Cambridge, Great Britain, 1948

The rain had started light, but came down harder within an hour of the first drops coming down. Jack Moffitt had gone around the house twice to make sure every window and door were closed and locked, while his two guests, Sam Troy and Hans Dietrich, were seated in the living room, likely bored out of their skulls.

They had all recently come from Germany, trying to help Dietrich work through his increasingly nasty depression. He was showing signs of improvement, but Moffitt had been warned several times that it wasn't going to be resolved quickly. He and Troy brought him to Britain in order to relax and be in a place where he had no negative memories, and hopefully make some positive ones.

Moffitt's Egyptian cobra guardian, Anah, wound herself around Moffitt's shoulders as he came out of the bathroom from his shower. "You mentioned to Dietrich this morning that you would tell him about your time in the Scots Greys," she said.

"I did," Moffitt replied. "You think now is a good time?"

"Well, there is nothing else to do besides sit in front of the fire and drink tea. You and I may be comfortable with doing nothing, but Troy needs to be entertained."

Troy gave Anah a dirty look. "You're not exactly quiet over there."

Anah grinned at him. "But, am I wrong?"

"No, you are not," Dietrich muttered. "I think the hospital back in Würzburg was the longest I have seen Troy sit still."

Troy rolled his eyes. "You know, Moffitt, you never did talk much about your time in the Scots Greys, only that Snowstripe was a pain in the butt when you were first assigned him."

"Well, if you both wish to hear about it—" Moffitt shrugged. "I don't see why not. I'll be right back." He disappeared into his bedroom, and opened his secretary desk, muttering to himself while looking through the various compartments full of everything from assorted junk to mail to small books. One compartment in particular had several books stuffed into it. Moffitt struggled a bit to pull the books out. Their covers were blank and cracking from age, but their spines were still relatively intact. He opened the first one, sighing at seeing his name written in ink, in his handwriting, and the date.

"'September, 1939,'" he said aloud. "Can't believe that was nearly ten years ago."

"Have I told you that your handwriting is lovely?" Anah said.

"You have." Moffitt flipped through the book. "I forgot how much I had written during my time in the Scots Greys. I stopped when I joined the Rat Patrol because there wasn't any more time. Everything became a lot more fast-paced very quickly."

"A pity you stopped. That would have made a fine story."

"It would." Moffitt closed the book and returned to the living room. "Alright, I will make some tea and then tell you about the Scots Greys. Dietrich? Would you like more of the honey-vanilla chamomile I gave you earlier?"

"Yes, please," Dietrich replied.

"Troy? What would you like?"

"Do you have anything that isn't tea? It's too late at night for coffee," Troy said.

"I have hot chocolate, if you want something, well, hot."

"Sure." Troy shrugged.

Moffitt went into the kitchen, making the hot chocolate while Anah prepared Moffitt and Dietrich's tea. A delicious, cozy smell filled the house, made nicer by the snapping and crackling of the fire and steady sound of the rain against the roof. Once the drinks were made, Moffitt passed the mugs out, and sat in his chair, with Anah getting settled on his shoulders and burrowing in his bathrobe.

"This is actually pretty good," Troy said. "Much better than the hot chocolate rations we'd get during the war around Christmas. What'd you put in this?"

Moffitt grinned. "A dash of vanilla rum."

"I never took you for a rum-drinker."

"I don't drink it—not commonly. Once in a great while, I may have a shot, but I mainly use it in cooking." Moffitt set his tea on the small table next to his chair, and opened his journal in his lap. "Alright. Like all stories, we must start at the beginning…"

September, 1939

I think the only person in my family who was wholly supportive of my decision to enlist was my father. The rest… well, there was disappointment, especially since I had graduated from Cambridge just a few months priors with a doctorate. I should have been an officer.

I never saw myself as "officer material." Officers know how to lead people. I don't. I spent the majority of my life following others, whether it was my parents or my professors, and never really had the chance to develop any sort of leadership ability. That, and just because I went to college for ten years doesn't mean I should be trusted with a leadership position. Yes, the academic qualities were there, but as I would soon find out, the qualities of leading men into combat were not.

