The tent was so threadbare I could see the stars; it was a different sky than at home.

  Reveille sounded at five a.m. I poked my nose outside to see trucks rolling down the gravel streets, cooks hauling steaming water, and a column of mud-stained soldiers returning from night training. They looked bone tired.

  We found the mess hall and I sat at a bench and washed my porridge down with a cup of weak tea. A group of Canadian soldiers burst into the room, laughing and confident, their uniforms sharp.

  “Where you green buggers from?” one asked.

  “Moose Jaw,” Paul answered. “We're with the One Twenty-eighth.”

  “The One Twenty-eighth? They were busted up last week and sent every which way but home.”

  All of us Bull Moose Boys froze, spoons halfway to our mouths.

  “Busted up!” I said. “Why?”

  “Attrition. Have to fill the ranks of the battalions already in the field. You're not the only ones; we got our marching orders yesterday. At least we're getting to the front.”

  If we weren't going to join our battalion, I wouldn't have much chance of finding anyone who knew Hector.

  “This is awful,” Paul said. “We'll be fighting beside strangers.” He threw an arm around my shoulder. “The brass won't bust you and me up—we're a team! With my playing and your singing, we could spend the entire war entertaining the troops.”

  “Now, that'd be quite the lark!” I'd often thought about how good it had felt to sing for the company. My back was still sore from all the pats I'd received. I turned to Paul with a smile. “But I didn't come all this way to sing.”

  He grinned. “Your singing could mesmerize the Huns and then I'd pick 'em off.”

  I laughed.

  When breakfast was done, I searched for Sergeant Byng's office, the words “busted up” still bouncing through my head. I wondered what Uncle Nix could possibly have planned. I dared to imagine he'd make me a lance corporal, just like that.

  Camp Witley was a labyrinth of huts and tents. I passed several stables and turned a corner. A cavalry squadron trotted by, horses snorting, steam rising from their flanks. The troopers held their lances steady, their faces stern, helmets shiny. They looked so powerful; it was a Boy's Own Paper illustration come to life.

  I located Victory Street. Each building was numbered, but I had no idea which one housed Sergeant Byng, so I stopped in front of a corporal seated on a bench, reading a book. His uniform was British; the red flannel on his cap showed he was part of the military police.

  “Is that poetry, Corporal?” I hoped he was the kind who could take a bit of kidding.

  The man squinted at my shoulder insignia, then squeezed his face even tighter, as though a foul stink had arrived. “No, it's a military law manual, Private.” He stuck his nose back in his book.

  One good smack would show him. “Could you direct me to Sergeant Byng?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  The corporal pointed without raising his head. “Number seventy-four.”

  He had no right to be so snotty; he wasn't risking his life—just arresting drunk soldiers and kissing officers' bums. I pictured giving him a few pokes with a bayonet.

  I stomped away and found Byng in a hut marked LOGISTICS AND SUPPLY. He was a potbellied man, sitting near a potbellied stove. “What do you want?”

  “Colonel Hilts ordered me to report to you, Sergeant. My name is Edward Bathe.”

  “Here are your papers.” He scribbled on a few pages and pushed them across the desk.

  “What's this?”

  “A transfer to the remount department.”

  I dropped the paper on the desk. “I didn't sign up to tram horses!”

  The sergeant slid the paper back. “Colonel Hilts is short of breakers. He can second whomever he pleases.”

  “But I didn't ask for it.”

  “And I didn't ask to fill out papers day in and day out, Private! Colonel Hilts has spoken, and one doesn't argue with the Iron Colonel. Just sign the papers, then apply for a transfer back to your battalion after a few months.”

  “Months?”

  Byng held out the pen. “They need you in Remount. You'll be a great aid to the war effort there.”

  I blinked. Fingers numb, I signed the papers.

  “Welcome to the British army, Bathe. Get your gear; the tram to Gnmsby departs at half past eleven. Here's your pass. Ask your CO to sign these documents and have a runner return them. And leave your gun with your outfit.”

  I took the pass, along with a packet of other papers.

  “You're dismissed.” The sergeant went back to his work.

