packs?”

  “The bus seats are too small for both.”

  The lance tucked his chin in, arms rigidly at his sides. “See this?” he shouted, and pointed at the chevron on his sleeve. “That says you do what I tell you, and nothing else.” Tom couldn’t place his accent, but it sounded as though he said “nuffink else.” “What are you smiling at, you colonial sod? I’ll teach you to follow orders. Get those men off the bus, unload the packs, and get them back on with their packs. Do it now,” he screamed, spittle flying off his lower lip.

  “Hold on,” interjected the corporal. “We haven’t got time for this. Leave things where they are.” He looked at Tom. “You’d better hope everybody finds their own gear when we get to camp, or you’ll be walking back for it. Now climb aboard, and next time listen to instructions.”

  Tom turned away to head for the bus. As he did so Heskitt moved quickly to his side. “I’ll teach you to laugh at me,” he hissed.

  Tom climbed into the front seat on the overloaded bus and it lurched off, the driver laboriously working his way up through the gears. Tom glanced out the window and spotted Heskitt climbing into the driver’s seat of a small truck. Goddamn Limeys, he thought. Goddamn army.

  The bus clattered through the village, its rusted-out muffler rendering it noisy at any speed. The irregular roar of its engine echoed off white-painted churches and neat cottages. Passing scattered farms, the overloaded vehicle swayed ominously in rain-filled ruts. A weak sun that slid into view between banks of clouds cheered Tom up a little. His stomach growled.

  As if on cue, someone shouted from the back. “Hey, Tom, since you’re in charge here—did your pals tell you when we’d get fed?”

  “Lance-Corporal Heskitt promised boiled mutton. Sound good?”

  Laughter rippled through the bus; the sun broke through between dark banks of cloud. Someone stomped on the overhead deck and yelled, “Looks like we’re here.”

  The bus squealed to a stop, and the men piled off. The last ones out passed the packs down the line, and owners claimed their gear. Tom took a moment to look around. Pond Farm Camp was in Wiltshire, on Salisbury Plain. Long lines of soggy tents sagged against their guy ropes and though here and there bits of turf remained, for the most part men’s boots and horses’ hoofs had churned the ground to mud. The smell of cook stoves, saddle soap, and fresh country air was a welcome change from the fug of the Cape Wrath’s hold. In the distance men were drilling on horseback. The reinforcements grinned at each other in anticipation.

  The tall corporal fell them in once again, then reported to a smartly turned out sergeant-major, who stepped forward and looked up and down the line of newcomers.

  “At ease. Welcome to Salisbury Plain, gentlemen. I see you’ve brought a little bit of Canada with you. This is our first sunshine in two weeks, so we’re doubly glad to see you.” A few of the men chuckled.

  “I’m RSM Ballard.” Regimental sergeant-major, next only to God, Tom knew, the senior noncommissioned officer in our army world. At least he’s Canadian. Ballard went on to explain that the Strathconas were assigned to the Canadian Mounted Brigade. Other regiments in the brigade were the Royal Canadian Dragoons and two batteries of the Royal Canadian Horse Artillery, along with a British regiment, the 2nd King Edward’s Horse.

  “Lord Strathcona’s Horse is now up to full strength. You’ll be assigned your billets later today. In the meantime, you’ll be shown where you can stow your gear and the corporal will take you to the mess tents. At 1400 hours the colonel will inspect. That gives you an hour to get cleared away. That is all.” He turned to the corporal and nodded.

  “Atten-SHUN,” bellowed the corporal. “Dis-miss!”

  The men fell out and trooped after the corporal through the glue-like mud of the camp.

  So far, so good. Tom and his compatriots had worked hard to qualify and train for this day; now they had finally joined their regiment. Fresh mounts would be assigned soon. The common feeling among the high-spirited Canadians was a hope that the war wouldn’t be over before they got into it. Tom kept his reservations to himself. Part of him wanted to have at it, and the sooner the better. Get it over with, get home. But he also had a gut-wrenching fear: a fear of death, to be sure, but in particular a fear of losing limbs, abetted by his own vivid imagination and the memory of Sergeant Grey, the man with no arms.

  Tom was now a member of C Squadron’s 1st Troop. The squadron had four troops, each composed of approximately thirty-five men and horses. The troops were further broken down into sections of eight, led by a corporal or lance-corporal. A troop had a sergeant as well as a junior officer in command, usually a lieutenant. The 1st Troop of C Squadron was commanded by Lieutenant Tilley.

  Tom looked for Inkmann’s name on Daily Orders, the typewritten schedule posted outside the orderly room. It wasn’t there. He had apparently been posted elsewhere, swallowed up in the growing monster of the British and Empire war effort. Good luck to him, and good riddance.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The good weather lasted all of four hours. By nightfall heavy clouds had scudded in from the west and a misty rain drifted over the Strathcona camp.

  Tom had been allocated half of a two-man tent. After stumbling through mud that was inches deep he managed to locate it, one of many in two long rows. He stuck his head in and introduced himself to its occupant, who sat on his bedding cleaning a rifle. Charlie Fricker was a wiry soldier with a gaunt face and black hair.

  “Okay, Macrae. Here’s the deal,” said Fricker, talking fast out of the corner of his mouth. “You keep on your side of the tent and I’ll stay on mine. Right? Don’t touch the insi
de of the tent. Water collects on the outside of the canvas and if you touch it, it’ll leak. I hope you don’t snore. This place is the shits. Most of the officers are okay. Stay out of Heskitt’s way—he hates Canadians, along with the rest of the world. Oh yes—put lots of Dubbin on your boots or they’ll rot away within a week. Don’t—”

  Tom thought he should interrupt or Fricker would bust a gasket for want of taking a breath. “What do you hear about the regiment getting to France?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen in a hurry. The colonel said the generals don’t see any use for cavalry when both sides are bogged down in trenches. Hell, the way I hear it, the Allies and the Germans are mostly within a mile of each other. No room for cavalry.” Fricker sniffed. “Bloomin’ English generals don’t have any bloomin’ imagination.”

  It was ironic, listening to Fricker go on about the English, Tom thought, because, like most of the volunteers in the Canadian army, Charlie had a British background. Even those born in Canada could usually trace their roots to the British Isles. Fricker had an English accent but didn’t leave any doubt about how he identified himself. He told Tom he had been in Lord Strathcona’s Horse since its early days, when the predecessor regiment was raised in the Canadian west for service in South Africa. Tom reappraised the diminutive veteran.

  The Canadians in the cavalry considered themselves the elite among their army brethren: “going to war on horseback, like a gentleman,” as Bill Reagan had said way back at the Evans garden party. They were often the butt of derisive comments by other soldiers, who thought them anachronistic.

  “What about horses?” Tom asked Fricker. “Do we all have horses? Only the officers brought theirs over on the ship.”

  “No problem there,” said Fricker. “We have enough to go round, though the countryside is being raided for more all the time. There are thousands with the British army units in France.”