Loyal Creatures by Morris Gleitzman Read Free Book Online Page A

we’d learned in training, happy as dogs in dust.
    I chucked the reins onto the sand.
    If the other nags were like Daisy, they didn’t even need a horse-holder.
    The troop sergeant squared his shoulders.
    â€˜You disobeying an order?’ he said.
    I nodded.
    The troop sergeant took a step closer.
    â€˜No you’re not, sonny,’ he said. ‘I reckon you just didn’t hear it. Listen careful this time. While I remind you what happens if you disobey an order in the face of the enemy.’
    He held the business end of his rifle an inch from my head.
    â€˜Hearing improved?’ he said.
    I picked up the reins.
    The troop sergeant moved on to the other horse-holders.
    I stood with my horses, watching Turks being cut down by blokes whose fathers were still alive.
    Fifteen months since I’d volunteered, and I still hadn’t got close enough to give a Turk a haircut, let alone sign his family up for a pension.
    Daisy was frustrated too. Waiting on the edge of that battle, air thick with screaming metal, she flared her nostrils and snorted.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ I said to her. ‘I’m not letting this happen again. Next time it’s our turn.’

As we advanced towards Palestine, word got around.
    The Turks were calling us desert ghosts.
    Dune jackals.
    Every time a Light Horse regiment came out of the desert haze, the Turks’d poop themselves. They couldn’t believe our horses. Bred for outback work, our walers. Guts and stamina.
    But even walers needed water, and you couldn’t always find water in the desert, not even in the Holy Land.
    So the Turks started making it harder. Defending their wells. Trenches, machine-guns, artillery with crack gunners.
    Few weeks later, our next battle. Turks were dug in. Impossible to shift. Like our troop sergeant.
    â€˜Ballantyne,’ he said, just like the time before. ‘Horse-holder.’
    Before I could say a word, he gave me the eye and patted his rifle.
    Mongrel.
    Daisy gave my elbow a nip.
    She was right. I pulled my head in. No point getting shot by one of our own. But I wasn’t taking this, not permanent. I wasn’t missing out again.
    I waited for the troop sergeant to move on.
    As soon as he was distracted, I’d be going in.
    The battle was noisier than a grand final. Our blokes were coming off worst.
    Order came. Retire.
    Suddenly I saw my chance. When blokes were pinned down, trying to retreat, you didn’t wait for them to come to you, you took the horses to them.
    â€˜This is it,’ I said to Daisy, crouching low on her neck. ‘Our turn.’
    We went in fast with the other three horses on a tight rein. Smoke, machine-gun fire, shell-bursts spraying sand.
    Otton, Lesney and Bosworth were squatting in a shell hole, firing over each other’s shoulders.
    The Turk trenches were a hop and a skip away. Jam-packed full of the mongrels.
    I could have gone for one right there.
    Several.
    But first I had to get my section mounted.
    â€˜Order’s in,’ I screamed at them, metal flying past in all directions. ‘Retire.’
    Wasn’t the neatest mount-up. Bosworth took one in the leg. Just flesh, far as we could see.
    Otton and Johnson kept firing to give us cover. We got Bosworth in the saddle and pointed him in the right direction.
    â€˜I’ll catch up with you,’ I said.
    The others took off.
    I wheeled Daisy round to get myself a Turk.
    Smoke was thicker than a wheat-stubble burn-off. But I could see that most of the mongrels were still in their trenches.
    Not all, but. Some were out and looking for bayonet practice. Which reminded me that mine, the special one, was still in my saddlebag.
    I fumbled with the buckle.
    No way was I going to pike out. I’d paid for that bayonet. Every razor tooth. It was for Dad.
    I got the saddlebag open, but before I could get my hand in, a shell exploded close.
    Real close.
    One time, years before, I was slow getting my head