Topthorn lies still. Joey is distressed.

Friedrich listens at Topthorn’s chest.

The others crowd around.

Er ist tot, verdammt nochmal. [He’s dead, for God’s sake.]

Rudi Kannst du nichts machen, mein Freund. [Nothing you can do, my friend.]

Joey is making movements that suggest he’s trying to revive Topthorn.

Friedrich We killed you.

Rudi He’s out of the war; that’s something.

Friedrich I was going to take you home … Noble, noble cavalry horse. First Siegfried, now you … Verdammt sei der Krieg. Verdammt sei der Scheiss-Kaiser. [Damn this war! Damn the fucking Kaiser!]

Karl Verdammt sei der Scheiss-Kaiser? [Damn the fucking Kaiser?!]

Suddenly an incoming shell lands nearby. Everybody reacts except Joey and Friedrich. Karl is badly hurt by shrapnel.

Another incoming shell. Then a new and terrible sound. A rumbling and a squeaking, a grating and a roaring.

Enter Schmidt, fleeing from the direction of the rumbling, squeaking, grating, roaring.

Schmidt Es kommt! Es kommt! [It’s coming! It’s coming!]

Exit Schmidt and all except Joey, Friedrich, Rudi.

Friedrich tries to drag Joey away, but Joey won’t budge from Topthorn.

Rudi tries to drag Friedrich away, but Friedrich doesn’t move. Exit Rudi.

Hanz Hurry! Hurry!

The terrible sound is getting closer. Joey turns his head to listen, and puts himself between it and Topthorn.

Friedrich deliberately approaches the tank. Its machine guns fire, hitting him.

Friedrich Little Gisa!

Friedrich dies.

Joey can’t believe it.

Joey returns to Topthorn as if to say ‘Get up!’

Joey whinnies to Topthorn as if to say ‘Get up and let’s get out of here!’

Then the rumbling, squeaking starts up again, getting louder, and louder …

Joey stands guard over Topthorn.

A British tank bursts into view and rolls towards them.

Joey flinches and retreats a few steps, then returns to Topthorn, and faces the tank.

There’s a stand-off.

Joey doesn’t budge.

The tank advances.

Joey doesn’t budge.

The tank’s gun is brought to bear on Joey.

Joey flees.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Joey’s night. End of October into the beginning of November 1918.

For the first time ever in his life, Joey’s alone …

He runs.

He crosses a river.

He gallops through a farmyard.

He jumps fences. He jumps ditches.

He clatters through a deserted village.

He finds a stream. He drinks.

Night comes. He dozes standing up.

He’s woken by a white flare.

A machine gun chatters into life.

Joey runs again, in the dark.

He stumbles.

He runs into barbed wire.

He screams.

His efforts to free himself worsen his injuries.

Eventually, he breaks free.

He’s limping, in pain.

A battle starts up next to him in the dark.

He tries to limp away from it, but it breaks out in that direction, too.

Every way he tries to limp, the battle breaks out.

He’s in the middle of it, with nowhere to run.

Joey stands still. Above and around him tracer flickers; lines of red and white and yellow and green. All around him are muzzle flashes, and the flares of explosions.