Mounts and Remounts

On my arrival at the Unit, I considered myself fortunate when the corporal presented me with a fat, sleek remount, only lately up from the Base. My suspicions were not aroused until, preparing to mount, I discovered what an enormous supply of cameras the Troop possessed. All classes seemed to be represented, from the V.P.K. pip-squeak to the ponderous P.C. “Jericho Jane” variety. Maintaining a professional attitude, I mounted.

In my youthful days I’ve paid two shillings to see a horse perform evolutions and gyroscope stunts not to be compared with the tricks that animal unearthed. I had an irresistible tendency from the first to fall off over the place where, in normal times, his head and neck should have been. Finally, yielding to impulse, I descended to good Palestine mud amid the shrieks of an ill-mannered crowd. Some imbecile sauntered up and said, “By jove, matey, if you could only have stopped up another five secs. I would have had one of the best snaps in the Unit.” I wouldn’t trust my reply to a green envelope. The sergeant remarked that horsemanship didn’t seem to be my forte, so I informed him that my marching-in papers proclaimed me a flag-wagger, not a Bronco Buster.

“Right,” said he, “take Maaleesh.”

I took him, for better or for worse, and went to make his acquaintance. That horse didn’t belie his name. Maaleeshness fairly radiated from him, from his huge, out-of-proportion head that an A.S.C. mule might envy, to his stump of a tail, the missing part of which had provided food for a hungry moke on the Jaffa stunt. What was left of it provided me with food for reflection.

He wasn’t a bad horse. As the Troop farrier said, he had no vice in him. The trouble was, he was as devoid of energy or grey matter as he was of vice. He progressed at a lumbering shuffle, with his head low down after the manner of a cow-catcher on a locomotive. He had also acquired a taste for feed-bags, and was blessed with a very good appetite.Every time I fed him he disposed oftibbin, grain and nose-bag. The day before we went on the stunt Maaleesh contracted Spanish Influenza, and on the vet administering that panacea for all equine ailments, a ball, he barracked and refused to move.

Then I was handed over to the tender mercies of “Lofty.” The lancejack, who knew a bit about horses, confidently informed me that Lofty was one of those horses that never carry much condition, and he knew a horse at Cunnawulla.... I hastily agreed with him, especially the former part of his statement. We looked at Lofty, who favoured us with an apathetic stare. If the third generation theory is correct, Lofty’s granddad was a camel. Going through a neighbouring town I was No. 1 of the section, and being of a sensitive nature, it hurt me to see the people laugh; but Lofty appeared indifferent.

The first day out he chewed up two signal flags and all the straps on my mate’s gear. Half-way through the stunt he faced the East, struck a prayerful attitude and, with a don’t-give-a-hang-if-you-shoot-me-I-won’t-move expression in his eyes, prepared to rest. Our sergeant shot him, whereupon he displayed more agility than anyone had hitherto thought he possessed, and gambolled off over a ridge. A sympathetic New Zealander recaptured him, but took warning from the black looks and wild gesticulations of the mob. Shortly afterward a report was heard. Lofty’s soul had gone West. Visions of the photo I intended to send to my best girl, of my illustrious self mounted on a fiery charger, faded into oblivion; and as I transferred my trappings to a spare mule, I vaguely wondered, from force of habit, what characteristic and peculiarities my new mount possessed.

“ACRABAH.”

“A LIGHT HORSE TYPE”By W. O. David Barker

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