Tom knew the fighting was hard on horses. The huge armies on both sides of the trenches used horses and mules as their main method of moving supplies of all kinds around. Trains and motor vehicles worked behind the lines, but only four legs could support the men in the vicinity of the actual fighting, where the earth itself was flayed by constant shelling.
“The RSM said the brigade gets paraded tomorrow. What’s going on?” Tom asked.
“Don’t know. Could be anything. Or nothing. You never know with the army. Hurry up and wait, what? I hear the infantry is getting all shot up. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
If the infantry was getting shot up, what hope was there for men on horseback? Or for that matter, for the horses? Tom and Fricker sloshed off in the muck to inspect the horse lines, tents, camp kitchens, headquarters, latrines, storage areas, and magazines, all of which were surrounded by mud and water; there was no dry ground anywhere. Tom’s breeches and tunic were wet, right through his waterproof poncho.
Everybody they talked to grumbled about the weather, but to a man they were cheerful in spite of it. Even Tom was glad to be with the regiment, a fighting unit, no longer just part of a training squadron.
But the training went on. Tom was in with a new section, with a new horse. He named him Johnny, after a favourite uncle.
The familiar voice of Sergeant Quartermain greeted the mounted troop. “Pay attention, men. Check your swords, and follow me.”
Tom glanced down to where his Pattern 1908 cavalry sword hung from his saddle, just behind his left thigh. The deadly weapon had a straight, tapered, thirty-five-inch blade and was designed to stab, not slash. To draw it, he would reach across his body with his right hand, grasp the handle, pull it out of its scabbard, and bring it back across to his right side.
Quartermain led them to higher ground, where spring-loaded dummies had been set up. “We will walk through the drill. Watch me.” He walked his horse toward one of the dummies, and drew his sword while continuing to talk. “Draw sword. Point at your man. Lean forward, buttocks off the saddle. Grip firmly—knees and thighs. Reins in left hand, sword extended straight ahead in the right.” The sergeant leaned over his horse’s neck, sword as far forward as he could reach, well past his steed’s head.
“Sword horizontal. Arm straight. Carry right through your target.” Quartermain’s sword was thrust into the dummy, which swayed as his horse moved past it. “Don’t let me see you swinging your sword at your target. The sword is a stabbing weapon. As you pass your man, let your right arm swing back. Hold on, or you will lose your weapon. Pull it out, swing it overhead so you don’t skewer your mate on your right, and line up your next target.”
Quartermain had the men walk through the drill several times, then do it at the trot. Tom’s horse, Johnny, tried to shy away from the dummy.
“Take charge of that animal,” Quartermain growled.
Just like old times. Tom felt a stab of nostalgia for Rusty.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Time, gentlemen, time,” sang the pub-owner’s wife. She was a middle-aged blonde who flirted with the soldiers on an equal basis, while making sure they knew she was married to the guv. She was as cheerful to the privates in the public bar as she was to the officers in the adjoining saloon.
The raucous crowd of Canadian soldiery thinned out, with late-filled pints gulped down. Tom and Bruce Johanson were among the stragglers, and as they left, they were joined by George Windell, a private who had worked in a Calgary bank.
Tom breathed deeply of the still air, glad to be out of the pub with its nicotine-coated timbers and thick blue smoke. The cobbled streets were slick with rain, although none was falling at the moment. They had another two hours before curfew.
The three men wandered through the quiet village to the square, where an ancient king gazed down on them from his stone pedestal. A worn bench faced the statue. Tom took off his cap and sat, his arms folded and legs stretched out in front of him. A gentle easterly breeze, scented by miles of gorse and bramble, ruffled through his short hair. “I’ll be glad when we’re out of this English weather,” he said.
Windell peered at the horizon, as if he could see through Kent and across the Channel. “What makes you think it will be any better in France? I expect it rains over there, too.”
Bruce struck a match. He cupped his hands around its flare and dragged deeply on a cigarette. “Guess I won’t be doing this in the open air where we’re going,” he said with a grin. “I hear the Germans have some pretty good snipers.”
