| Featured Article - November 2006
In The Shadow of Equus A Moment to Remember |
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| November. Armistice Day. The blood red poppies we buy in honour of the millions of brave service men and women who died for our peace and freedom are also cherished in memory of the millions of horses, ponies, donkeys and mules, and other animals that served and died in the wars alongside them. They are the forgotten workers — the forgotten heroes. A moment to remember. The pain in Harry Smith’s eyes was a haunting contrast to his usual sparkle. But memories of war do that to a person. Born in England in the late 1890s, he was prime age to serve in the Army Service Corp during World War I, from 1914 to 1918. His parents, who ran a bakery and delivered bread with a pony and covered cart, set young Harry’s life path in a direction that would always include horses. So when the call came to join the forces, it was a foregone conclusion that he would join the cavalry. He remembered the mud, the filth, the flies, the dirt, the stench, the diseases, the injuries, the deaths. He talked of that dark time in human history. As he talked, it was clear that that trauma had never left him. Memories flashed that he wished would not. He spoke of friends ripped by shrapnel; he faltered on stories of horses galloping from gunfire with devastating fatal injuries; he told of so many animals that lived and died through the nightmares. There were the horses, ponies, mules, donkeys, elephants, and camels that transported soldiers and equipment over horrendous terrain; there were the trench message dogs like Etaples that ran notes in cylinders attached to their collars from one soldier to another; there were the pigeons that carried messages, the dogs that guarded military personnel and property, located injured soldiers, tracked the enemy and sniffed out explosives. There were all the animals that became official and unofficial mascots and pets of the armed forces. Harry always remembered the terrible trenches. He remembered talking with a fellow officer just feet from his shoulder, when an explosion suddenly blinded him. Moments later he peered through the gloom, realizing that the soot falling around him was human and animal flesh. He reached out for his friend, but all that remained were body parts strewn on the blood-sodden earth. Beyond the trench, pieces of a horse lay, still warm from its life, which had ended just seconds before. Fifty years later, he still shuddered at the horror of the image, the smell that always came back, the desolate hopelessness of the day. For the rest of his life, he never understood how he survived, while all around him was utter devastation. |
November. A moment in a month to remember that the heritage of peace and freedom we take for granted is owed to people like Harry, to the young soldiers, sailors, and airmen whose lives were snuffed out before they were lived. Alongside them, over eight million horses died on all sides in World War I alone. Two and a half million horses were treated in veterinary hospitals, and about two million recovered sufficiently to return to duty. And each one of them earned a special place in the hearts of the troops. “Sailor” worked twenty-four hours a day without blinking. He was as quiet as a lamb, yet as smart as a Thoroughbred. But he looked like nothing on earth. When he died, the whole artillery battery kissed him goodbye and the drivers and gunners who fed him cried. “Coal-box” was a German pony found and adopted by men of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps on the Western Front. Before leaving for Europe during The Great War of 1914 to 1918, men and horses of the Army Service Corps (ASC) underwent anti-gas drills with gas masks. Since horses breathed through their nostrils, their mouths were not covered. Somewhere in Italy, a cemetery devoted to horses honoured all those four-legged soldiers that had fallen. In all theatres of war, sick and wounded animals were sent to Army Veterinary Corps hospitals where they were treated on operating tables and provided with the care needed to speed their recovery. At London’s Imperial War Museum (www.iwm.org.uk) there are pictures of horses and mules receiving care and treatment. It was 2001. Another place. Another time. Another war. U.S. Special Forces and their allies entered Afghanistan, teaming up with the Northern Alliance to defeat the Taliban. But it wasn’t their arsenal of Predator spy planes, B52s, F-15 Strike Eagles, smart bombs, and daisy cutter bombs that got them into the country. It wasn’t the keys to a Land Cruiser. It was the reins of a horse. In those early days of the “war on terror,” drop orders for the U.S. Department of Defense included saddles, bridles, and horse feed. When all else failed, a fighter could rely on a horse to get through the tough hills of Afghanistan. November. A moment to remember. A moment to pause and reflect on how often, shadowed in the tracks of army boots are the hoofprints of a horse. Read Margaret Evans' column "In The Shadow Of Equus" each month in Pacific & Prairie Horse Journal
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