War Horse

Brumby. A strong gale cuts its path across the snow laden mountain tops, light and tough the timor, thoroughbred mix, leads his mob at a trot. A day spend grazing the valley below they now ascend the range above, his brumbys follow out of awe and fear not with any love. Echoing through the gullies is the thunderous clap of a stock whip, in pursuit of the mob the mountain horseman cut a mean pace at a clip. Coming up on the brumbys, surrounded them their lariat ropes are let loose, the stallion is caught for the first time in his life his neck feels the noose. In 1897 born to tough stock, I think Steve was his name, His family raised cattle by Corryong of Snowy River fame. Riding before he could walk, in the saddle he would ply his trade. Catching brumbys on Kosciuszko's slopes for a little money to be made. He made the high plains and steep valleys his primary domain, believed that this was his home, in the hills he would ever remain. Word reached his ears of the great war in Europe from a close friend. with fear of threat to king and country, to enlist his mind would bend. The noble thoroughbred steed, king of his country was finally tamed. Saddled and bridled, freedom lost, and now he was named. Garnished with weapons of war to a new mob he was placed, rigorously put through his training in readiness for battle to be faced. Somehow he sensed the young man on his back was of similar ilk, rode low in the saddle, moved with ease, yes they drank the same milk. A bond was formed, a friendship even, between man and his stallion, Although both small they rode tall as though kings of the battalion. Unloading in Palestine the hot sandy desert now their new home, a far cry from the lofty peaks and steep valleys they both would roam. This tough little man and horse to new environs would quickly aclime, strutting across the dunes, a fine stance cut and looking sublime. The bugle calls out a mighty charge on Beersheba they began to lay, horse flaring his nostrils , galloping wildly, into battle making their way. Flying over the trenches the young man with his bayonette swinging true, horse compensating expertly as the enemy lines are burst through. In the heat of the battle cannon fire starts to rupture the ears, the young man and his horse are finally realising their fears. A solitary rifle round pulls young Steve from the saddle of his panting steed, the horse pulls up fast, spinning around, recognising the riders need. A mortar fatally reaching its mark, puts the poor brumby to the ground, man and horse mortally wounded, dying without making much of a sound. In the hot sandy desert final memories flood through their whole being, and long lonely valleys with snow covered peaks, the last thing they were seeing.