“I reckon we have some of our own, eh, Tom?” Windell had been yanked out of training with the rest of his troop and employed with the regimental staff because of his typing ability. He had access to various reports, one of which listed Tom as a top marksman with the Ross rifle.
“That’ll probably change now that we have the Lee Enfield. I haven’t had a chance to practise with it. Anyway, I’m no more interested in being a sniper than I am in being a general.”
Tom was thinking about Ellen’s latest letters, a bundle of which had arrived as the army’s postal service had finally caught up with the Strathconas. They covered a six-week period, and he read them in order. Ellen’s tone seemed to change as time went by. More distant, more newsy, and less personal. She had been going to social functions, where she’d been mingling with her own friends—people he didn’t know. And here he was, in England, where he might as well be on the moon for all the prospects of seeing her any time soon. He hoped he wasn’t reading too much into it.
“Personally, I’m having the time of my life,” Bruce interjected. He took another puff on his army-issue cigarette. “I’d be happy to stay here and plant more wild Canadian seed in English soil. And that reminds me—I’ve got an appointment. See you later, boys,” and he set off through the village. Tom envied him his nonchalant attitude. Bruce didn’t spend his time brooding about a girl back home.
“I’ll be glad when we get to France. Maybe I’ll get back with the troop,” said Windell as he sat on the bench beside Tom. “If I’d wanted to be a clerk, I could have stayed in Calgary. I didn’t enlist in the cavalry so I could type out requisitions for bully beef and plum jam.”
“You might want to rethink that. Regimental headquarters might be out of artillery range. A hell of a lot safer than the front lines.”
“Maybe so.” Windell paused. “I hear from my family that the Yeomen got hit hard. Almost wiped out. There’ll be widows and orphans in Gloucester.” Windell was originally an Englishman and had a slew of aunts, uncles, and cousins in the Old Country. They kept him up to date with his native village’s war news.
Tom found it hard to imagine his troop facing decimation as had so many Allied units. Ypres, the Marne: sickening rumours of casualties in the hundreds of thousands. How would his mother carry on if he were killed? At least he had siblings; many families had seen their only children march off to war. And what of Ellen? She’d probably move on fast enough, he thought unhappily.
He gazed unseeing to the south and east toward the Channel and France, where he would soon find himself. Thoughts that he couldn’t articulate hovered at the very edge of his consciousness, like the vague, low sound of a distant thunderstorm on a humid prairie night.
“Do you hear that?” asked Windell.
“No. What?”
The two of them sat, totally still. There it came again—low, growling, barely audible.
“Guns,” said Tom.
“Artillery,” Windell corrected. Being a clerk in headquarters, he always had to have the last word. “Big guns, howitzers. Night-firing practice. Sounds nasty. Maybe I’ll keep on typing, at least until we see how the ground lies.”
That night Tom’s sleep was interrupted by a dream about Ellen. She was looking for him, but couldn’t see him. And he couldn’t call out to her, no matter how he tried. She slowly faded from view, but toward him came something evil and unknown, creeping from a distant, bleak horizon.
♦ ♦ ♦
>
Ellen gazed into the mirror, reached without conscious thought for her hairbrush, and ran it slowly through her hair. Her father was being so tedious. Not that she minded acting the chatelaine at his endless dinner parties and social events; she knew her role and played it well, and also more frequently, now that she was twenty years old and there was no other woman in her father’s life. No, what was bothersome was his insistence on matching her up with eligible men—“The Eligibles,” as she thought of them. I wonder who The Eligible will be tonight. Not that it mattered, her thoughts turning to Tom. She was desperate for the war to end so he could come home and they could be together, her father’s concerns dealt with.
Later, she mingled with the female guests who sat with tiny glasses of sherry. Through the door to the study she could see the men, dark-suited and assured, speaking in quiet tones with her father. The men drank Scotch whisky, straight or with water, brought to them by the butler, her father’s last remaining extravagance; he kept the man on out of a sense of duty, in spite of his failing economic circumstances.
