Free Wynne's War by Aaron Gwyn Page A

the branch from the trunk. He walked back toward the corral, stripping the smaller branches from the limb, whittling himself a seven-foot switch. The bearded soldier was back with the T-shirt, and Russell thanked the man and began to rip the shirt to shreds. The man said his name was Pike, and the three of them shook hands. When you spoke to him, he turned his head slightly and put his left ear forward, as though he might be deaf in the other. Russell cut a pennant-shaped strip of cloth from Pike’s shirt, and splitting the narrower end of the switch, wedged the fabric into the stick. He cut another piece of the shirt and used it to secure the makeshift flag, then took the switch by its thicker end and popped it in the air. He swiped it back and forth several more times and, nodding, approached the corral.
    He took his time with her. Anyone could see. How he’d talk to the filly and stop to rub his hand down her neck, how she’d gentle at his touch. He never seemed like he was in a hurry about any of it. He never seemed to get mad. If the horse did what he wanted her to do, he’d pet and rub on her, and if the horse didn’t, he’d work her until she could do it. He was using the switch and flag now, jerking the red scrap of fabric back and forth until the horse began to circle away from it—counterclockwise again—touching the horse’s flank with the end of the switch, just the slightest touch, holding the lead in his other hand. He’d bring her a full revolution and then he’d bring her another, and right when her ears began to twitch, he’d stop and pet the horse and tell her she was doing good. Then back to work with the flag, jerking it back and forth until she started stepping, petting her down afterward, taking the fear out of her, until the horse just stood while he moved the flag and he could touch and pet her with it. Then he’d swap the lead and switch to opposite hands and work the other side: everything you did on one side you had to do with the other.
    When he turned back to look at Wheels and Pike, two more Green Berets were standing alongside them, arms crossed to their chests, watching. Russell walked over, leaned the switch against one of the corral panels, and approached the horse with just the lead.
    He began by looping the rope around the filly’s left front leg, taking the rope in both hands and running it along the inside of the heel and pastern, up past the chestnut and forearm, and then back down. The horse watched all of this as though curious. She leaned her head down and sniffed his jacket and then nuzzled his neck. Russell pushed her away very gently, swung the lead line over her back, and caught it under her barrel, then tightened the rope around her, right where the saddle’s cinch would be, snugging the rope against her coat, then flipped the lead farther down the horse’s loin to where the back cinch would tighten, all the way to her flank, then down her rear legs. At this the horse sprung suddenly forward, and she began to circle counterclockwise, faster than she’d done before. Russell allowed her to trot and then he pulled up on the lead and straightened her back out.
    â€œFound your trouble spot, didn’t you?” Wheels said.
    â€œYeah,” said Russell, and then went right back to it. He flipped the rope over her back, caught it underneath, worked down to her flank, and then once again down her hind legs. This time, when the filly began to move, he kept a hold on her with the loop of lead around her croup and barrel, the left hand still close to her nose where the line attached to her halter. He turned with her, one hand gripping the lead under her nose and the other gripping the loop he’d made at her flank, as though swinging the horse on the end of the rope as a father swings his child by the arms. He let her carry the rope, controlling her with his left hand at the halter, and they went round and round: