This was not surprising, for good horses will never lag behind, but next morning early when the wagon started for rations there were Darby and Joan-fresh as paint, traces taut, bite rattling like a pebble mill, ears forward, snorting and stepping out just as if there had been a week in the stable.
That Summer we lost horses. July, August, September, found them always on the move; sometimes Fritz got their range, sometimes they were bombed at night or shot while bringing up rations. We moved slowly forward, and sometimes backward, day and night in action, with the horses never far away in open fields’.
With the Autumn came rain, mud and cracked heels, and in the village of Souastre Darby had to go with open gashes on both hind feet. Standing in the lines, I watched him being led away. I saw him stop, raise and turn his fine head in time to see Joan being hooked in with another horse. This was too much for Darby-there was Joan with a strange animal; perhaps she wanted him; anyhow he was going. With a sharp tug at his halter he was free; in a minute he had caught the wagon, whinnying all the way; in another he was limping by Joan’s side.