Ellen listened with little attention to comments by Mrs. Ellison, wife of the manager of the Hudson’s Bay department store. “My Jeffrey is of course overseas, waiting in England for a chance to get into action. He says they . . .” Not an Eligible in sight, Ellen thought with some relief. Although having one around would at least lend a little interest to the party, let her flirt or ignore him at her whim.
Just then the doorbell rang, and Ellen joined her father in the foyer to greet the late arrivals. John Evans opened the door and a tall young man in a cashmere overcoat and white silk scarf thrust his hand out. “How do you do, sir. I believe my parents are here already. Harry Hepwell.”
Well, well. Tonight’s entry in the marry-Ellen-off sweepstakes. Let’s see how he makes out.
Her father took Harry’s hand. “Welcome, Mr. Hepwell. Indeed they are.” He turned to Ellen to say, as he had so many times before, “This is my daughter, Ellen. She runs my life.”
Ellen smiled. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Hepwell.”
“Let me have your coat,” Evans continued, then, taking it, passed it off to the butler who had appeared at his side. “Whisky, young man? Ellen, why don’t you entertain Harry while I get him a drink.”
“How is it we haven’t met before, Mr. Hepwell?”
“Please call me Harry.” Hepwell paused as if waiting for a response, which Ellen did not give him.
When she thought the awkward silence had gone on long enough, she said, “And you must call me Ellen. How is it we have not met before . . . Harry?”
“I’ve been at university in Toronto. My parents moved here two years ago. If I had been here, we most assuredly would have met.”
Forward, thought Ellen. Confident. And he certainly is good-looking. They exchanged small talk, and Ellen sized him up when his gaze was elsewhere. He looked physically fit but on the slim side, and there was something about him that made him seem somehow frail. Why wasn’t he in the army?
As if reading her mind, Harry blinked and responded. “I spent eighteen months in a sanatorium with TB. All over it now, but not up to fighting standards, the recruiters tell me.”
Ellen was flustered. Good heavens—she must have spoken her thoughts aloud. “Oh dear. I’m so glad you recovered.” She glanced toward the dining room, where she saw her father beckon. “I see dinner is about to be served,” she said, with some relief.
Harry laughed, and presented his arm with a flourish. “May I, Miss Evans?”
Ellen, still embarrassed, took his arm and they led the other guests to the candle-lit dining room. Amid the scraping of chairs and rustle of the women’s clothing as they sat, Ellen glanced at her father, who looked awfully pleased with himself.
Later, after the last guest had gone and the butler was cleaning up in the dining room, John turned to Ellen. “A pleasant evening, my dear?”
“Better than average, perhaps,” Ellen replied, knowing her father was asking about more than the social niceties that had been observed.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Okay, Gordon, what’s the latest poop?” Tom asked.
Gordon Ferguson, since his friend George Windell was on regimental staff, was always good for whatever hot rumours were flying around. Tom, Gordon, Bruce Johanson, and a few others were seated at a table in one of the mess tents. The duty personnel had cleared the tables, and the men were taking advantage of a respite from the tedium of training. It was late April 1915, and a wet winter had blended seamlessly with a soggy spring. Rain pattered steadily on the canvas roof and the wall dripped water into the already saturated earth.
“Windell doesn’t know what’s really going on. Besides, he’s not supposed to talk about what he knows.”
“Come on, Gordon,” Johanson teased. “You just like to be coaxed. What does Windell say? Is the war gonna be over before we get into it?”
Some of the men chuckled. Gordon grinned and shook his head. The Strathconas had been in England for months, and from what they could see, the war wasn’t going to wrap up any time soon. The Canadian infantry, artillery, and supporting units of the Canadian Expeditionary Force had crossed the English Channel in February. They had seen heavy action and suffered many casualties. Meanwhile, the cavalry still languished in England.
