Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay Page B

the men. “What makes you think you can fight the Hun if you don’t even have the guts to take me on?”
    A voice piped up from down the line, “I’ll fight, Sergeant!”
    â€œWho said that?”
    â€œI did, Sergeant,” volunteered Martens, the nineteen-year-old.
    â€œWell, good for you,” said Planck. “I like a man who’ll own up.” He undid his jacket, folded it, and handed it, along with his cap, to Tom.
    Here we go again, thought Tom. He watched as Planck snapped his suspenders and rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt. Martens threw off his jacket and cap, turning his back on Planck and winking broadly at his comrades.
    The men in other sections were taking a break and sensed something was happening. A growing crowd of wisecracking Canadians gathered to watch as Planck prepared to take on yet another private.
    Martens squared off with Planck, right hand close to his chin, left ready to jab, left foot forward. Planck moved cautiously, fists up. Tom could see what was going to happen. Martens was lined up to box, but he was keeping the weight off his back leg. He’s heard about Ferguson kicking Planck, and he’s going to do the same thing. Tom almost felt sorry for the sergeant.
    The two men circled each other warily, Planck leading with his left, even more than he had done when fighting Ferguson. Martens held back, waiting for an opportunity to lash out.
    Planck shot out a left jab, straight from his shoulder. Martens ducked it and turned to his left, giving Planck an opening. The sergeant swung his right foot hard, catching Martens in the crotch. He followed up with a sharp left hand to the jaw that put the kid down on the ground with an audible thump.
    The silence that followed was broken only by groans from Martens.
    Planck retrieved his cap and put it square on his head. Tom handed him his tunic. Planck draped it over his forearm.
    â€œCarry on, men,” he said, “and report to stables at 1900 hours for that extra time you earned with your horses.”
    â™¦Â Â â™¦Â Â â™¦
    It was mid-November, and the ground was covered in early snow. Ellen was up before sunrise, dressed in woollen stockings and layers of warm clothing. With the part-time cook’s assistance she packed a lunch of sandwiches and thermos bottles of hot soup.
    Ellen knew Tom and her father had met on the day following her lunch with Tom, and John Evans had not been in a good mood afterward. A few days later, over breakfast, she had brought up the topic. “Is Tom finally clear of that jailbreak business?”
    Her father had been very deliberate in his response. He put down his coffee. “My dear, Mr. Macrae is a client. We met at my office. I gave him some advice. But yes,” he allowed, “I believe he will soon be clear of the Zink fiasco.”
    â€œI do enjoy his company, Daddy. He won’t be in Canada for much longer.”
    Ellen’s words, meant to allay her father’s disapproval of Tom, were proving prophetic. The war news was grim. The Canadian Expeditionary Force was still in England but expected to see action soon. Everybody assumed more men would be on their way overseas within days.
    Ellen knew that her father didn’t like the attention Tom was paying her, but in spite of that, she had asked if she and Tom could take her high-spirited mare and cutter for a drive into the country. Evans was reluctant but eventually acceded, perhaps because he knew that Tom’s days in Canada were numbered.
    Now the day had come, and Ellen’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the front doorbell. She flew back up the stairs to finish dressing, and as she did so she heard her father greet Tom.
    Their voices receded as she shut the door to her room and added a sweater to her layers of clothing. She pulled from a drawer a red-and-white scarf that had been her mother’s and paused a moment to hold it to her face, breathing in