It was 1914 and I was boarding the ship. My master lead me into my stall next to a white horse, on the other side there was a chestnut the same breed as me. Days later I found that they were frisky horses. At one point the ship turned and the white stallion dropped. I had watched horses die on the journey to the great World War ahead of us. My master visited and checked me three times a day.
We filed off one by one across two wooden slats. It was shaky but I was just hoping to get across, without falling into the deep, dark, blue water, with no way to get out. After making it across safely we were put into a truck and taken off a training camp to prepare us for the battle.
We had to go days without fresh water and had drills like galloping on sand to strengthen our legs. Our masters were put through running and jumping onto us horses. They learned how to fire a gun and reload the guns with bullets. Finally after weeks of training we were ready to be tacked up and taken into battle.
The soldiers rode us up as dusk struck when it was less likely to be spotted. We had camps where we put our supplies, bullets and other necessities. We split up, as other horses strode off into the night. My master and I galloped up the hill to a makeshift hiding spot on the edge of our side.
Gunshots and screams filled the air. We had been here three weeks and had come so close to death, but we had made it so far; we just kept fighting. Horses I had seen on the voyage had died going down with their master. Some died in agony, some died slow deaths, but all were painful.
I could sense the end was near I just hoped the Turkish were ready to end this. The final stretch. Galloping to safety, the night was dark and my master lay whispering into my ear, “Keep going Bess. We can make it.” We rode past the dead; the stench was horrendous and the blood ran, trickling down the dead bodies.
Another week past and it was clear we had less troops. The death toll was getting higher by the minute and the blood was getting drier in the sun. We started forgetting about the dead as we could not do anything about it.
The call went out that we were to retreat. We had lost the war. Though it was a disappointment it also was a great relief. We could go back to our families and countries and share our stories. It had been an excruciating 2 years.
We didn’t know yet but there was still the battle of getting us home. We were ridden off back to the nearest town but were told none of us horses could go home. Our masters had the big decision of either keeping us, sending us to slaughter or going into torturous families.
Luckily, my master knew a man that could get me back. He had a boat and my master packed me into the ship and I was the only horse to make it back to New Zealand.
I never again saw the horses I went to battle with. ANZAC Day each year is a reminder of the people and horses who sacrificed their lives for their country.
