My lapsed literary career may yet be radically redeemable. I penned the pursuant paragraphs during a particularly pacific patrol...
Phwoar! Horse!
or Fifty Shades of Dung
A tale of a young Stallion's special Friendship with an an older and wartier old Military man who carried a Riding-Crop although not for the purposes one normally expects of such a thing.
The first time we tried to "saddle" him he sent two men to hospital, and not for antibiotics as is the custom for the younger and pinker recruits who have been unsuccessful in a mounting in Lady Imelda Perineum's House of Squeals and Bodices.
It wasn't viciousness: he was young and as full of spunk as a cabin boy who has revealed himself to be an ambitious and career-oriented young woman in an incognito quest for alternative and more military career paths but who has been remiss in perfecting the pasting on of facial hair and is unmasked while the less gentlemanly crew are enjoying double rations of grog.
He had never been backed before; he didn't understand. I neighed loudly at his protestations.
He only knew an unmolested life on a Cambridge farm, and the sudden change upset him. The herding down to the barracks and the long stifling voyage up to the front must have been unpleasantly strange.
He landed at a malarial little anus called Leeds, and, the day after, was handed over with a batch of remounts to the Queen's Own. He came to my squadron, and I picked him out as a charger because his head and ears, fine muzzle, and wide nostrils showed breeding. My orderly christened him Jaws, mainly, I think, because the first thing he did was to bite him in the seat of the breeches.
He certainly was a vicious little shagger at the beginning. His was the nervous kind of temperament one should have cooly coaxed. But we hadn't time for that; we had to be ruthless as Richard.
He soon gave in. In three days he was ridable, so long as you wore chaps, and when, on the fourth, we started off, I took him as my "charger", minus underpants of course.