It wasn't a difficult decision to join the Scots Greys in particular. I had always been comfortable around horses and figured this would be a good chance to further hone my skills as a rider. My father was especially glad with this decision and gave me his blessing—even though I wasn't looking for anyone's blessing, really. The shock of my enlistment from everyone else made me determined to pursue it.

Things seemed to work in my favor as the Scots Greys were in the mostly arid British Mandate of Palestine when I enlisted. I had done some traveling in the Middle East itself in between my years at Cambridge, but it wasn't nearly as extensive as my travels in North Africa. Still, the terrain was familiar, and I expected to perform well as a result. However, when I arrived in the Negev Desert to begin training, I was not expecting to be assigned an extremely temperamental and highly intelligent Arabian stallion.

During the first few weeks of training, my instructors noted that I tolerated the heat well and performed exceptionally well in physical tests, despite being borderline underweight. They weren't really sure what to expect, given that I was much older than most of the other recruits and had a doctorate from Cambridge. One of my instructors, Lieutenant Morrissy, said that he expected me to be, for lack of better terms, a "spoiled, stuck-up brat of a bastard" who thought he was better than everyone else. Morrissy came from Oxford, and was quite a mellow man. In training, he was stern, but not aggressive unless he really needed to be. Outside of training, he was friendly and always willing to give advice when asked. He tried to see everyone to their full potential, and in my case, he thought my potential lay in one particular horse.

I remember it was an oppressively hot morning in late September when I was given the chance to meet the horses, accompanied by a sergeant, McKerras, and two other privates, Anworth and Colfield. Anworth had almost no experience with horses, and enlisted purely to spite his mother, who was terrified of horses and developed a hatred of them. Colfield had been around horses since he was little, but, much like myself, had never really had one of his own, only riding and caring for his family's animals. McKerras had been in the Scots Greys for a couple of years by that point. He was a bit cold, but not hostile. He already had his horse, an equally cold, but loyal and impressively obedient Arabian by the name of Slate, one of the few actually gray horses in our camp. Slate scared me a bit at first, as he looked like he could decide in the next second to crush my skull with a single hoof and not give much of a damn about it. Only McKerras seemed to know what Slate was thinking.

Morrissy introduced us to a few of the riderless horses, a mix of various breeds, and separated based on sex. As we walked by the stables of some of the stallions, I made eye contact with a tall, night-black Arabian, whose only marking was a white stripe down the center of his face. Like Slate, this Arabian scared me, because of his size and the questionable look in his eyes. He looked like he was thinking, but about what was another matter.

"I see you've met Snowstripe," Morrissy said, walking over to me.

"Snowstripe?" I asked.

"Yes. Named for the white marking on his face. Came to us from a breeder back in England, famous for producing Arabians used in the First World War. Snowstripe here is descended from horses that were in the Battle of the Somme."

"Impressive," I said.

"I already had Snowstripe in mind to pair with you, Private," Morrissy continued.

"Permission to speak freely, Lieutenant?" McKerras spoke up in his thick Scottish accent.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"I think that's a bad idea." McKerras looked at me. "A university student won't make a good partner for a war horse."

"On the contrary," Morrissy said. "I think he'll be a great partner."

"If you say so, Lieutenant."

I was a bit confused as to why Morrissy let McKerras talk out of turn and make remarks like that, but I learned it was because Morrissy respected McKerras's experience and knowledge as both a rider and a soldier. I could tell from the look in his eye that he was seriously thinking about what McKerras had said, that perhaps pairing me with Snowstripe was a bad idea, but despite that, he said that the next day, I would begin learning how to manage him.

The rest of the day was focused on marksmanship. Out of the four of us, Colfield was the best shot with our issued Lee-Enfield rifles, blowing out the bullseye on each of his targets. I still had a ways to go, with the Lee-Enfield and with the Webley Mk. VI revolver. I wasn't a bad shot by any means, just needed a lot more practice.

