Soldier of the Horse (12 page)

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 groan 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 inside 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.”

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.”