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the Devonshire Regiment? And what would it be like when they came home and found him still there, with straw in his hair and muck under his nails? The squire was bitter. That was all. For him it would be different.
    He had left his sleeping parents with a loving goodbye note and had taken the 5.45 morning train from Lydford to Exeter. There he quickly found a recruiting station.
    'How old are you, sonny?' the sergeant had asked.
    'Seventeen, sir,' the prisoner had replied.
    'Well, walk to the cathedral and back. By that time you'll be eighteen and old enough to enlist,' the sergeant had said with a wink.
    All went smoothly. Training camp in the north of England was not very pleasant, until the drill sergeant discovered that he had a way with horses. Then everything changed.
    In the old days when you joined the army, it was said that you took the King's Shilling. It was a joke these days that a horse was worth more than a man, because a man might cost a shilling but a horse could cost anything up to £40. Every week, gypsy traders would drive their horses to the camp to sell them. The prisoner was standing by the ring one day while an officer was trying to choose a mount. He looked from the outside of the ring and eventually pointed to a lively bay with a blaze on its forehead.
    The prisoner could not believe his eyes, so much so that he ran up to the officer and blurted out: 'You can't buy that!'
    The horse trader looked daggers at him. 'This is a fine horse,' he said. 'I've never seen the like and this gentleman is clever enough to spot it.'
    'He's lame in the back leg. He's got no wind and his mouth's cut to ribbons, which means someone's tried to control him but failed. That's the best one in the ring,' he said, pointing to a quiet chestnut horse. 'He's strong and steady, but don't pay a penny over twenty quid for him.'
    After that, he worked with horses and was happy.
    Three weeks later he was in France, with the Artillery Brigade of the 7th Division.
    The artillery couldn't work without horses. One of the horses' most important duties was to pull the field guns into position and keep them supplied with shells. As a good six-man gun crew could fire twenty rounds a minute for hours, the riders were kept busy bringing a supply of shells from the ammo dumps.
    And it was true: the horses, wherever possible, were treated better than the men. They were stabled back from the lines, away from the worst of the German artillery fire; they did not live up to their knees in muddy water. And unlike a soldier, unless he was a high-ranking officer, each horse was looked after by a team of grooms and riders, who cared deeply for their animals.
    The prisoner thought back to an event in July that summer, not so long ago. It was before the rains came, and the weather had been good. There had been rumours that the army was going to make a big push into Ypres, but no one took it seriously. He was experienced by then, but most of his work had been moving guns and ammunition behind the lines.
    One morning, however, his sergeant, who was another Devon man called Sid Mitchell, had beckoned him over.
    'Last night they moved four sections of B Battery forward,' Mitchell said grimly. 'They've been shot up badly and it's up to the lads of A Battery to keep them supplied.'
    'What's the problem?' he asked. 'I mean, why is it worse than anything else?'
    'Well, it's like this,' Sergeant Mitchell said. 'Our position is very exposed. All through the war, we've managed to keep hold of a sort of bulge that cuts into the enemy line. But here's the problem, son. This bulge is surrounded on three sides by enemy-held hills. That means our German chums can sit up there, bomb the hell out of us and we just have to take it. We've tried everything. We even dug under one of those hills and blew the whole thing up with 91,000 pounds of high explosives. The Prime Minister heard the explosion in Downing Street but even that hasn't changed things. You still cannot move in