  I stumbled out, shielding my eyes from bright daylight. I tromped past the corporal, who was still reading, and narrowly missed his foot.

  “Damn! Damn it!” I wished I'd never seen Hilts. What right did he have to send me to Remount!

  When I found the Bull Moose Boys, Paul had just pulled a crate from the back of a truck, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “Perfect timing! You missed all the work.”

  “I'm leaving for Gnmsby; going to the east coast.”

  He set down the crate. “You're what?”

  “I've been transferred to Remount. Uncle … Colonel Hilts sent me.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes! I'll be breaking horses, of all things! I might as well be back on the farm.”

  “This is so quick, I'm a little dumbfounded. Now who'll laugh at my jokes?” He grinned and slapped my back. “Don't take it hard, pal. You'll see this whole ragtag gang again. And I'll write. What's the unit?”

  I looked at my papers. “The Fifth Imperial Remount.”

  “Easy enough to remember. I'll keep you up on all the gory details. I'm sure you'll be able to transfer back when they're done with you.”

  “I hope so. I really do. You and I should fight side by side.”

  He shook my hand. “Don't be so down, Edward. Next time we meet you'll have a girl on each arm and twenty medals on your chest.”

  I tried to smile. There'd be no way to win girls or medals in Remount.

  7

  When I was just a few stops from Gnmsby I stared out the window with renewed interest. The tram could be passing the spot where Dad had grown up, where Hector and I had been born, but I had no idea what the farm looked like.

  An old farmer working on his stone fence stood and turned toward the tram. He could've been Dad's twin. I immediately wanted to jump off and talk to him.

  I wondered what Paul and the rest of the Bull Moose Boys were doing. Now I'd only be meeting Brits; I hoped they'd treat me well.

  I arrived at Remount Depot Number Five after dark, reported in, and was told, “Corporal Grimes is out back.” I wandered through rows of corrals and tin-roofed stables lit by electric lamps. Horses neighed hello, but I couldn't find a single breaker. I peered into one of the larger stables.

  “Are you Bathe?” a gruff voice asked.

  I turned to see a short man with a barrel chest. His nose had been broken and healed so that it seemed to be lying on its side.

  “Yes, I was told to report—”

  “To me. I know. Rip off those regimental badges; you're Remount now. You'll get new ones tomorrow. I'm not sure why HQ fobbed you off on us, but I expect you to carry your weight. Your cot is in barracks B.” He cleared his throat and spat, the gob landing near my feet. “I mean it. I don't want to see those badges again. Go settle in.”

  Inside the barracks, I closed the door, glad the room was empty. It slept twelve breakers. I was the thirteenth, and my cot had been jammed into a corner. I sat on it.

  I was nearly in tears. I slapped my forehead, hoping the pain would snap me out of my funk. I was infantry, and I hadn't come a thousand miles just to break down because of loudmouthed Corporal Grimes.

  This had all been an awful mistake! I was supposed to be training for the front, but Uncle Nix had said he had a plan. Breaking horses? That wasn't a plan; that was punishment.

  My fingers were cold as I unhooked my Bull Moose cap and collar badges and placed them in a tin box. Removing the CANADA shoulder titles from my uniform felt so wrong. I placed them alongside my collar badges and infantry stripes, snapped the lid closed, and stashed the box in the bottom of my kit bag. I vowed I'd wear them all again one day soon.

  Uncle Nix and his fellow officers saw the big picture— maybe this was just the first step. I should have faith.

  My section would soon be here. Should I be reading my pocket Bible when they came in? No, they might think I was a prude. I sat still, feeling naked without my badges.

  Someone swore outside so loudly I jumped. The door banged open and a squat, bulky man stomped in. He sniffed the air. “Oo's bin sleepin' in my bed?” he slurred, glancing at me. “Wassit you, Goldilocks?”

  “No.”

  Several other breakers stumbled m, their uniforms torn and stained. They gathered around me like a pack of mangy dogs that had swum through whisky.

  “Well! Well!” said a slim man. “Grimes was right, there's someone from the colonies here. I thought they'd all be at home sucking on their mamas' tits.”

  I bit my tongue.

