Late in the afternoon of August 28, 1944, Ross walked up to Phil. “Look over there,” he pointed. They gazed at the edge of the forest about one hundred yards off the road. Through the wafting smoke, Phil saw at least three dozen draft horses nervously gathered in a bunch.[1]

The three dozen draft horses were snorting and pawing. Other than their evident anxiety, they seemed unhurt.

“Okay, Ross,” Phil said. “We’ve both got some cowboy in us. How ’bout we round ’em up and string ’em back?”

“How ’bout I ride with you?” one of his men yelled out. “I grew up with horses.”

Phil nodded and picked up a coil of rope from a partially burned truck. He cut it in thirds, handing one each to Ross and the volunteer. They walked over to one of the men holding five beautiful drafts. They each picked one to ride.

“Boys, help us up!”

Three of his men volunteered, each holding their hands in front of their groins, joined palms up, to serve as stirrups to hoist each man onto the back of the drafts. The volunteer’s draft began to buck like crazy. The soldier, obviously an experienced horseman, leaned back and reined his horse until he calmed down.

“Good job!” Phil yelled. As the sun was setting, he turned to his men. “We’ll meet you at the corral.”

As they rode closer to the jittery string, they pulled their horses to a slow walk. Phil knew that horses instinctively wanted to be together. This is why these horses, even with the horrible trauma they had experienced, had readily gathered. Their natural desire for contact with each other was a characteristic that Phil and his men could harness.

As the men drew near, Phil began his soft clucking. The horses were alert; their ears pointed anxiously forward. He knew he would rather walk them back than panic them. Phil dismounted and handed his horse’s reins to Calvert. “Wait here,” he said.

Phil squatted down, pulling a clump of fresh green grass. He stood and walked away from his friends and toward the string. He quickly was able to identify the alpha mare[2] that had assumed leadership of the makeshift team.

He slowly walked toward the anxious horse, getting to within ten yards before the horse panicked and ran. As the horses sprinted away from him, Phil held his hand up, signaling to the men to wait.

Fortunately, the string stopped after about fifty yards. Phil slowly followed the horses. This time, when he got close, he simply squatted down, gently singing a whispered song as he picked fresh grass.

The alpha mare watched him, initially with alarm, but then the steed seemed to calm to Phil’s whispered sounds. Phil continued to cluck, click, and sing, holding up the fresh clump of fragrant field grass. She began walking toward him, stopping every few steps to snort and paw. A couple of times, the horse turned and retreated a few steps. As dusk descended, Phil didn’t move. The horse became calmer, more trusting. Slowly, she began working her way to Phil.

When the horse was only a few feet from him, Phil began speaking softly to the mare and held up the grass. The horse snorted and cautiously took a step forward, leaning as far ahead as she could. Then she nibbled on the grass and backed up. Phil reached for his canteen, poured some water into a palm, and held it out as he slowly caressed the horse’s nose.

The mare nickered, initially looking at Phil almost disbelievingly. Then her dark eyes and body softened in a sign of trust. The large horse stepped forward and drank from his palm as Phil poured more water from the canteen.

He then put the canteen back on his belt as he talked soothingly and stroked the horse.

“We’ve both been through a lot, big girl. How about we take you to a nice home?”

The horse nodded, as if in understanding. Phil took a loop of rope from his belt and gently passed it over the horse’s head. Stroking the mare, he softly said, “Come on. Let me and my buddies take you to safety. How about it?”

Phil led his new friend back to the horse Ross was holding for him. Letting Ross hold the captured horse, Phil took a few steps of a running start, grabbed the mane, and leaped up, kicking his right leg over the mare and pulling himself up.

“I’ll lead this big girl up front. You two drive the rest behind,” Phil said.

Ross and the other man nodded and rode their horses around and behind the string as Phil and his mount moved from a walk to a controlled trot as the horses fell in behind them. Phil looked back and smiled to see his friends laughing and whooping, swinging their ropes in obvious delight.

For a few moments, they were all transported a very long distance from the horror of war. When they were in sight of the commandeered corral, Phil’s mare began to pull up, like she was aware of what was coming. He nudged his heels into his horse, and she resumed a nice, controlled trot.

The entire string followed them into the corral. Phil let the mare have her head and reined his horse around and back where he could join his friends in hooting and hollering as they trotted into the corral. As the horses and the men rode in, his men closed the gate behind them.

Phil and Ross jumped off their mounts and embraced each other, laughing. They knew they had “done good.” They felt deep in their hearts a joy and bliss they hadn’t experienced in some time. They knew that even amid horrifying wickedness, something noble and good and honorable—even gallant and virtuous—had come from that day’s slaughter.

For the first time in months, Phil felt hope—and thankfulness—all brought to his heart by a few dozen magnificent horses. He looked up and muttered a quick prayer, “Thank you, Lord,” as he remembered a stableman once saying, “There is nothing better for the inside of a man than the outside of a horse.”

What happened that day was more than “something good” for the inside of Phil and his men—instead, it was a blessing in the midst of battle.

He wished his girl back home, Marilyn, had been there to witness the rescue of the horses—but what fun he’d have telling her all about it in his next letter.[3]

CONTINUED FROM PART 1 AND PART 2.

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[1] Larimore, At First Light, 136.

[2] At the top of the hierarchy of horses is an alpha mare. She is the leader, not a stallion, who comes and goes. All the other horses look to her to know what to do and how to feel.

[3] Ibid, 134-138.

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