The Horse

• George Miedecke, Grade 5
• Short Story
• 2018

Dawn. The sunrise. Beautiful. Orange, then slowly fading into blue. The silhouette of the Turkish held town Beersheba rising from the plain. Everything I did is still in my mind. I am a dun horse. A war horse. Yes. WWI. Us horses and our owners, our mark is in history. My owner’s name was Idriess. He was in the 12th Light Horse Brigade of the Australian Army. We were part of the 800 men in the Charge of Beersheba, on the 31st October 1917.
Only 31 Australian men died in the charge. It would have been sad for their families though. Before we charged, I had drank a tiny bit of water, because Beersheba had the wells and water. It was one of those do or die things. If we didn’t get the water, we would probably die of thirst. If we took Beersheba, the Turkish defence would crumble like a loose pile of sand.
As we stand waiting for the signal to charge, we horses can smell the water in the wells in Beersheba. That’s what drives us on so fast. ‘Wheet!’ Goes a whistle. That’s the signal. Bang. We are off and racing, racing towards Beersheba. I drink in all the sounds and sights. Bayonets flashing and waving. Men cursing and swearing. Artillery, machine gun and rifle fire going ‘boom!’ ‘rattle!’ ‘crack!’ and horses hooves thundering. A German Taube aircraft whirrs overhead. “Oh no,” mutters ldriess. The brigadier looks down. A missile whistles out from the cockpit and hits a man called Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Maygar. He collapses on his horse.
A Turkish head pops up and down like a bullet. As we jump the trenches Turks fire up at us. A mare does not land but crumples on the other side like a coat you have thrown. Her name is Midnight. She has been shot through the tummy, saddle and saddle blanket. Her owner has a hole in his back so big you could put your fist in it. We ride into the town, the soldiers ripping into the terrified enemy. Many a Turkish and German soldier (because some Germans were defending the town as well) flee their post, because all they can see is a big cloud of dust and horses coming. Part of the reason we took Beersheba was because the Turks and Germans had their guns set for about 600 yards. Once we got under that, the shells were going over our heads.
We ride up the main street, the soldiers still stabbing people, Idriess curses the heat. It is 39 degrees. There it is. The mosque. Beersheba is ours. We head back.
There. Done. I was really scared as well. Oh, hello Idriess. He’s approaching me, and is holding his rifle, looking really sad. I wonder why he’s got his rifle. He’s cocking it. ‘Click, click, click, click,’ it goes as he cocks it. “I’m really sorry mate, I can’t take you home,” Idriess says. “Goodbye.” ‘BANG!’ I leave our world.