  “What you dom' here, bantam?” a squat man asked.

  “I was sent. I don't want to be here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I'm trained for infantry. For fighting.”

  “And we're not? Eh, lads, I think bugle boy just insulted us.” He cracked his knuckles. “I'd better teach you a lesson.”

  “Let 'im be, Guller,” the thin breaker said.

  “Shut yer gob! We can't have a chitty-faced weakling in Remount.”

  “I don't want to fight.” My voice cracked.

  “Thought you were trained to fight.” Guller grinned. Half of his teeth were missing. “I'm not a bleedm' savage. Come arm wrestle me; it'll be all civilized and proper. Or are you fntten?”

  Frightened? “No, I'm not!”

  “Well then, show me what yer made of.”

  Dad had warned me that men always tested each other this way. “Never back down,” he'd said, “even if you lose, you'll at least win respect.” I sat across from Guller at a small table. He smelled as if he were sweating rum.

  He set his right elbow on the table and I grabbed his meaty hand. “Do the 'onors, Bixby,” Guller commanded.

  Bixby, the thin breaker, plopped his cold hand on top of ours. “When I lift my hand you go like hell.”

  Guller glared, a burning cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth. I gripped the table with my left hand for leverage; I'd learned that much from arm wrestling with hockey players back home.

  Bixby pulled his hand away and I pushed hard, trying to budge Guller. No luck. He pushed back and I was able to hold him; all that time digging postholes was paying off. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. He grimaced and the cigarette dropped, bounced off the table to the floor, still burning. Bixby stepped on it.

  Just as I thought he was tiring, Guller grunted like a hog, snapped my wrist back, and banged it into the table. Pain shot up my forearm, but I clenched my teeth, careful to not make a peep. Guller held my arm down. “Good try.” His voice was hoarse. “Good try, lad.”

  He let go and I went back to my cot, opened Kipling's Kim, and stared at the words, unable to read. Even holding the book hurt my wrist.

  The breakers ignored me, and soon the lights were out. Snuffles and snores filled the room, as if I were sleeping in a pig barn. Thanks a lot, Uncle Nix.

  What would Hector have done? None of this, because he'd been in the infantry. I was no longer following him; Hilts had sent me on a different path. Now I'd never know what Hector had experienced.

  Our Father, who art in heaven, I began. I said the Lord's Prayer in my head several times, and that brought me some comfort, but by midnight my arm throbbed so painfully I was unable to sleep.

  In the morning I checked the tension on my puttees and made certain my buttons were shining. My wrist had swollen up—I hoped it was only a sprain.

  Outside, I passed rows of stables. The ting ting of ferner hammers echoed through the yard, and the stench of dung woke me up once and for all. Horses neighed: colts searching out their mothers, geldings calling their brothers.

  Corporal Grimes waited at the training corrals, a pack of breakers around him. “Bathe, be more punctual. Now, we've got an easy job for you, this being your first day and all.” He grinned, pointing at a horse tied to a snubbing post, struggling to break its reins. “Give number fifty-eight a ride.”

  Another test. The young gelding was at least fifteen hands high, sable black with a white star in the center of his forehead. I nodded, climbed the fence, and approached the horse from the side so that he could see me. He glared, his ears back. His flanks were sweaty, so they'd already given him a workout.

  I untied the reins and the gelding jerked back. With a sharp tug down I showed him who was master and pain shot up my arm. I switched the reins to my left hand and led fifty-eight around the corral, letting him get used to me. “Hey, boy,” I whispered. “Hey there, pal.” Dad said horses were like women: they liked lots of talking. Fifty-eight snorted and showed his teeth. He could be a biter.

  “Get on with it!” Grimes commanded. The breakers were halfway up the fence to get a better view

  I ran my hand across the horse's mane, and he shook as if he'd been stung by a hornet. I stroked his neck. “Good boy. I'm your pal, fifty-eight. I'm your pal.” I launched myself onto the horse's back, automatically grabbing the rem with my right hand and sending a jolt of pam up my arm. The gelding threw his rear high in the air, landed hard, then lunged side to side, jumping up and crashing down, kicking away clods of dirt.

