My Life

My Life - Oswald Mosleywere unsuccessful; the old horse was nearly always lame and soon broke downcompletely. His name was Peter Simple, and I was much attached to him.There were some outstanding horsemen at the R.M.C., but I was never among the bestof them, and had nothing like the capacity for handling horses of my younger brotherTed, who later entered the 1st Royal Dragoons and became an instructor at WeedonCavalry School. Riding is largely a matter of hands, and mine were better with thesword or in flying early aircraft—an experience near to riding—in which they mayhave saved my life in my last crash.The best among these young masters of horsemanship was with me at the Curraghwhen we joined our respective regiments. I knew him well and liked him, but mustadmit that I never performed with him a feat which he later ascribed to me. It was acase of memory transferring experience from one character to another, which canhappen easily when some among many afterwards become well known. It can happenfor good or ill; we can easily in legend acquire both merit and demerit we do notdeserve. On this occasion I would gladly have accepted a compliment which I had inno way earned; in fact, on this embarrassing occasion I am ashamed to say I didaccept it. It was awkward to know what else to do. Not long ago at the Hotel Russellin Dublin I was warmly greeted by this Sandhurst friend, who was surrounded by aconsiderable company. In introducing me he described an epic ride by moonlight wehad once made together from the Curragh to his country house; a considerabledistance across country taking all obstacles as they came. Of course he had done it; hewas a most daring and accomplished horseman. What he had forgotten was that hiscompanion was not me but A. N. Other; some other young officer from the Curragh.My dilemma was whether to deny it was me, and spoil his generous story—or to wearthe laurel wreath I had not won. I blushed in silence.At Sandhurst horses in one sport or another claimed most of my attention. Our workhours at that time were not long or strenuous, apart from arduous early parades. Assummer came I began to play polo, and showed enough early promise to get into ourSandhurst polo team, though I was a complete novice and never continued the gamelong enough to become good at it. I started again soon after the war, but parliamentaryduties and general political work made it impossible in my view to continue eitherhunting or polo. However, polo lasted long enough to cause me my only bit of troubleduring my time at Sandhurst.The background was a certain state of feud, almost of gang war in an exuberant heartyfashion between many of my friends and various other groups of cadets. Thealignment was by no means simply between cavalry cadets and the rest, althoughmany of us were destined for the cavalry or similar regiments. Most of the scrappingwas between gang and gang. There had recently been something of this kind in a tearoomof which our friends were inclined to disapprove. I had not been much involved,but shortly afterwards a few of us were observed in a corridor by a considerablenumber who regarded themselves as affronted by this or similar incidents. A rush likea rugger scrum brought us to the ground, but we were quickly rescued by other friendswho were close at hand. I then invited any of our assailants to an individual fight,which was not the prevailing habit. My rather provocative challenge in the heat of themoment was soon accepted, and a large boy was produced from their side who was afamiliar figure at the end of the rope in the R.M.C. tug-of-war team. He was certainly36 of 424