Will You Take Over His Horse, Sir?
In the sky overhead the sun struggled through the drifting clouds, throwing a watery gleam on the sea of mud which called itself the picket line. Just for a moment it seemed as if it would triumph, and, as I looked up, the old bay horse with the batman standing at his head was bathed in sunshine. Behind him the troop horses steadily munching hay; the men in little scattered groups squatting round camp fires watching their dinners cook. Just the same as it was yesterday, just the same as it was the day before, but – “Will you take over his horse, sir?”
In the distance a black speck seemed to be hanging in the air. All round it little sharp flashes of fire and fleecy puffs of smoke showed that the Germans had also seen that speck and hoped it was within range. There was one complete set of six smoke balls, so close together that one could almost cover them with a soup plate. Another set had only five. Ah! there was the sixth, a little wide. There had been three perfect groups of six when he and I had been looking at the same thing a few mornings before. Listlessly I watched the black speck. Gradually it grew larger and larger until the big biplane passed overhead. And underneath the Union Jack – painted on the plane. Just the same, thank Heaven, just the same. The flag untouched, each unit which represents that flag carrying on the inexorable work. There is no cessation; there are others; it is war, but – “Will you take over his horse?”
The old bay horse! I wonder if you, too, remember that day at Tattersall’s. Do you remember the hand running over your legs and stopping at that big splint on your off fore? Can you hear again that voice you’ve got to know so well? “Look at those hocks, man; look at that shoulder; that splint may just bring him down to my price.” And do you remember the hunts? Do you remember that point-to-point when you both came such a crumpler at that big stake and biner? Perhaps you remember, old horse, perhaps you do; for who shall say just where an animal’s knowledge begins and ends? There’s no good your looking round like that. You haven’t seen him this morning, have you? – and you know something’s wrong, but you don’t know what. How should you? You don’t understand, and I do, Heaven knows – which is worse. In time perhaps the sugar will taste just as good out of my hand as far as you’re concerned. I hope it will, because – well, you heard the question, too – “Will you take over his horse?”
Yes, I must take you over until someone else can take you from me, if you come through this show alive. You don’t know much about that someone, do you, old chap? Do you remember that day when you made such a fool of yourself because a side saddle had been put on you for the first time, and your master with a sack round his waist was sitting on your back all askew, as you thought. And then about a week after, when you were quite accustomed to it, someone else got upon you who was so light that you scarcely felt any weight at all. And when you lifted your heels a bit, just for fun, because you hardly knew there was anyone there at all, do you remember how he rubbed your muzzle, and talked to you until you became quiet? But there are so many things that you can’t know, aren’t there, old horse? You weren’t in my room when he came round to it that night to tell me before anyone else of his wonderful luck. You couldn’t know that the little light load you carried so often was the most precious thing in the whole world to the man who never missed coming round to your box after dinner on a hunting day, to make sure you were rugged up and bedded down for the night all right. That’s where I get the pull of you, old man. You see, I was going to be his best man when he could afford to get married. He insisted on that when he told me first. But – things have happened since that night, and I’m going to take you over, because I want to give you back to her. I don’t expect you’ll carry her hunting again; women aren’t made that way – at least not this one. Though he’d like it, I know.
But then, he won’t be able to tell her. That’s the rub. I know it was only yesterday afternoon you heard him say that it was a grand day for a hunt. I know it was only last night that you were saddled up suddenly with all the other troop horses and trotted for two hours along muddy roads in the darkness. Then he dismounted – didn’t he? – and went on on foot with his men, while you and his other horse stopped behind. And you couldn’t understand why a few hours later, when the other men mounted, no one got on your back, and you were led back here. Just a casual German sniper, sitting in a tree, taking pot shots into the darkness. Just a small round hole right in the centre of his forehead and the back of his head – but we won’t think of that. That’s what happened, old man. Nothing very glorious, nothing at all heroic. It’s so ordinary, isn’t it? It has already happened hundreds of times. It’s going to happen hundreds more. Everything is going on just the same. It hasn’t made any difference. The guns are in action just as they were yesterday, and there’s that Maxim going again. But you’ve lost your master, old horse; and I’ve lost a friend: and the girl? – Not a bad bag, for half an ounce of lead!
They’ve left him up there, with a cross over his shallow grave, and his name scrawled on it with an indelible pencil. One can’t get up there in the daylight – it’s not safe. I’d like to have gone tonight to see if it was all right: but there’s a job of work to be done elsewhere. So I’ll have to lie to her. I’m writing her this afternoon. I can’t let her open the paper one morning, and suddenly see his name standing out in letters of fire from all the others. Just a pawn in the game – another officer killed – a bare, hard fact, brutal, uncompromising. No more letters to look forward to: no more socks and smokes to send out. True, the socks never fitted, but she didn’t know. No: I can’t let her find it out that way. I must write: though what on earth can I say to her? I never could write a letter like that. If you’re going to have your head smashed with a sledgehammer, one can’t do much to deaden the blow. But I’ll tell her I’ve seen his grave, and that it’s all right. Just a pawn in the game. Only he was her king.
“Will you take over his horse, sir? Your chestnut is very lame in front.”
Teddy, old man, I’ve hunted with you: I’ve shot with you: I’ve played cricket with you: I’ve made love with you. You were one of Nature’s sportsmen: one of the salt of the earth. May the earth lie lightly on you, old pal. There’s a motor-cyclist coming with orders now: the same fellow with spectacles who has been to us for the last fortnight. There’s a Taube overhead, and the infantry are loosing off at it. It’s out of range, just the same as usual. Everything is just the same, Teddy, except that someone’s heart has got to be broken, and that I – well, I’ve taken over your horse.