  My grip weakened. My eyes blurred and I lost track of where I was in the corral, but was aware I could get brained here. The men hooted and hollered—cheering for me or the horse? Then fifty-eight bucked so hard I was tossed heavenward. I threw out my hands and hung in the air for a moment, then crashed to the ground. I collapsed on my right arm when I hit, and bashed my nose.

  I rolled over, tasting my blood. The horse reared up and stomped just inches from my leg. Guller jumped m, grabbed the reins, and yanked fifty-eight away. I forced myself to get up, my forearms scraped and bleeding. I wiped my nose with the back of my left hand, looked disdainfully at the blood. My uniform would need a good soaking.

  “You did well,” Grimes said, “Bixby didn't even stay on him that long yesterday, did ya?”

  “He was more tired today,” Bixby said. The breakers guffawed.

  Their laughter got under my skin. These men chose breaking horses over killing Huns. Most of them were young and healthy enough to fight.

  “You're a bleedin' mess,” the corporal said. “Wash up at the barn, and if you need stitches visit the regimental aid post.”

  I spat and turned toward the horse. Guller was leading him to the snubbing post.

  “Wash up, breaker,” the corporal repeated. “Did you hear me?

  I ran after Guller, grabbed the reins from his hand. The gelding had a wild look and neighed angrily, snorting a spray of snot. I swung onto him and the wild ride began again, but this time I heard my father's voice: “Always move with the horse; never fight against it.” I held tight and let my shoulders relax, waiting for fifty-eight to tire. The corrals were a blur; the men on the fence were silent. Soon the swirling slowed and the bucking stopped.

  I slid off the horse and patted his head. There was still fire in his eyes, but he was too tired to snort.

  The blood on my face had dried and I must have looked half mad. Perhaps I was. I threw the reins to Guller, stumbled to the barn, and washed myself off.

  My wrist was already purple and black.

  8

  Shielding my arm, I pushed open the door to the regimental aid post. There were three other men in the cramped waiting area: one breaker who couldn't stop coughing, another with a cut hand, and a third man, a moaning yeomanry trooper. He was in the worst shape, his foot wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. He looked drunk. “Shot 'imself,” the sick breaker rasped as I sat down. “Dumb bugger.” He coughed again, bringing up a wagonload of phlegm.

  I held my breath, not wanting to catch anything. The throbbing in my arm was unbearable. God, just make it go away, I thought. Then I worried that I'd said it out loud. I closed my eyes. The ache seemed to be filling the room.

  “Edward,” a woman said, and an image of Mom flashed behind my eyelids. When I opened them a young, dark-haired nurse was in the doorway.

  “Edward Bathe, come along now. Can you stand?”

  “Of course.” I got up too fast, my dizziness adding to the general fog I was in. She guided me to a small examining room with curtains for walls.

  “Sit down.” I sat on the cot. “My name is Emily Waters.”

  “Oh, uh, I'm Edward.”

  She gave a slight smile. “I know. Now, what have you done to your arm?”

  “Sprained my wrist. At least, I think it's just a sprain.”

  Her fingers were ghostly against my skin. She turned my wrist slightly and I winced. “How did you injure it?”

  “I was bucked off a horse.”

  “They don't call you breakers for nothing.” Even through the haze of pain I noticed she had green eyes. “You gave your nose a good smack, too. Doesn't appear to be broken, but you'll have a swollen sniffer for the next week. Are you usually this clumsy?”

  “It was a wild horse!”

  “Then why'd you get on it?”

  “It's my job,” I grunted.

  She patted my good arm. “Don't get all wound up; I'm teasing. Your wrist is probably fractured.”

  “What? It can't be.”

  “Why? Are you made of steel?”

  She was pretty, but she was getting on my nerves.

  “Shouldn't the doctor look at it?” I asked.

  “Don't you trust me?”

  “It's just that …”

  Emily laughed. “Everyone wants to see Dr. Purves. It makes them feel better. But today you're out of luck. There was an accident with a Mills Bomb; apparently they aren't meant to be juggled. Purves is in surgery trying to save a trooper's arm. Should I fetch him?”