Page 7 of All We Carry Home

One I’d had my eye on for almost a year.

The one I’d helped bring into the world. Memories of that little colt’s birth—and the captain who’d helped me—had been the lifeline to help me through the worst days of all, my time in the Pacific Theatre during our most desperate hours.

After Japan’s surrender last August, I’d remained stationed in Manila to help with the demobilization efforts and treat the soldiers who were too wounded to return home. All the while, I’d been corresponding with every contact I could to learn of Mira and Phantom’s whereabouts. The records surrounding the horses of Hostau were unreliable. I learned Phantom had been shipped stateside, due to be auctioned in Front Royal.

Mira, on the other hand, had seemingly vanished.

Gramps’s letters had grown more dire in the past few months, and he’d confessed that the farm was not what it had once been. We needed horses to train and sell. He’d specialized in showing Arabians, and I knew that if we had Phantom at Birkstrom Ranch, we’d be unstoppable.

Upon my discharge a few weeks ago, I’d taken a global detour to German bases and French ports to look for Mira. I ran out of favors and time and hopped on a ship to Virginia, where I prayed I had enough in my pocket to bring this colt home and unlock a future for Gramps’s farm.

It had been strange to be back in Kötzting without the men of the 42nd, most of whom had been discharged in 1945. Captain Hayes had been an unexpected complication to my first trip to Kötzting. Unlike so many of my fellow nurses throughout the war, I’d never dated any of the GIs. It was all in good fun, they’d said. A healthy distraction among so much darkness. Warren Hayes was the first and only man who’d made me reconsider my rule.

Perhaps it was for the best, though, that we didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. He’d never come back to the hospital once he’d been pulled away. Maybe it was better this way, easier to live with a regret than a mistake.

What if he’d asked to write me? How would I have explained that I couldn’t be involved beyond Kötzting? There was no future with me.

Phantom was all that mattered now anyway.

“Okay, ladies and gents, this horse here is a real special one.” The booming auctioneer’s voice echoed. “He’s the son of the renowned Polish-bred Arabian stallion Wiraz and the mare Mira. As we’ve said before, folks, there weren’t many Arabians to survive the pillaging of Janów Podlaski during the Soviet occupation . . .”

The words faded away at the clattering of hooves on the wooden platform.

The young newborn of less than a year ago had grown tall, his coat a unique mix of dark gray, light gray, and a splash of chestnut-red coloring down his right shoulder—the mark of a warrior. He was big for a yearling—nearly full-grown and taller than most Arabians. His black nostrils flared and drew in the unique smells of the auction arena and hundreds of onlookers.

My heart froze, and I felt the awe of the crowd in the hushed moment of his arrival.

And then the stillness was shattered. Phantom struck at his handler with his front hoof. The tall man jumped out of the way, and in his moment of distraction, the horse bit his arm.

“Oh, that has to hurt.” The auctioneer’s deep voice held a grimace to it. “But I’m sure it’s just a sign of that classic Arabian spunk. Let’s start the bidding, shall we? Do I hear $100?”

I lifted my number. Apparently, so did another half dozen individuals.

“$100! $200! $300!”

I raised the paper number again.

A few bidders dropped out after $500, and then a few more dropped out after Phantom circled and bit the handler again. The handler limped away, passing the horse to a fresh victim.

What had happened to this poor colt? His eyes were wild, his body tense. The voyage to the States was long, and God knows the soldiers who’d transported him weren’t all horse experts. Had he been mishandled? Despite the soldiers still using the cavalry name in battle, their horses had turned into mechanized Jeeps and tanks. Though some were still true horsemen at heart.

I wondered where Warren and his men were these days. If life after the ceasefire had treated them well. He’d promised to look after Mira and Phantom, but I’d heard that he and his men had been discharged not long after Phantom was born. I knew well that our hands were tied in the Army, and I only hoped he’d somehow found Mira.

“$1,500!” the auctioneer bellowed. “Now we’re talking.”

No, no, no. I only had $2,000 to my name. It was everything Gramps and I had scraped together, all we could possibly stake on this stallion to save the farm. I’d hardly made $1,000 a year during my time in the war and had mailed every cent to Gramps.

I held up my number.

“Back to the bidder over here,” the auctioneer said to me. “For $1,600. What about you, sir?” He pivoted on the podium to face the other bidder, who was buried in the crowd and hidden from my view.

His number lifted into the air in agreement.

“$1,700,” the auctioneer trumpeted.

I raised mine again, sweat beading on my forehead and my chest tightening. No, please. I needed this. I needed him.

Phantom whinnied and stomped as the handler led him off the platform and back to the stalls. As he faded from my view, so did any hope of seeing him again. The last of my bidding was nigh, and with a deep, stabbing pain in my gut, I knew how this would end.