McKerras said nothing when he approached me as I was handling the revolver. He sighed while taking my left hand and moving it from under the revolver's handle to the side, wrapping it over my right hand. "This way gives you more control over the gun," he said, then walked away.

"Alright. Uh… thank you." I gave McKerras a confused look as he did the same with Anworth and Colfield. They both gave him the same expression, then turned to me and shrugged.

Taking a tea break was the best part of the day, even if the tea wasn't the greatest. Both Colfield and Anworth were likable and intelligent chaps, though things grew hushed when the conversation turned to McKerras.

"He's usually not the friendliest, but he looked like someone shoved a stick up his bum when Morrissy brought up pairing you with that wild-looking Arabian," Colfield said.

"He seemed quite offended at the idea," I replied.

"He looks at you differently in general, Moffitt," Anworth said.

"All because I went to university?"

"Not just that," Colfield replied, "but also the fact that you've got a doctorate. Ten years of your life spent in university, studying what? Archeology?"

"And anthropology," I added.

"Doesn't mean anything to McKerras. If you studied medicine, he might be a bit nicer, but you studied digging in the dirt for ancient pottery and the like."

"History is as important as medicine. I could never be a good medical doctor anyway."

"The point is that he sees you as a potential weak link in the unit," Anworth said.

"If that's the case, I'll do my best to impress him," I replied.

"Good luck." Anworth didn't look too sure about that. Neither did Colfield.

That night, it was difficult to sleep with the knowledge that McKerras had little faith in me. Surely, he was already aware of the fact that I had enlisted to prove my worth beyond my degree, but if he didn't, I supposed I would have to tell him. Part of me doubted it would do much good. At the very least, McKerras had no power in getting me removed from the unit, but his word carried weight to officers like Morrissy. If McKerras felt I wasn't good enough, he would say something. That made me determined to prove him wrong.

I tried approaching McKerras the following morning, in the mess tent. He gave me one look as I sat across from him, then returned to his food, not paying me much attention.

"Sergeant," I said. "There is something I'd like to discuss with you—if you don't mind—I… understand your concerns about my potential, but I would like to say—"

"I'm giving you a chance, Private, but if you don't shut your trap, things are going to get a lot harder for you." McKerras finally looked at me, blue eyes blazing.

"Shutting up, Sergeant," I said, flinching.

McKerras waited to make sure I wasn't tricking him, then spoke, "The Arabian horses you've met so far. Slate, Snowstripe, some of the other stallions, all came from the same lineage. Those horses saved my father in the First World War. They are not pleasure horses that people like you can just take on a quiet little ride through the parks around Cambridge. They're working animals, meant to be the fastest, meant for a unit as prestigious as the Scots Greys."

I swallowed nervously, completely unaware of the fact that McKerras had a personal connection to the Arabians.

"You enlisted despite having a bloody doctorate. I can respect that. But, you're not a doctor anymore. You're a private in the British Army, and if you're going to be trusted with one of those prized Arabians, you better earn it. Lieutenant Morrissy's a smart man, and I trust his judgement. I just hope he didn't misplace it with you."

I very nearly said, "I hope he didn't, either," but that would have made me sound like an idiot.

McKerras kept glaring at me when I didn't say anything. "Eat your meal, and then we start training for the day."

I didn't see Snowstripe again until that afternoon. He still had that odd look in his eye, and my anxiety over it made it difficult for me to approach once Snowstripe had been led out of his pen.

"Don't act scared of him," McKerras said. "Horses sense fear."

Snowstripe stood still as I approached. He looked over his shoulder at one of the other horses in the stable, then back at me. I stayed on Snowstripe's left side, within his vision, and reached out so he could sniff my hand. All seemed to be going well as Snowstripe sniffed my hand and allowed me to touch his neck and shoulders. The look in his eye was still a concern, but I had pinned it down to him just being wary of a new rider.

"Try getting in the saddle, Moffitt," McKerras said.

