The Horse Mutiny: A Tale of Three Horses in World War One

By John Antrobus

Writer for The Frankie Howerd Show, Carry On Sergeant, The Bed-Sitting Room, The Goon Show, and many more, John Antrobus brings his delightfully absurd skill to World War I, with the help of three horses.

"We all know horses stopped talking out loud thousands of years ago,
probably because of ones like George. When he stopped communicating
his scrambled ideas about Empire free trade, and he was probably right,
the Germans were worried about being squeezed out of the world
markets — though I don’t even know if he said it — the silence became
filled with a steady rumbling sound from the direction of the Front. The
artillery barrage we were laying down meant an attack was imminent.
Even miles away we could feel the ground vibrate beneath our hooves."

• Language: English
• Publisher: BearManor Media
• Release date: Aug 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310482199

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The Horse Mutiny: A tale of three horses in World War One

© 2015 John Antrobus. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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The Horse Mutiny

by John Antrobus

A tale of three horses in World War One

1 9 1 4

In the merry month of August another war was starting and the bands were playing all day long. Recruiting sergeants hassled young men in the streets, Come on lads, join up!

But I’m only sixteen.

You’ll be nineteen by the time you walk round that corner.

And so it went on. There were many people on the streets and they were all excited. Women threw their bonnets in the air and pinched their cheeks to bring a flush. Men braced their shoulders back and gazed towards France, or Liverpool Street Station. We had an enemy. Someone we could get stuck into.

Give ‘em a bloody nose. And we’ll all be home by Christmas. Apparently the Germans were being beastly to the Belgians and we had to put a stop to it.

Right you are then.

I was a horse and it must be said the World War saved me from going to the knackers’ yard. My mother reckoned I could have won the Derby but my heart was not in it. Besides I was a filly so it would have had to be the Oaks. We had a lineage, if you cared to look back. Some Arab stallion had started it all, owned by the Earl of Rochester, but our side of the family was not lucky — we had not inherited the legs though the lungs were sound enough — and many a bet was lost. Too many seconds. The winning streak was bred out of us, one way or another, the Rochester family going broke and a couple of them going mad. I was the exception, I won a decent little claimer at Redcar but then I was pulled up a couple of times when I could have been first past the post. So I became very confused and didn’t win the races they bet on. The upshot was that Hugh Rochester, the end of the line in that unfortunate family, went to jail. We horses were left to starve and by the time the creditors moved in we were all looking like empty clothes racks. The others got quickly sold off somehow and I was about to be taken away to be made into soap when into our yard one fine day clattered a Recruiting Sergeant on a broad mare. The sun shone off the brasses and highly polished harness.

The mare winked at me. Say yes, she advised.

What to?

Anything.

I’m hardly likely to be consulted, I replied.

Keep a positive attitude, she said.

Our saying is mostly telepathic, in case you imagine we are poor dumb brutes. We are actually more developed than human beings. We used to talk out loud but found it to be too noisy. We have feelings beyond description. That is we can suffer and also know elation. There are other things we horses know but you would not believe it nor even comprehend our perceptions.

The Recruiting Sergeant dismounted and entered a dark office wherein he discerned an inky clerk scratching figures into an accounts ledger.

Kitchener Needs You, declared the Sergeant.

Well he certainly doesn’t need you. Or you wouldn’t be standing in my light, answered the clerk.

Why aren’t you over there?

Because I’m back here.

Oh ho! A funny one, eh? Are you a coward?

On my mother’s side, yes.

Well as a matter of fact I haven’t come about you, the Sergeant twisted the ends of his fine moustache. I’ve come for the ‘orses.

‘Orses?

Yers. ‘Orses. The army needs ‘orses. Lots and lots of ‘orses, got it? And you being a stables, I called in to see you.

What about?

‘Orses! What the bloomin’ heck do you think I come for? The good of me ‘ealth? I need ‘orses! For the army!And lots of them!

You’re too late, Sergeant. All the horses have been flogged off to pay the creditors and I’m closing down the business this very day.

The clerk slammed shut the ledger stirring up a cloud of dust.

Hang on, said the Sergeant, you’re being devious, aren’t you? There’s a ‘orse in one of your stables. I saw it when I come in.

If you want to win the war you won’t take Giddy, replied the clerk. She’s going to the knackers’ yard any moment now. Then I’m boarding up the whole premises.

I’ve got to show something for this visit, said the Recruiting Sergeant. So I might as well take that bloomin’ ‘orse of yours. If it’s all the same to you and ‘ere’s the King’s shilling for the beast.

The Sergeant spun the silver coin into the meagre rays of sunshine that sneaked past the grimed window pane. The clerk expertly caught the descending coin and pocketed it.

That’s a valuable horse, he said. You’ll have to pay more than a shilling.

That ‘orse weren’t worth more than a bar of soap five minutes ago.But I’m authorised by the War Office to offer you ten guineas, take it or leave it.

That will pay my back salary, said the clerk. She’s all yours.

And that’s how I, Giddy, ex-racehorse, came to be enlisted. That is if I could make it down the street to the