“The British and French generals have their heads stuck in the mud, along with their armies,” said Eddie Hicks, still wearing the single chevron of a lance-corporal. “All they can think to do is to push more troops into the trenches and chew ’em up. It’s a bloody meat grinder over there.”
“At least the boys over there have Canadian commanders,” Johanson contributed. “Speaking of which, how is our new, very own British general doing?”
“Seely’s a good man, apparently,” Ferguson said. “Did you lads hear about him outlawing Number One punishment?”
“Why would a general do that?” asked Hicks. “Number One is pretty useful. Nothing like being lashed to a stationary wagon wheel for two hours to cure a man of being absent without leave, or drunk. At least until the next time.”
“The story is when old Seely heard what it was, he had himself lashed to a wagon wheel. After five minutes his back seized up. So he made them turn him loose and announced, ‘No man under my command will undergo this torture.’”
“Well,” commented Hicks, “I hear he ain’t that old—and by the way, did you know he was in the British war cabinet, then quit to join the army? Who knows, maybe he’ll be okay. Even if he was a bloody politician.”
“I reckon having Canadian cavalry to command will bring out the best in him,” said Johanson. “Anyway, Fergie,” and he turned to Gordon, “you haven’t told us. What’s the latest from headquarters?”
“Don’t know. But I hear we’re getting paraded tomorrow morning for Seely’s inspection. I’m guessing something’s on.”
The group broke up soon afterward and Tom went back to his tent, where he sat on his bunk, intending to write some letters. Without thinking about it he picked up his Lee Enfield, took out the magazine, checked the bolt action, cycled the safety. He pinched the bolt between his thumb and forefinger and pulled the trigger, letting the pin down gently.
Tom had never seen himself soldiering, laying his life on the line. Zink and his machinations had changed all that, so here he was, on Salisbury Plain, training ground for British armies for God knew how long. Across the Channel a generation of the Empire’s young men was being tested. And getting wounded. And dying, a lot of them. Tom had every intention of making it through this madness however he could, returning to Ellen, maybe dealing with the people who had fed him into the war’s gaping maw.
The men around him were keen to get at the Germans. They saw themselves as Canadians and only secondarily as citizens of the British Empire. They were proud of being here to fight, proud to represent their country. But greater minds than theirs had decreed there was no place for the cavalry in modern warfare, so the Strathconas a
nd their brothers in the Canadian Mounted Brigade fretted, drank too much, and raised hell away from camp, testing the patience of both their officers and their English hosts.
Tom was too keyed up to write a reassuring letter home. His rifle was oiled and spotless. Veterans in the regiment were fatalistic about their futures and sometimes commented that if a bullet had your name on it, there wasn’t much you could do about it. Tom fleetingly pictured a German, cleaning his rifle, thinking about home. He put his muddy boots back on and tramped around the camp until he was tired enough to sleep.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Atten-SHUN,” bawled Regimental Sergeant-Major Ballard, and the Strathconas came to rigid attention. The regiment was fallen in and a merciful God had allowed a break in the rain. The RSM turned and saluted Lieutenant-Colonel Macdonell. “Regiment ready for inspection, sir.”
Tom glanced at the sky. Shafts of watery sunlight broke through in a couple of places, illuminating far-off, translucent columns of rain. In the distance he could hear the other regiments of the Mounted Brigade falling in, to be inspected in their turn.
The colonel returned the salute and said, in a voice that carried to the last man in the ranks, “There will be no inspection today. General Seely will address the regiment.” The colonel turned and saluted the brigadier-general. Tom saw a slim, upright figure with an air of command about him.
Seely stepped forward and started to speak in a rather dandified English accent, his voice resonant. “Strathconas, I don’t have to tell you about your proud history, your origins on the Canadian prairie, your predecessors’ gallantry in South Africa—where, incidentally, I also served.”
There was an approving rumble from the men.
“As you know, to date there hasn’t been much call for cavalry in these hostilities. Perhaps one day our friends in the infantry and artillery will blast a hole in the Hun’s lines that will allow us to gallop through and put the enemy to the sword. But that day has not yet arrived.”
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