. . .
There were no reigns in the wagon. No grain or water for the horses. An empty coffin. Fitting, since they were still attached to their bridles, clearly left for dead. Billy did not think twice on the matter. Whether their previous owners were abandoned in desperation or currently floating in the post-war debris, their loss was now his gain.
So it goes.
Billy found some rope they were using as equipment to hoist up the corpses at the mines. He tied a fisherman’s knot around the hitch conjoining it with two bowlines, placing each one securely around the horses. Still, far from a carriage. A coffin on wheels. Death's chariot. Freedom was not certain, unless one finds sovereignty in death. It was time to find solace. It was time to find life. With a quick flick of the wrist they were off.
. . .
No grain. No water. The horses collapsed in a matter of minutes. Billy was so set on reaching a destination, he forgot the nothingness that encompassed him outstretched for miles and miles. The bombings defeated the Germans just as they defeated his chances of survival. The horses lied dead by their ropes, Billy was at the end of his.
So it goes…