My name is Kingly. I am a Waler. I was once a young contented colt in a comfortable and green home in South Australia.
But we are at war in the Middle East now. My kind master has been shot dead from my back. The enemy is advancing. There are so many dead bodies around me. I am livid that they have killed David. He was my best friend and he was my owner. He looked after and cared for me, as did I for him. We understood each other. At home, David fed me sweet sugar cubes and gently reassured me with a rub on the forehead.
At home, there was peace and quiet. I wonder whether I will ever go back there. Here, there are gunshots and cries of horror. People and horses are dying everywhere. When we form a line and gallop towards the canons, we know that there may be no return. Perhaps we will all die out here. Many of the men don’t seem too concerned that their horses have died. Maybe to them we are just a machine, to get them from place to place. To David, I was his closest companion. We had an emotional attachment and were loyal to each other. I know that he was remorseful that I was dragged into the battle of the humans. But I also know that it was no fault of his own that we are a part of this war. We are a part of this world, aren’t we?
I wonder what the end will be. Will anyone back at home know any difference? Will it be any different for those horses that are still in their paddocks enjoying the lush green grass? Will the magpies peering down at the mice in the field realise any change? I close my eyes and imagine the privilege returning to my sanctuary would be. I envisage the beautiful sparkle fed by the sun, and beaded through the crystal blue skies which I took advantage of for too many years. And I see my David walking towards me with a skip in his step, and a warmth to his whistle as he embraces me with sweet sugar.
But I expect that no one will ever know the real terror that has happened here. There are men on the ground who are still breathing, probably waiting to die. Or waiting to live, and anxiously anticipating what will happen to them. The men are broken. They were feeling confident and heroic when we left home, but now that the reality of battle has struck them, they are frightened. The initial boldness and excitement has left their faces, and in its stead is dread.
There are men who are wounded here at our camp. Some with limbs completely blown off their bodies. They are traumatized and distraught. I don’t think that they realised that what they thought would be a great adventure would Even those who aren’t wounded are not themselves. They are in shock. Real, physical and mental shock and torment from the ruthlessness around them. In their eyes I see fear and in their voices I recognise hopelessness. The ground is a bloody and ghastly mess. The sky is blackening. The stench of the bodies sickens us all. This place is not a sanctuary. It is a picture of evil.
~~ ~~ ~~
We are all preparing to charge again. A strange rider mounts me, and pulls me into the cavalry line. Off we go, running straight towards the guns and canons. My rider catches one of the oncoming bullets in his arm, and tumbles to the ground, to be trampled by dozens of our own horses and riders. I continue to run with the line. Most horses do. We stay with the herd, we are loyal to our team. As I again am reminded of the sadness and loss war has brought, my gallop retires to an effortless and calm canter.
Why try to survive? Just to later run at the enemy again, and again and again. It is pointless- and with almost a certainty of death. I have no reason to stay alive. My David is dead and there is no foreseeable victory. Even if we eventually win the war, and I manage to avoid death until then, who would advocate for me to be returned to my home, as opposed to random placement? It seems to me that none of the powerful people in this army, in this war or in this world care much about anybody else. The superiors order their faithful men to run towards the enemy, without hope, and without logic. We are sent towards the canons with fear of death or injury. I believe most of us here will die because of it. So many lives have been wasted here. I think that all of the slaughtered soldiers have been betrayed by their captains who vowed to look after them. Clever tactics are scarce here. We all know it. When the men ready us for battle, everything inside us screams not to co-operate. We know what will happen, and where the Turks will be hiding. We can smell their malice from hundreds of yards away.
If only horses could speak to people. It probably wouldn’t alter what happens to us. Those soldiers who do speak up against orders are shamed for being weak. It would be similar if someone told you to jump off a cliff, and if you refused, you were given a feather for being gutless. To me, there is no shame in wanting to live. I want desperately to get out of here- away from these small minded people and their evil tricks and schemes to torment one another over land.
I have been tested by battle.
I am broken away from my thoughts when I realise with despair that I have ended up among the enemy. I turn my head around, and frantically scan behind me, looking for life. It is all silent and still, and I understand that I am the only one who survived the charge. I realise, with dismay that I would have rather been shot down and killed than to end up where I am, past the enemy guns and with the hands of several Turkish soldiers clutching my reins.
What now? Shall I just take whatever sentence I get? I might as well let them torture or kill me. But I remember David, and his zest for life. He would have wanted me to fight, even till the death. I remember that he died fighting, and am suddenly ashamed of myself for giving up.
I conceal my fear, and, tired and broken as I am, a wave of energy surges through my muscles and I rear up onto my hind legs, striking and biting at the men like an ill-tempered stallion. I rise.
Fear succumbs the people, and I am liberated as I break free and gallop away. For hours, I run. Eventually, I find myself back with my Australian troops, where I am again used for cavalry, until the end. The end for me is not being shot dead, or taken by the enemy. For myself and several others, the end is a bullet to the forehead from our own soldiers. They cannot bring us back to Australia because we are apparently riddled with disease. But they will not set us free, not here. We all know what the Arabs will do if they got their hands on us.
As the gunmen approach us, the other horses use their last efforts to struggle away from death. I stay very still, eyes closed. It is not a surrender. It is a victory. Victory for me is not killing off an entire army and winning the war. It is the peace in my spirit. It is David’s voice reassuring me that I had fought bravely and courageously. The hope that I will be reunited with him.
Now I look around me, as I stand here in my final moments, at the people. Wretched, evil, people. You may load us onto a ship and take us across seas. You may decide that our lives are so meaningless that taking the chance to return us home is not worthwhile. You may kill each other and take each other’s land. You may flog us and beat us. You may intimidate and threaten us if we disagree. But you will not change my morals or my mind. You may tread me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise.
