The Gates of Rutherford by Elizabeth Cooke

tugging, they took it away, and one man slung it over his shoulder with a shout of triumph. Rumor had it that German snipers crawled out of their trenches at night and took the cap badges from their victims, and put them on their belt like so many Indian scalps. The belt that the artillerymen had found was once such, with a dozen or more badges glinting on it like trophies.
    The veterinary corps stayed behind the front, having gone through Feuchy in the night shooting horses and mules that could not be helped, and pulling their bodies out of the way. It was a job he abhorred, dreaded. But the suffering of the mortally wounded animals was much worse than that final merciful shot. It was his duty to dispatch them. Sometimes he felt glad, even. Glad they were out of the nightmare, and that he had released them.
    Around midnight, Jack and another man dug a trench in a boggy piece of ground where a small stream had once run. They had hoped to bury the horses, but their spades soon struck rock. They tumbled the corpses down and scraped some of the splintered tree branches over them. They knew the burial parties would come up soon for the men, but no one would have cared about the horses.
    Captain Porter took the reins of his horse now from Jack’s hands. “Where are you from again, Armitage?” he asked.
    â€œYorkshire, sir.”
    The officer nodded. “I should have guessed with a name like that. The Yorkshire Regiment attacked Bullecourt yesterday. Know anybody in that?”
    â€œNo, sir. I knew a man from my place of work that joined the Borders with his brother. Name of Nash.”
    â€œAnd where is he?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir.”
    â€œIn the July attack last year on the Somme, was he?”
    â€œYes, sir. Both of them. Side by side. First of July.”
    â€œBloody business. Survive?”
    â€œYes, sir. He did. His brother didn’t.”
    The officer held the reins of his mount slackly over one arm as he swept the land ahead with his field glasses. Jack looked the horse over. A wonderful animal, a glowing chestnut, seventeen hands, heavy in the body. Not exactly a hunter. But that was a good thing. People had sent over their finest horses in the first weeks of the war, and most of the highly strung horses had to be shot when they got to the front lines. They literally went off their heads, rearing up and screaming. They had voices like wailing children.
    When he had first come down to the front, Jack had seen a major pull in a wild-eyed stallion. The officer had run out onto a track and managed to get hold of the reins. The horse was riderless and spattered with blood. The major had tightened the rein, put his face close to its mouth, stroked its nose, and talked to it. The horse had quieted, though it had still rolled its eyes in terror, foaming at the mouth, chewing at the bit. It was shaking like a tree in a storm, completely insane. The major inspected its legs, torn by shrapnel, and shook his head. He asked for a Greener’s—the cattle killer that delivered an explosive charge and put an animal out of its misery immediately—but there was not one to be had. Jack had started to run back to find one, but, looking over his shoulder suddenly, he saw the major take his own pistol from his belt, put the muzzle between the stallion’s eyes, and pull the trigger. A horse like that—driven crazy, too finely bred, nerves shattered—did more harm than good.
    Jack had not always been close to the fighting. His first job had been at a veterinary hospital near the Channel. He had thought then that he would never see the war, only the results of it. It was a well-run place, something he had not really anticipated. He had supposed that he would be made to go straight to the battles, but—at first at least—it wasn’t so. The AVC officer that he was first with blessed the “Butterfly Drives” at home—fairs and fetes and suchlike that raised