Startled out of his fitful slumber in the saddle, our soldier cast his eyes quickly about…… and saw that it had stopped raining and that the horse had halted and they were standing in the middle of a courtyard… a courtyard he knew oh so well… the horse had somehow brought him to the Rhine Tavern!
Oh happy day!
It will be Oh so fabulous to get a drink with good company, good food and good drink!
But first, as a good soldier, he must take care of his horse, even one so runty as this one. It had done well and got him home, eventually. He heard more commotion from the stables,
no doubt where the sound that had woken him came from. Dismounting, he lead the horse into the stable, thru it’s arching door and his attention was drawn to a stall off to the right of the main corridor.
Inside the stall was a stable hand doing the lowliest chore of the stable, “Guten Abend mein Herr” spoke our soldier. The stable hand stood up from the hunched posture he had as he was trying to use a pitchfork and turned to look at our disheveled, wet, and filthy soldier. “And what can I due for Ewwww?”
, spoke the stable hand. Our soldier could see that the stable hand wore a French uniform, which until recently had a sergeants rank upon the sleeves….. hmmm, tread lightly here. “If you could, see to mein pferd mit fodder, hay und wasser, Bitte”. Reaching into his coin pocket, our soldier found himselve without. The French soldier processed a keen eye and caught it all.
“Meinnn Herr,” putting as much sarcasm in the Mein as any good French waiter could, “ I have no time for the animals of lowly Germanic peazants, especially such a runty and pitiful looking one such as zhat.”
Pointing across the corridor at another stall, the French man continued, “Zhat is a real horse, a French horse, a horse that is fit to carry a Marechal of France!” he said with much pride, “Your nag is only fit to carry filty rabble such as yourself, if eww wish feed, fodder and ze hay, down ze corridor and on the left, mesieur, otherwise, I must tend to ze Mareschals beloved Buttercup.”
With that, the French man picked up the slop bucket and headed outside to dump the contents. “Zo, I guess trading my horse for Buttercup is out of der Frage?” asked our poor soldier.
“Ha! I would not pay a franc for such a nag!”
“I’d take it” thought the soldier, and with a shrug, our dirty soldier headed down the corridor. He stopped and looked at the wash rack, then at the runty horse, sighed and tied the mare up so he could wash her down and clean her up. Bone tired and weary, he cleaned the animal without thinking, as he had learned the task long ago and could, (and was nearly) doing it in his sleep.
He was just about finished when a familiar voice called out and caused his body to reflexively snap to attention. “Where in the world have you been, Major?!”
“Mein Gott, Es ist Herr General!” thought our poor soldier
As the familiar figure of his commanding officer appeared coming up the corridor, wearing his usual British Guards Uniform, the General said, “Stand easy mein Wurger, and where in the world did you find such a curious mare as this?”
Knowing that the General had a keen eye for good horse flesh, the soldier was quite ashamed of the runty appearance of the horse. “She ist a gut mare fur Kinder, aber I prefer a fine Russian warhorse. But, she got me out of ein pickle, so, I must take care of her.”
The General walked down the right side of the horse, taking in her conformation, he rounded her head and started down her left side. He said, “You missed a fine bar-be-cue, but there may still be a few pieces left, you must che…..”, and he froze in mid-sentence.
Our soldier, the Major (or Der Wurger), looked up at his General, “Ich muss was, Herr General?” But he noticed the General gazing at the left rear haunch of the mare. “Was ist los Herr General?”
The General looked up at Der Wurger and said, “Major, did you just ride in from Russia? And if so, I’ll buy your mare?”
Well, maybe Der Wurgers luck was changing. The General had not even looked at the teeth of the horse yet. “Ja, ja, es war a long vay from Russia. Aber, Mein General, if you like diese Mare, I shall gladly present her to you as a spoil of war.”
“Are you sure Major, I’ll gladly pay you a 100 pounds”
Mein Gott, Herr General ist drunk, no, maybe crazy.“Nein, nein, she ist mein gift”.
“Very well, I shall take her to my tent, oh, by the way, you look a mess, get yourself cleaned up and look like and Officer”.
“Jawohl mein Herr!”
As the General lead the little mare out of the stable, Buttercup snorted and stamped. The little French former sergeant, having overheard the conversation, thought that the two Germans were truly insane. Ha! 100 pounds for such a puny horse.
Why, Buttercup would be worth ten times that amount! Oh, 1,000 pounds, what one could do with such money. The dirty one was a fool to turn down such a sum. He saluted the General as he came past, all the while trying to stifle a tremendous laugh that fought to burst forth from his mouth.
As tears started to well up in his eyes, his shoulders started to shake, the General was past and the French man got his last look at the little mare, at the left side of the little mare………..
Where his eyes became glued to the left haunch…..
And out by the front of the Rhine Tavern, a little bird danced in a lemon tree looking for a nice thorn to place a bug upon. The bird stopped and cocked his head toward the stables as an unearthly sound echoed forth.
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Others raced for the gaps between the French units that were ever so closing. 
