He pulled up on the crest of the hill. Circling the big White. Tanks were thundering across the field toward their enemies, trying to push the line back. The stallion pawed the ground, revving to go. The other soldiers thought the horse was mentally unstable, but they thought the same about the rider. That’s what made them a perfect match. He knew the horse needed to be this way so it was ready for this particular line of work.
He pulled the horse around so it faced the fleeing tanks, and firmly stopped it. They watched, horse and rider as one, thinking, breathing, living, as one. The horse’s ears flicked back, waiting for the command. The rider leaned over so he was practically lying on the beast’s neck, his breath tickling its ear. Slowly squeezing his legs he whispered in the White’s ear, “Hep,” and they were gone.