1: Sacrifice

        The black and white environment stretched as far as Cpl. Deacon could see. The dark, lifeless trees littering the German forest gave the vast battlefield a winter feel to it, while the sky was white as the snow underneath the jeep's tires. The birds in front of the approaching load flew this way and that, clearly disturbed by the noisy entree the German automobile was giving.

        It wouldn't be exaggerating if Deacon said the past week had been the worst of his life. After getting captured by Nazi's and escaping with a ragtag group of fellow American soldiers, including his best friend Gunderson, him and his team had undergone many hardships from the unforgiving winter forest. Frostbite and starvation were some of their least concerning problems, all attention going to the fact they were being shot at almost all the time. They had lost many friends, including Gunderson, but still remained determined to return home.

        Cpl. Deacon Greer is a religious man; even though he had been captured and thrown into this mess, he remained faithful in his Mormon religion. The bible he had always kept in his left shirt pocket was still there, along with a picture of his wife he so desperately missed. Both of those things granted him comfort, and a temporary relief from all the trauma the recent days had inflicted upon him.

        Now, after some research and a short interrogation, they knew their allies were just through this Nazi camp and on the other side of the battlefield; they were headed there now. With a hijacked German jeep and Nazi uniforms, the plan was to go unnoticed.

        "It really is a beautiful country," Deacon said, trying in vain to lighten the mood. He had been here on his Mission, and had grown attatched to its beauty. With a flick to his oversized helmet, he shifted his view from the road ahead to his comrade sitting beside him.

        Pvt. Gould didn't say anything, keeping his unmoving, bruised and beaten face focused on the road ahead. Deacon didn't blame him; they were going into the heart of the enemy's camp, after all. The chances of survival were slim. Steven Gould was a Field Medic, evident by the red cross on the helmet that obscured most of his face. He was an Aetheist, so the Private and Corporal haven't been the best of friends throughout their hardships, but they were gradually warming up to eachother.

        One of the jeep's many jostles from the rough terrain caused a groan from the back.

        Deacon looked back to see a wounded Winley, the Brit still holding on to his bandaged and bloody leg. He was grimacing, the white teeth shining distinctly through his gentlemanly mustache.

        "You okay back there?" Deacon asked.

        With a grunt of pain, the British pilot replied, "Let's get to that bloody American camp and find out; I'm no medic so I wouldn't know." Deacon nodded and looked back at the snowy, white road. "I've had enough of this Hellhole." Winley spat over the rustling jeep.

        Winley was a British pilot who had crashed deep in the German winterland. Luckily, the unlikely band of American soldiers had found him before the Germans. They discovered he carried vital intel about the Nazi's next move, and now, after a couple firefights and a bullet to the knee, they were almost home, and in safety.

        That was when their destination came into view. The gray camp was filled with tents, soldiers, and other trucks driving to their own destination. A German flag was waving over the busy camp, and there were many voices at once, talking and shouting in the foreign language Deacon knew. A group of German guards halted the jeep's progress, weapons in hand. There was a cross section, with a sign pointing out that the right led to the battlefield, and the left led to the hospital tents.

        "Remember," Deacon almost whispered. "Let me do the talking." With their German disguises concealing their true identities, getting in would be easy.

        Gould nodded, his dark brown eyes plastered ahead. They both knew getting out was going to be hard.

        One of the German guards approached Deacon with a gloved hand upraised.

        "Halt, Soldaten! Wo wollen Sie hin?"

        Knowing what he was asking, the American soldier responded. "Wir haben einen verwundeten Soldaten." The guard looked over the Corporal's soldier and, sure enough, discovered a wounded soldier clutching his bloodied leg in pain. "Wo ist das nächste Krankenhaus Zelt?"

        The German nodded and pointed the way to the hospital tents to aid their seemingly-Nazi woundee. With horror, Deacon realized they were in the exact opposite direction of where they were supposed to go; the battlefield, where they would rendezvous with the American forces.

        Keeping his cool, Deacon responded. "Danke. Wir werden uns auf den Weg machen."

        The guard nodded, and waved his hand in the air, signaling the other guards to disperse. "Dispersions! Sie sind einer von uns!" He shouted. The Germans left the truck, clearly relieved they could leave. However, the main guard remained, and went over to Gould.

        "Sind Sie nicht ein Arzt?" he asked casually with a smile as he leaned on the jeep's side.

        Deacon's blood ran cold as Gould sat, dumbfounded. The Private couldn't speak German at all. Gould blinked up at the German, quietly stammering. "..ja" he finally squeaked.

        If the guard noticed the Private's stammering, he didn't show it as he nodded his head. "Ah. Mein Vater war auch ein Feld Sanitäter! Haben Sie eine lange Linie von Soldaten auf Ihrer Familie?"

        Gould was stumped as he stared up at the officer, unsure what to say. He certainly wasn't going to get out of this one by sheer luck.

