of the snowstorm, turning to see the horses come down the slope that Captain Porter had said was called Orange Hill. It must have been a magnificent, stirring sight.
The cavalry moved in extended order, line upon line of mounted men over the whole hillside. It was a rare moment: Jackâs breath caught in his throat. His instinct was to look away, but he followed the lines of horses galloping at breakneck speed. They flung themselves out, racing charcoal lines against the snow, a flying and shifting series of patterns against the white and sepia of the hillside.
There were trenches down there, but crossings had been put down at intervals. The horses took them at speed. Speed, speed. That was why they were wanted. The infantry and artillery were making ground, but the cavalry were thrown like bolts into the furor to forge a quicker passage. Arrows of human and animal flesh and blood to thrust through the defenses. A wild idea, a kind of madness to top all other insanities.
Down the slope, Jack could hear distant cheering from the Highlanders. It was soon obliterated by shellfire and machine gun. Straining to watch, to focus, Jack saw riders falling and their mounts running on into the blasts. The lines and the pictures began to break up, horses suddenly buckling and running head first into the ground, men tossed out of their saddles and dragged under them.
Captain Porter turned away, fretting, cursing. Impotent up there on the top of the hill. A shell burst just below them, sending up a shower of stone and earth. Porter gave Jack the glasses back. âBastards, bastards,â he muttered.
Jack swept the hillside where the cavalry had gone. As he trained the sights, he inadvertently bit his tongue and drew blood, such was the shock of what he could see. A horse, a small horse, was running about in circles, careering over wounded animal and man alike. On its back was a pack saddle, the kind used to carry machine-gun ammunition. As Jack watched, it was raked by gunfire and ran for a while at a curious and sickening angle, dragging its rear until it labored to a halt, front legs propping its body for a moment until it collapsed.
Jack drew the glasses down. There was a lot of noise behind him. They were bringing up reserves for the artillery. Below them, the Highlanders went forward over the top of the trenches towards Monchy. The village looked red in the snow, a scattering of houses and walls. From the center, the German guns fired ceaselessly. Jack heard a bugle sounding down there, the call of the cavalry. Regrouping, or trying to. They were still going forward.
For a village, Jack thought. For a piece of ground. Over the dead and wounded. He had been held in reserve like this scores of times, but this time there were no horses to tend. They were all down there in this morningâs version of hell. Captain Porter ran back, and Jack ran after him, feeling the icy windblast in his face. On the very lip ofthe slope, close to where they had just been standing, a shell bloomed like a black and grey flower, the appearance coming before the sound of the blast. It nearly knocked him off his feet. They ran back through communication lines to wagons loaded with supplies. Porter began checking, rechecking, cursing all the while. He was not a cool man. He was not a calm man. Jack thought him human because of that. He saw in the captainâs face what he felt himself: rage and impotence.
But let that go. Let it go you must. Otherwise the anger got the better of you. It distracted you, took the strength out of your legs. You would feel your balance go, your legs begin to buckle, just because your body refused to absorb any more. It could abandon itself under you, become a foreign object that didnât obey your brain.
That had happened to him in the first weeks he was out here. There had been a canal boat loaded with wounded going up the Somme. Seeing them, Jack had felt his stomach turn to water. He had turned away and
The cavalry moved in extended order, line upon line of mounted men over the whole hillside. It was a rare moment: Jackâs breath caught in his throat. His instinct was to look away, but he followed the lines of horses galloping at breakneck speed. They flung themselves out, racing charcoal lines against the snow, a flying and shifting series of patterns against the white and sepia of the hillside.
There were trenches down there, but crossings had been put down at intervals. The horses took them at speed. Speed, speed. That was why they were wanted. The infantry and artillery were making ground, but the cavalry were thrown like bolts into the furor to forge a quicker passage. Arrows of human and animal flesh and blood to thrust through the defenses. A wild idea, a kind of madness to top all other insanities.
Down the slope, Jack could hear distant cheering from the Highlanders. It was soon obliterated by shellfire and machine gun. Straining to watch, to focus, Jack saw riders falling and their mounts running on into the blasts. The lines and the pictures began to break up, horses suddenly buckling and running head first into the ground, men tossed out of their saddles and dragged under them.
Captain Porter turned away, fretting, cursing. Impotent up there on the top of the hill. A shell burst just below them, sending up a shower of stone and earth. Porter gave Jack the glasses back. âBastards, bastards,â he muttered.
Jack swept the hillside where the cavalry had gone. As he trained the sights, he inadvertently bit his tongue and drew blood, such was the shock of what he could see. A horse, a small horse, was running about in circles, careering over wounded animal and man alike. On its back was a pack saddle, the kind used to carry machine-gun ammunition. As Jack watched, it was raked by gunfire and ran for a while at a curious and sickening angle, dragging its rear until it labored to a halt, front legs propping its body for a moment until it collapsed.
Jack drew the glasses down. There was a lot of noise behind him. They were bringing up reserves for the artillery. Below them, the Highlanders went forward over the top of the trenches towards Monchy. The village looked red in the snow, a scattering of houses and walls. From the center, the German guns fired ceaselessly. Jack heard a bugle sounding down there, the call of the cavalry. Regrouping, or trying to. They were still going forward.
For a village, Jack thought. For a piece of ground. Over the dead and wounded. He had been held in reserve like this scores of times, but this time there were no horses to tend. They were all down there in this morningâs version of hell. Captain Porter ran back, and Jack ran after him, feeling the icy windblast in his face. On the very lip ofthe slope, close to where they had just been standing, a shell bloomed like a black and grey flower, the appearance coming before the sound of the blast. It nearly knocked him off his feet. They ran back through communication lines to wagons loaded with supplies. Porter began checking, rechecking, cursing all the while. He was not a cool man. He was not a calm man. Jack thought him human because of that. He saw in the captainâs face what he felt himself: rage and impotence.
But let that go. Let it go you must. Otherwise the anger got the better of you. It distracted you, took the strength out of your legs. You would feel your balance go, your legs begin to buckle, just because your body refused to absorb any more. It could abandon itself under you, become a foreign object that didnât obey your brain.
That had happened to him in the first weeks he was out here. There had been a canal boat loaded with wounded going up the Somme. Seeing them, Jack had felt his stomach turn to water. He had turned away and
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