I did, remembering all that I was taught with my father's horses. Snowstripe was nothing like any of my father's horses, though. Almost as soon as I was in the saddle, I found myself being bucked right off. I was lucky neither of my boots caught in the stirrups as I fell and struck the sandy ground. Pain burst through my back when I landed, but I was quickly overcome with fear when Snowstripe started circling me. Frantically, I tried scrambling away, wincing with pain.

Fortunately, McKerras was able to get Snowstripe under control, taking his reins and guiding him away from me. The sergeant then dashed over to me and dropped to a crouch. "Are you alright, Private?"

"I think so," I said. "That'll be an impressive bruise come morning."

"You should get checked out by a medic," McKerras said.

"I'm sure I'm alright. Let me get back on—"

"Now, Private! Go to Major Langston's tent!"

I tried not to flinch at his tone. It was easy to mask that with pain as I was helped up and escorted to our medical officer's tent.

Major Langston was a tall, redheaded, muscular fellow who specialized in treating the human members of the Scots Greys. He had a little bit of veterinary training, but only used it if our primary veterinarian was unavailable. He knew how to treat a wide variety of tropical ailments, as he spent a number of years traveling in the Congo Rainforest with a group of cartographers looking to map the region. He was quite approachable, but could detect shirkers in a heartbeat.

McKerras entered the tent first, with me in tow. "Sir, Sergeant McKerras."

"Sergeant," Langston acknowledged him, "what can I do for you?"

"Private Moffitt fell off a horse, sir."

"Alright. Thank you, Sergeant, you're dismissed." Langston motioned for me to come forward. "Fell off a horse, huh. How did you fall?"

"I fell on my back when I was bucked off, sir," I said.

"On your back. Alright. Take off your shirt, Private. Can you sit straight?"

"It hurts a little, but I can manage."

"Yeah, well, let's make sure this is something you can actually manage." Langston felt the length of my spine. He was capable of pinching the spinous process of one of the vertebrae in my upper back, to which he made a slightly concerned sound. "You get enough to eat, Private?"

"I eat when I'm told to," I said. "I've always been a bit thin."

"No kidding. I expected someone of your status to have a bit more meat on his bones."

"Sorry to disappoint you, sir."

"Oh, don't apologize. You passed by a couple of pounds. Just make sure you stay there. Alright, lean forward. How does that feel?"

Leaning forward hurt worse than sitting straight. I bit back a cry of pain, not wanting to spend more time in this tent than what was necessary.

"Try arching your back."

I did, again suppressing a grunt of pain.

"You're shaking a bit, in a way that tells me this hurts. Sit up."

I finally let out a groan while sitting up, knowing now that I wasn't going to be able to hide anything from Langston. He conducted a few more physical tests before determining that I had, in his words, "knocked part of my spine out of alignment." Needless to say, this was where I learned that Langston had some chiropractic training.

Resetting my back fixed part of the issue, but Langston also informed me that I would indeed have a nasty bruise and muscle pain for a few days.

You can imagine my utter disappointment and fear. Only a few weeks into training and I was already injured. Granted, it could have been worse, and Langston told me he had seen worse. Some falls resulted in broken bones or punctured organs and put recruits out for weeks, oftentimes resulting in them being discharged altogether.

"You're extremely lucky," Langston said. "No strenuous activity for the next three days. I'll write up a notice."

It was quite embarrassing having to give that notice to Morrissy, but having seen this—and far worse—in his time, Morrissy was understanding. He restricted me to light duties that didn't involve a lot of leaning over or movement in general, including serving the other troops in the mess tent for their evening meal. There would be no sitting around as long as I could stand and as long as I wasn't overexerting myself. I had gotten lucky, that didn't meant I could push it.

I mentioned a couple of weeks back that I started having weird dreams while training, dream that I wouldn't understand until later meant something quite drastic was on my horizon. I vividly recall that the dreams started the night after my back injury, and that I initially dismissed them as being induced by pain. Before that, though, I had a rather insightful conversation with McKerras.