        The guard started to get a little suspicious, backing off of the truck. Thinking quickly, Deacon slammed on the driving wheel in fake anger.

        "Verdammt!" He cursed. The German guard instantly walked away from Gould, who breathed a sigh of relief.

        "Was?" He asked as he neared Deacon.

        "Dieser verdammte Auto im Schlamm stecken!" Deacon spat, trying his best to act angry. He put his feet on the brake and gas to emphasize his false point while mud and snow flew up from the jeep's back tires, feigning stuck.

        "Warten." The guard waved his arms in the air, shouting for some helpers. Five or so Germans walked over to help push the automobile out of the nonexistant trap.

        Deacon waited a couple seconds for all of them to be pushing hard enough to move the car, then slammed his foot on the gas. Mud and dirt flew into the faces of the German guards as they lurched forward, and landed face-down in the mud. By the time they lifted their muddy and wet faces off the cold ground, the truck, and its three occupants, were all speeding down the path towards American battle lines; the opposite way from where they said they would be going.

        "Aufstehen! Aufstehen!" The German guards were instantly up and drawing their weapons. "Jeder!" The main guard shouted over the commotion of the camp. "Das Auto! ZERSTÖRE ES!"

        Deacon could hear the order of attack in the distance, which was answered with gun shots being fired at the jeep. Most missed, although some where getting very close to them. One whipped into the right-side mirror, sparks flying off from where it hit as it took the mirror with it. Another was so close to Deacon's head he heard the high-pitched shriek of the bullet whizzing by.

        The rough terrain under the truck jostled it side to side, making the wounded pilot in the back cry out and grip the side of the truck for dear life. His leg was bleeding profusely now, the bandages staining dark red with fresh blood. Deacon's right foot was pushing all the way down on the gas pedal as more gun shots and bullets flying past them made their presence known. Gould hooked his leg into the seat hole to keep from falling and cocked his M1 Garand. He knelt up from his seat and started firing back, the sound deafening to Deacon's ears.

        The wave of bullets didn't cease, though, as an explosion of dirt and snow a couple yards away showered the German truck's occupants.

        "They have mortars!'" Gould yelled over the chaos around them.

        "You've gotta be kidding me!" Deacon yelped as another GrW 34 shot hit home, a lot closer this time. The entire car shuttered as more dirt showered on the occupants of the truck, courtesy of the wicked 81.4 cal. explosive smacking into the ground.

        With a couple more shots from his Garand, Gould sat back down and fastened his seatbelt as the jeep sped down the dirt path towards the battlefield. After a couple more seconds of bullets flying around them, mortars firing, and Winley groaning, the white plain of the battlefield finally reached their eyes.

        Deacon hurridly whipped out a white flag as they sped onto the flat of the battleground and waved it above his head, hoping the Americans would get the signal. A couple more mortar shots and they were in the middle of the white flat. Deacon kept waving the fabric above his head when a mortar strike hit a couple feet away.

        The truck jerked to the left, and Deacon lost control. It spun on its wheels for a couple fateful seconds, and Deacon prayed they wouldn't be upturned. It was for naught, though, and the truck flipped over on its side, spilling the three soldiers out onto the snow.

        Pain exploded in the Corporal's head as it slammed into the ice. He heard a crack as his vision blurred, and his thoughts became foggy. More gun shots were erupting from the German side, and Deacon flinched as one hit a couple inches from his face. He clumsily stumbled back to the cover of the turned car and discovered his comrades waiting for him. Now, the Americans were fighting back, shooting RPG-7's and an assortment of different rifles at the offenders.

        "We're pinned," Gould panted, a bloody gash in his forehead. "We can't go anywhere. Although our boys are holding them off as much as they can, they got snipers.." A couple tears came to the Private's eyes as he sniffed. He looked up at the white sky overhead, and closed his eyes. "We're gonna die here, aren't we?"

        Deacon could feel a lump in his throat as he realized the situation they were in. Suddenly, he wasn't the battle-hardened, trained Corporal on duty anymore. He was just a young man, shivering in the snow, terrified. All forms of training, drilling, and experience left his being as he sniffed back some tears.

        Deacon briefly thought of how much they'd gone through. Getting captured, escaping, Gunderson's death, their friendship.. All to end here. In the very place he had went to for his Mission; something so sacred to him, with such good intentions. The very place he had grown so attached to, including the language he was so enthusiastic about. The place he had promised his wife he'd take to..

His wife..

       As realization came to light, Deacon's eyes widened as he figured out what was supposed to be done. All his training, all his praying, all his hardships had led up to this very moment. And he knew exactly what had to be done.

        "No," Deacon said. "No, we're not."

        "Open your eyes," Gould said, leaning in towards Deacon's face. Tear stained and bruised cheeks shaking, he said simply, "it's over."

