Return of The Lone Ranger

By Kevin Schmitt

 On July 31, 1917, the Allies launched a renewed assault on the German lines in the Flanders region of Belgium. After an opening barrage of some three-thousand artillery pieces, Sir Douglas Haig ordered nine British divisions to assault the German lines near Passchendaele. The people of Arras learned of this soon enough, and there were some who hoped that the offensive commencing seventy kilometers away would draw enemy cannon away from their area, since the town of Arras was only a few kilometers from the a front that extended from The North Sea to the Swiss border.

 None of that mattered to the young American who was sleeping in a pile of hay that needed to be guarded (along with everything else) in the French livery stable. The young man was a light sleeper, and when a pair of uniform boots approached the end horse stall, the lad sat up with sticks of straw dangling from his jet black hair.

 “Excusez-moi,” said a young French corporal who was holding a small sack. “Do you own this horse?”

 “That’s right, Corporal, and if you have any ideas about drafting him, you’ll need more than two strips on your sleeve. I’ve only been in this country three months, but that is long enough to know that Europe has only a fraction of the mounts that existed before this damn war got started.”

 “D’ accord, but I think the French Army may be of some assistance to you in these troubled times, if in fact you are the American Del Reid.”

 “Oh I’m him alright, but what makes you think I have any troubles? Lots of people are sleeping on hay these days. You blow up someone’s bedroom and it comes real natural.”

 The corporal had always been proud of his command of the English language, but at the moment he wasn’t sure if the lone occupant of the stable was being funny or insulting. It was one thing to live with dying and wounded soldiers, but every French fighting man hated the fact that so many civilians had lost their homes because of long range guns that could not be sufficiently silenced.

 The corporal mentally shrugged off the comment and said

 “My captain requests that you meet with him. He holds American cowboys in very high regard, and he will tell you himself that courier horses do not want for proper nutrition. This war has made a shambles of the surrounding grass lands and good water is in short supply. But when a General wants a message delivered, he will see to it that it is delivered by a well fed horse.”

 “Don’t you French have telephones?”

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Kevin Schmitt lives in Shakopee Minnesota and has been a factory worker for 35 years. He kayaks in the summer and writes fiction during the cold weather months.