It was difficult getting comfortable that night with my back. I couldn't lay on it, but I knew laying on my stomach would just cause more pain in the morning, so I was stuck on my side, and kept myself propped that way by rolling up some blankets and praying that they didn't get pushed off during the night. Colfield and Anworth had gone to sleep long before I did, and I noticed McKerras was reading by the very dim light of the lantern in the middle of the tent.

"How's your back?" he asked, glancing at me when I shifted in a vain attempt to get comfortable.

"Sore," I said.

"At least you didn't break anything," McKerras replied. "You'll be able to try riding again in a few days."

"So, you don't think I'm a poor fit for Snowstripe?"

"I'm still thinking about it. He's clearly an intelligent animal. I saw the way he was looking at you, and at the other horses. He thinks a lot. He knows how to assess a situation and act accordingly. That's a trait in all the Arabians from that line. Slate is the same way. I noticed you're scared of Slate, and you showed that same fear in front of Snowstripe. That was your first mistake."

"I'm not used to working with horses like them. I know my father's horses are all mixed breeds, and I think some of them do have Arabian in their blood, but I've never worked with purebred working horses like Slate and Snowstripe."

McKerras closed his book, and looked at Colfield and Anworth to make sure we didn't wake them. "Horses are a bit like people in a way, except they act on instinct far more often than we do. Underneath, they're about as complicated as we are. Some people don't think they have emotions. I know from first-hand experience that they do, and they react to your own emotions. An emotionless animal wouldn't do that. You've only ever worked with horses in very calm, controlled settings, where neither you or the horse have anything to fear. In combat, you have everything to fear. You're going to be shot at, and you have not only yourself to protect, but your horse, and your comrades and their horses as well. You have to stay calm so your horse stays calm. If you panic, they panic, and that's how you both get hurt, or worse. There's also the element of trust. Normally, a horse would run away from the sound of combat. You have to trust your horse and they have to trust you that you're going to get both of you out of that situation alive."

"Do you think Snowstripe doesn't trust me? I wouldn't think he'd let me get in the saddle if he didn't."

"I'm not quite sure why he let you on, then bucked you. That was clearly premeditated, judging by how he was acting." McKerras rubbed his chin. "He may've been testing you. Horses are more than capable of testing their riders to see how far they can go with certain behaviors."

"I knew that from working with my father's horses, but Snowstripe… there's something very different about him, beyond just the fact that he's not like my father's horses."

"That look in his eye was certainly a curious one."

Relief came over me. "So, I'm not mad. You saw it, too."

McKerras nodded. "I did, but I wasn't sure what to make of it. I'm starting to become convinced he set a trap for you or was testing you in a way. He's not untrainable. People have worked with him before, but he's very… particular. No one has been a perfect fit for him yet. It is odd that Morrissy thinks you're the one who'll fit. You are the most unlikely out of any rider here to actually bond with Snowstripe, but sometimes it is the most unlikely who pulls off what seems to be impossible."

He smiled a bit when he finished talking, which gave me hope that he didn't think I was a complete failure. He definitely didn't want to see me fail—he sort of already did see me fail that day—and I didn't want to disappoint him. I managed to smile back, then continued trying to get comfortable.

"I think we'll try doing some groundwork with Snowstripe tomorrow, if you're comfortable," McKerras said, reaching over to turn off the lantern.

"Tomorrow? I thought I was relegated to light duty for three days," I replied.

"That's why we're doing groundwork, not riding. Our goal now is to get Snowstripe to trust you, and for you to be less nervous around him. I'll be there with Slate, so you can see how it's done."

"Thank you. I… I appreciate that, Sergeant."

"Not a problem. Get some sleep, Moffitt."

I had hope that I would sleep better knowing that McKerras was genuinely interested in helping me. My sleep was rather fitful, due to the pain in my back, and the first instance of the strange dreams. The dream itself played out like this: I was riding Snowstripe into combat, but I couldn't see who we were fighting. Seconds later, I felt something rip through my upper abdomen, and to my horror, I saw that I had been shot. I bled profusely while falling from the horse, and frantically tried putting pressure on the wound. Snowstripe abandoned me completely, leaving me howling in pain and watching helplessly as blood gushed and gushed until my back was completely soaked with it. I was lying there dying and yet no one was coming to help me. That was the scariest part. I wanted to dismiss it as something brought on by my back pain and my overall fears of going into combat, but something deep inside was telling me that there was more to this.