        Deacon looked up at his friend with pure determination in his chocolate-brown eyes. "Not for you." He said.

        "What do you mean?"

        "Take Winley and get to American lines. They can help you guys; get you a ride home."

        Gould had some determination of his own as he said, "But you--"

        "I'll be right behind you," Deacon lied as he cocked his M1 Garand. "Go."

        Gould started to object, but not before Deacon yelled, "I said go!"

        Gould picked up Winley's arm, wrapped it around his shoulders, and ran as fast as he could toward American lines. Deacon was instantly up, too, but he wasn't running with them. He was directing fire back at the Nazis, every other bullet hitting home. In the distance, he saw a sniper getting ready to shoot his two friends. He was instantly aiming at the German sniper, and with a pull of his finger, the Nazi was dead, evident by the spray of dark red blood from his cranium.

        Gould noticed Deacon wasn't following, and stopped. "Deacon!" He yelled as he hustled back. A couple shots to his feet sent him scurrying back to the opposite direction, Winley groaning as he limped with him. Deacon quickly picked off the shooter, when an excruciating pain exploded in his left shoulder. He yelped and was on his back, his hand instantly holding the bleeding bullet hole. A couple more gunshots to the snow beside him sent him crawling back to the cover of the overturned jeep.

        When he was in safety, his breathing slowed as he examined the wound. Even though it felt like someone was sticking a white hot rod through his shoulder, it wouldn't be fatal. Acting on instinct, Deacon whipped out his army knife from his back pocket. Before he knew what he was doing himself, the knife was plunged into the wound. He gasped at the sharp pain that followed, but kept digging in his muscle to find the bullet. After a few seconds of agonizing pain, he found the bullet and flicked it out. He then put his bloody knife back in its holster, and sat, panting hard. After a couple seconds of pure exhaustion and pain, he weakly reached inside his left shirt pocket. When his bloody and frostbitten fingers closed around the familiar frame, he pulled it out. It was the black and white picture of his wife, her beautiful face smiling at the camera. So many memories flashed in his head as his left hand carrassed the bloodied shoulder. He smiled as he recalled how surprised she was when she discovered she was his first kiss; one of his most well-kept secrets was the fact he never kissed his wife until the wedding.

She would be proud if she were here.

        Deacon closed his eyes and kissed the wrinkled picture, a couple tears of joy flowing down his cheeks. "She would be proud," he said out loud. He then tucked the worn picture in his shirt pocket again.

        With that, he jumped up from his spot and spotted two snipers. He quickly dispatched them as another one fired at his friends. The German bullet missed, but the American one hit home. Deacon readied himself for another shot as a bullet whizzed into view.

        It seemed to go in slow motion as it embedded itself into Deacon's chest. He gave a brief gasp, and his entire world went silent. For a couple seconds, all he could feel was the burning pain in his chest and shoulder. He tried to ready his M1 Garand again, but was stopped with another bullet to his lung. His entire chest instantly felt like it had a cold void in the middle as his vision blurred. His legs buckled underneath him, leaving him gasping on his knees. Another bullet struck home in his stomach.

        As Deacon collapsed, he looked over his shoulder to see Gould and Winley, safely over American lines. The soldiers were aiding their wounded comrades, helping them up as the other troops fired back at the Germans. Through a bruised mouth, he smiled weakly. A small, thick, red stream started to flow from his smiling and bloody mouth.

She would be proud..

        Then blackness filled his vision, and all went numb. The last thing he heard was more gunshots, signaling another battle of World War 2.

Or, in the mind of Deacon, the Never-Ending War.

-  -  -

"Applejack! They're coming in!"

        Applejack shifted her eyes from her handy work to her younger sister, Applebloom. She was currently putting all her weight into blocking the doorway, her muscular legs straining with the effort as the door bucked in, threatening to topple over.

        The mare looked back at her big brother, hooves on his bleeding stomach. "Hang in there," she pleaded. Big Macintosh gave a nod, teeth still ground together as he winced.

        Applejack gave her big brother a tight hug before she dashed over to aid her sister. She leaned into the door, her powerful shoulders digging into the wooden door. Another buck from the other side of the door sent her younger sister back, although she was almost instantly in her spot again. Applejack could hear the loud voices outside, speaking in a foreign language. They sounded angry, which perfectly fit the language's nature.

        Applejack peered over her shoulder to look back at her wounded big brother, and was relieved to see his status. He had somehow gotten some bandages to cover the ugly wound, and thin, clear alcohol dripped from underneath the red-stained fabric. The bloody, large bullet layed to his side, clearly having been gouged out by the gory knife a couple inches away. Good; that at least meant the wound wasn't going to get infected.

        "Big Mac," she called over the chaos outside. "You alright?" Her red-coated companion nodded, his golden mane dirty and torn, his green eyes unfocused.

