Joan worked badly that day and ate hardly anything. Next day she stayed in and fed out of my hand. The next she seemed well again, but Darby’s place had been hard to fill. Through that Winter and a Summer of denfesive warfare of rations were seldome late, though often delivered under fire, and Joan maintained her old gait, apparently caring little about the going or whether she drew more than her share of the load. Perhaps you’ll say that she was hungry too.
The Winter of 17-18 found us at Potijza and the horses in a ruin at Ypres, a lot of hard work but no action. One day Joan’s mate and her driver were struck down by her side at feeding time, and she was the only one left of the old seventy-five.
This made no difference to Joan, and all through the criticical Spring days of ‘18 no extra work could change her spirit, no long, hot days of marching with short halts and quick watering and feeding could alter her condition. SHe had become the company’s pride, the personal friend of the oldest driver and the Seargeant himself, but those days allowed no proper care of men or horses.
And then the tide turned and we began to advance–Arras to Cambral in a week. For two or three hours each day men slept in ditches and horses were picketed in fields, and then up again and on. Ten of our poorest animals were lost from sheer fatigue, and some of our best were wounded and killed. Gradually half our transport was left behind, first all the pontoons, then some tool carts and limbers.
The rations lived a charmed existence. Each night, when we had rolled into our blankets, those who were still awake could hear the same cockney voice from the wagon calling a strange horse stranger names becayse he lagged behind his ‘Joan : but it meant to each a pleasant dream of bacon, bread and tea.