When I awoke in a cold sweat, part of me feared that perhaps part of my dream had been real, and I quickly looked down at my stomach. I breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing that, no, I hadn't been shot. The dampness was from sweat and nothing more.

I tried turning, but was stopped by the rolled-up blankets. My back was stiff and it hurt to move. Sitting up in particular hurt, but when I saw that the others were still sleeping, I took it slow. Once I was up, I pulled off my shirt to get some relief from the dampness and the heat. I heard someone shifting nearby, and turned to see McKerras getting up. His eyes were wide, and he said, "That is a nasty bruise on your back, Private. You were certainly right about that."

After Anworth and Colfield had woken up, the entire camp was roused, and we all had to get out of our tents and present ourselves for roll call before going to breakfast. I looked in the direction of the stables as we marched to the mess tent, and despite everything McKerras told me the night before, I was utterly terrified that Snowstripe was going to get me removed from the British Army entirely, one way or another.

Present Day, 1948

Troy had taken to leaning against Dietrich's chair while listening to Moffitt's story. "I knew Snowstripe didn't particularly like you at first, but I didn't know you were so scared of him."

Moffitt nodded. "He was terrifying, because I wasn't used to him. That was going to be the biggest challenge, learning to be less afraid, especially since we were going to have to rely on each other pretty heavily, and not just as partners in battle."

Dietrich finished his tea before asking, "How so?"

"Oh, you'll see. There was, ah, a bit of an incident that occurred later on, but I don't think I should jump to that just yet." Moffitt grinned a little. "You both seem very invested in this story."

"Picturing you as a wide-eyed, terrified recruit is kinda funny," Troy said. "Not at all like when we first met."

"I had seen quite a bit of combat when we met. When I wrote this—" Moffitt held up the journal, "the most combat I had seen was a fight in a hallway at Cambridge."

"Were you involved?" Troy asked with a snort.

"I broke it up. And nearly broke my nose in the process."

Dietrich looked like he was suppressing a grin of his own. "I hate to further interrupt, but I would not mind another cup of this tea."

Moffitt looked down at his own tea, seeing it was nearly empty. "I'll prepare more for both of us, then."

Troy followed Moffitt into the kitchen, occasionally looking over his shoulder at Dietrich. "Does it feel weird revisiting all this?" Troy asked, focusing on Moffitt.

Moffitt didn't respond as he opened his tea cabinet. He felt Anah shift around his neck, and patted the top of her head while taking a box of chamomile out. "It does feel a little weird. I haven't spoken to any of the men I served with in the Scots Greys in many years. When I joined you, I… have no idea if any of them are even still alive. I know McKerras is, because he sent me a letter after the war ended, but we haven't actually seen each other since I left to join you."

"At least it sounds like you guys eventually grew to be on good terms."

"We did, but for a time, it was a bit nerve-wracking. McKerras really wasn't sure I was a right fit for Snowstripe—or the British Army in general. I doubt you and he would have gotten along if you had to work together during the war. Despite his… prickly nature, he was still open with us. The fact that you shut us out so often would annoy him greatly."

"Well, that's changed."

"There is still a lot more to my relationship with him that will be discussed, so I won't spoil everything now." Moffitt glanced over at Dietrich. "At least he seems to be enjoying this."

"Yeah. I noticed he was paying pretty close attention to you the whole time." Troy lowered his voice. "It's a good distraction from—" he motioned to Dietrich's bandaged wrists, "you know."

Moffitt nodded, sobering a little. "Indeed."

After the tea was steeped and stirred, Moffitt handed a fresh mug of honey-vanilla chamomile to Dietrich, then sat back in his chair, opening his journal. "Alright. Where were we?"