When the end of the war did come at last, a little while later, it came swiftly, almost unexpectedly. Albert came into my stable to tell me, five minutes time and it'll all be finished, Joey, and we can go home, home to the farm. How do you like that? One drizzling morning, Sergeant Thunder paraded the men in the yard and Major Martin announced the re-embarkation plans. So, with any luck, he said as he finished, we should get you all home by Christmas, as we hoped. Permission to speak, sir, Sergeant Thunder said. It's about the horses, sir. There's been talk. The men was wondering, I was wondering. I think the men would like to know what's going to happen with the horses, sir. We will be taking them home with us, won't we, sir? Major Martin shifted his feet. I'm afraid the horses will be staying in France, Sergeant. Yes, sir. You'll not like what I have to say, the Major said. But the horses here are, as you know, either sick or wounded, or they have been. They're not in the best of shape. It is not considered worthwhile to transport them back home. My orders are to hold a horse sale here, in this courtyard, tomorrow afternoon. There was an air of conspiracy abroad in the yard next morning. Huddled groups of men stood about, their collars turned up against the rain, voices low and earnest. Sergeant Thunder was with them. He carried a small tin box, which was being passed from one to the other, and I heard the clink of coins as they were dropped in. I'd been fed and watered and groomed so hard that my winter coat gleamed. I watched from my stable as the others were led out and sold off, one by one. I was the last out. Albert walked me about in a full circle, bringing me to a standstill. The crowd all around was a sea of craggy faces. Among them I spotted Sergeant Thunder, and with him, all the soldiers who'd looked after us, anxiously watching. The bidding began. I was much in demand. The price rose swiftly, until there seemed to be only two bidders left. At twenty-five pounds, twenty-six. At twenty-seven, twenty-seven I bid. Any more, please. It's against the sergeant there. At twenty-seven. Any more, sergeant? But Sergeant Thunder was shaking his head. Oh, God, no, I heard Albert whisper. Let it not be him. That man's been buying all morning. He's the horse butcher from Combrai. Please, God, no. I'm selling, then, for twenty-seven pounds to Mr. Leopard from Combrai. Going, going. Vingt-huit. Vingt-huit. Twenty-eight. I saw a white-haired old man shuffling slowly forward through the crowd, leaning heavily on his stick. I am bidding you twenty-eight of your English pounds, said the old man, and I shall continue to bid for as long as I have to. Everyone, the crowd, the auctioneer, had been stunned. There was some confusion and some delay before he brought his hammer down, and I was sold. The auction was over. Sergeant Thunder and the soldiers were gathered in a dejected huddle. I saw the old man making his way slowly across the courtyard towards them. After they'd talked for a while, the old man took hold of Sergeant Thunder's arm, and together they crossed the yard towards us. All the soldiers came with them. I love monsieur, said the old man to Albert. You are Albert Nathacott, Narracott, they tell me. Your friends tell me also that it was you who trained this horse to be a farm horse, worked with him on your farm in England, c'est vrai? And then you came here to France, became a soldier just to find him? You are old friends? Well, your horse and me, we are also old friends.