        She heard more yelling from outside when the door started to give way. With horror, she watched as the splintered wood snapped.

        "Oh, Faust!" Applebloom swore as she put more effort in her defense.

        That's when they heard a crash outside, followed by grunting. The bucking of the door ceased, and the yelling outside was replaced by screaming. The Apple family listened in surprise and fear as they heard punches, bucks, and kicks all connecting with the foes. Occasionally, a bone would crack. As the unseen onslaught continued, the sharp screams and yelps died down, replaced by the sounds of the dying; groaning, spitting, and whimpering.

        Applejack looked at both her sister and brother, a hoof raised up to her lips. Once they got the notion, the farm pony waited a couple more seconds before a feminine voice broke the silence.

        "Are ya gonna let me in?"

        Applejack sighed with relief as she recognized the voice as Rainbow Dash, her best friend. She opened the door just enough to let Rainbow in, but not enough to let Applebloom get a good look at the gory scene a couple feet away. The blood on her pegasus friend's hooves said it all: it was a slaughter.

        Applejack smiled at her friend, who grinned back. "Glad t' see ya, Rainbow. Have any news?"

        Dash's mood changed from happiness to anger. "The rations are almost out, and there isn't a lot to hunt for. The Bloficans have already taken most of the berries, nuts, and eggs. They're also eating meat. What kind of a pony does that?" She shuddered as she continued. "They raided one of our camps last night, too." She frowned at the last part. "The only food left is the apples, but.." she gave a quick gesture to the window. "You may wanna check your Garden again."

        "It's a farm," Applejack grunted as she made her way to the window, across the room. When she peered out, she was mortified.

        Rows and rows of hundreds of apple trees lined the large farmland, but none of them had the familiar, green, alive feel to them they did so long ago. Most were in horrible condition, branches, rotten apples and stumped limbs littering the patchy, uneven field. She gasped as she discovered only a couple trees in sight had apples flourishing on the branches, although slightly brown. It brought a lump to her throat to see her beloved farm like this.

        Without turning, her voice broke as she asked, "How could this happen?"

        "Bloficans," replied her cyan friend. "I saw it, too. Gassed down the entire place, then tried to get into your house to finish the job. They opened fire from outside, aiming at the weak spots of the exterior. Seems to have been effective, too." She gestured to Big Macintosh, who grunted in response.

        "Why didn't you come in earlier if you saw this happening?" Gasped Applebloom from behind.

        "They sent one of their pegasi to try and take me down when they saw me." Rainbow Dash grinned, showing a cracked tooth along with blood on her tongue. "Didn't work out so well for her, but she did slow me down."

        Applejack's eyes were rimmed with tears as she listened to the grim tale. This was her home; the very farm she had lived in and taken care of for decades. How could those Bloficans be so... heartless?

        She turned back to her friend, and nostalgia took her over. Both mares looked unrecognizable from eariler, happier times. Rainbow Dash's mane and tail were both pale and disheveled, the former having a head band holding it in place from avoiding the rainbow hairs to obscure her vision. She had dirt, bruises and cuts all over her cyan body, and her ribs were showing because of starvation. Her face was hollowed, her cheekbones growing more defined by the day.

        Applebloom, on the other hand, was even more different from her formal self. Years of aging and experience in the farm had transformed her from a giddy filly to a well-toned, battle hardened mare, with a heart as big as her muscles. Applejack felt it was only yesterday she was a filly, with those wide, enthusiastic orange eyes, desperately searching for Cutie Mark ideas. Those eyes could were now red-rimmed, and the enthusiasm was gone. Instead of a blank flank, Applebloom had the image of a golden apple on her rump. They were yet to figure out what it meant.

        Applejack sighed. So much had changed in the past decade. Just ten years ago, Equestria was the familiar, peaceful place she now missed so much. Back then, Ponyville was filled with good oppritunities, a great life, and perfect friends. The Cutie Mark Crusaders out causing mischief, her group of friends always getting in astonishingly consequental situations, and the sky being light blue in color all making up the Elysium-like town. What Applejack wouldn't give to see that color again..

        The thought of friends made her briefly think of Twilight Sparkle, and her eyes filled with tears. No, she thought. I shouldn't think about that. She still couldn't even bare to think about the events which took her friend away from her.

        Rainbow Dash's voice brought AJ out of her mini trance. "Stop thinking it's your fault," she said simply.

        Applejack blushed, knowing some of her sad thoughts had made their way to her facial features. "Sorry."

        Rainbow Dash looked down. "Listen, AJ, we all care for ya, and we know what happened to Twilight had nothing to do with you. Nobody could have stopped it." She looked up at her orange, earth pony friend. "But she did what she did for the greater good; sacrifices always have to be made now." She walked over to her friend and gave her a hug, which was graciously recieved. Rainbow Dash then whispered in her friend's ear.

"This is war, after all."