In Conflict

Chapter 1: Home, gone.....

I'm a retired racehorse. Well, I only raced for two years, then was bought by a farmer to be.....oh. That's the thing. I'm not anything now. I have no job, role or position. They used to call me Acid Rein, now I am called Alfred. I live in a field, on my own, as a stud. Though I never have many customers, because who's ever heard of Acid Rein the racehorse? Nobody. My farmer looks after me well, me in my lonely field, with the sweet grass and the slowly ascending hill up to my shelter. Then the old farmer came up to me one day, me being his favourite horse of course, with tears glittering in his eyes. He ran his hands through my coarse mane and muttered:
"Oh, Alfred. Why? My boy has to go to war, and now you! Why?"
I understood what he meant by war, but not by "Now you!" I nuzzled his shoulder in sympathy. It must be horrible to have your son go to war.
"Oh Alfred, do you hear that?" He said looking up as the pleasant chimes of the village church bells started ringing. I nickered in reply. "Those bells ain't gonna ring again 'till the war's over." He sighed. "D'you think that'll happen, Alfred? Do you think once they've finished with you, they'll bring you back to me? Or will you lie somewhere, forever forgotten, and I'll never see you again?"
He left me, then came back with my bridle and a small bale of hay. He bade me eat.
"You're gonna need it. Be strong for the journey ahead, old boy."
I tucked into the food and when I had eaten my fill, he slipped on my bridle and led me to the town square, where a huge crowd stood. Farmers, like him, handing over horses and taking the money. Boys too young to go to war, pleading:
"Oh, sir I's eighteen, I swear!"
Men signing up. Boys signing up. Horses handed over. But the bulk of the crowd was made up of khaki uniform. My farmer walked me up to a soldier who was just standing there, doing nothing. He tapped his foot impatiently on the cobbled square. He looked up and smiled at my farmer.
"Farmer Gray." He said to the soldier.
He replied "Lieutenant Michael Watson, at your service."
They both shook hands. Then Watson proceeded to run his hands over my back, flanks, legs, head and neck. He was checking me over.
"Mint condition! Well done, Gray! You did a good job. I'll give you twelve pounds for the lad."
"Ooh, looking for a bargain, eh? Fifteen."
"You got yourself a deal, Gray."
Then Watson handed my farmer the money, and Gray kissed my neck, patted it and turned to leave. He didn't even turn back. I tried to make a break for it, but four other burly soldiers jumped forward and snatched my reins. I never saw farmer Gray again.