Author's Note

What? A new chapter!?

Well... Here it is...

I must say that it has been an exhausting 11 weeks. Between flying back to Deutschland and handling my grandmother's estate, attending the funeral of my uncle, then attending the funeral of not one close friend but two, and then having to fly back to America to deal with some work related issues, I think I can safely say that I'm tired. I am also, as of today, officially sick with some sort of head cold, which is just so very lovely during this time of year. My wife found out she was pregnant, and as I'm still coming to grips with the fact that I'm married this frightens the living shit out of me. I'm now paying for a new insurance policy as a result, and I've reworked all of our finances in preparation for the coming strain that being a parent will have on them. I've begun work upon a nursery and come this time next month, I'll have already spent some $20,000 dollars on the kid. But I suppose it's not so bad. After all, Rebbecca constantly reminds me that we're finally starting that family I keep asking for.

Anyways, about the story itself. I know it's not very exciting in terms of action, and there's a lot of stuff here devoted to the those Cats I introduced last chapter, but if it's any consolation I was going to do this from the start.
As for the foot notes - don't bother with them until after you've read the chapter - they're mainly a means for me to flesh out the original elements of my story (i.e. Cats) - otherwise you'll be sitting there for at least another 10 to 15 minutes. But if you're into that sort of thing, I won't stop you.

As it stands, we're coming towards the end of the third act, with only one more to go.

On a final note, those pictures I promised can be found at the bottom of the chapter. I know they aren't much, and they most likely won't justify taking so long, but I figured it was the thought that counts. After all, It's always nice to be able to share ones visions with others from time to time...

Don't expect another chapter any time soon - I'm still dealing with the fallout of so many things happening in my life at once. Give it another two or three months... Who knows, I might just get something done by then.

None Can Stay

An old short-haired Cat sat in his extra-plush chair and thought. His wizened features and greying hairs were set in a rather tense expression that, when coupled with his piercing green eyes gave the impression of a predator that might at any moment strike. To Claws Von Schlauhirn, Minister of the Interior, it was the most terrifying situation of his career. For the elder black and white speckled Cat who sat there and stared at him as if he were vermin was none other than the venerable Felis Von Sylvestris, Chancellor of the Cat Empire of Vorosh and its chief architect.

It had been through the efforts of then Prince Felis of the house of Sylvestris that the valley of Vorosh had been unified under the Von Steuernhetzer kingship. It had been von Sylvestris who would later cobble together the Manx River Confederacy[1] in order to curtail the rising influence of the Serval Republic and its liberal-democratic ideals to the surrounding kingdoms. Under his direction, Vorosh was industrialized to a scale that had never been achieved in any other nation before or since – his emphasis on metal manufacturing earned him the moniker ‘The Steel Prince’.

During the Great Schism of April[2], it had been Prince Felis who preserved the monarchy when he took command of the Army and had them gun down all two-thousand revolutionaries in what would be known as the Binkiesfeld Massacre; an international incident that would set the stage for the coming wars of unification. Under his guidance, the Voroshian military machine was modernized and equipped with state of the art rifles, field guns, wagons and artillery, the materials for which were a clever excuse to annex several surrounding kingdoms rich in mineral deposits.

After the infamous attempt made by Serval Republic agents at destroying the Empire’s primary munitions factory in Pußburg, it had been (then) Prime Minister Felis Von Sylvestris who issued the ‘Edict of Hegemony’. This watershed document, a tripartite declaration through which the modern Cat nation was born, mandated that the Manx River Confederacy be reorganized into the Empire of Vorosh, that King Monstro von Steuernhetzer of the Vorosh Valley Duchy was to be crowned Emperor of the new nation, and, finally, that a state of war existed between this new empire and the Serval Republic and its allies. Thus were the Unification Wars started – a series of brutal conflicts which spanned near a decade and which ultimately resulted in Voroshian victory.

While none could ever prove it, it was often whispered behind closed doors that the venerable Chancellor’s role in the formation of the empire went deeper than even this; that the great feline statesman more than likely staged the entire fiasco in order to promulgate his imperialist vision of a unified Cat nation and its greater sphere of influence in the world. Regardless of whether such rumors were true, what Claws Von Schlauhirn knew for a fact was that even at the ripe old age of ninety-two[3] Chancellor Sylvestris was still a power in and of himself – a force to be reckoned with, and one that only a fool would trifle with.

Unfortunately for the Minister of the Interior, it would seem that today he was the fool – if the look he was receiving from the old feline were any indication. Swallowing the lump in his throat the orange-haired Schlauhirn could only remain mute, never daring to break the oppressive silence that filled the room; the Chancellor was no doubt ruminating over this latest information, and to disturb his thoughts would only deepen the hole that Claws now found himself in. Of all the people to incur the wrath of the Kaiser’s right hand, it had to have been one of his dignitaries. It seemed that life was not looking kindly upon him today.

His thoughts were interrupted by the groaning squeak of the Chancellor’s luxurious chair as he leaned forwards, eyes set in a cold impassiveness, and asked in a silvery voice of gravel and iron, “You understand how… problematic this is, do you not?” Sweating profusely, Claws Von Schlauhirn could only nod his head, his mouth much too dry to allow for speech. It seemed the older Cat understood this as he continued, “Of course you do; you were a member of the diplomatic corps for well on five years – you understand completely why it is that I find myself struggling to come to grips with this.”

To punctuate his statement, the Chancellor all but slammed his hand upon the document in question – a formal contract between the Katzereich and the Empire of Equestria; partitioning access to ten-thousand modified rifles, four-hundred artillery pieces and at least forty Katzer battle-wagons with the necessary crew needed to operate them. Schlauhirn flinched under the withering glare of the Chancellor; such was the old cat’s displeasure so visible. Taking a moment to compose himself, Chancellor Sylvestris let loose a sigh that carried the weight of his years.

“I find it so very odd,” declared the aged feline, “that your dignitary, Verminstrauser - whom I specifically advised to offer the services of our Thirty-Second Battalion to the Pferdlanders - somehow wound up, instead, giving them enough rifles and cannons to bring the very sky crashing down.” Again, the demure Minister of the Interior held his tongue lest he interrupt the Chancellor’s train of thought. “But, of course, that paled in comparison to how surprised I was to learn that he’d also thrown four Katzergruppen[4] into the mix.” Again, Schlauhirn flinched; if the quiet calmness and pleasant undertones of the old war-cat’s voice were any indication, the Chancellor was furious!

And with legitimate reason – the Reich’s Realpolitik of peace through power and diplomacy through strength of arms had been the brainchild of Sylvestris, from a time before the unification, before even the consolidation of the Vorosh Valley; back when he’d been a young adviser to the Steuernhetzer court – and Voroshian Sturmwagens were the foundation upon which these policies stood. So it came as no surprise that the Chancellor found a problem with lending an entire tank battalion to a people whose government had made it very clear, on numerous occasions, how they felt about feline imperial affairs.

Casually lifting the document up to his face, the elder speckled cat carefully scrutinized it through his gold-rimmed bifocals – intent to find any sort of loophole or shoddy word-work, no doubt. With his superior’s gaze finally elsewhere, Claws Von Schlauhirn visibly relaxed his body. Not fifteen seconds in and he was once more spooked into a ramrod posture as the Chancellor glibly inquired, “Perhaps you’d care to comment on any of this?” Stumbling over his own thoughts, the fiery-furred feline could only stammer out, “Sir?”

A false air of friendliness tinged the old prince’s words as he elaborated, saying, “Come now, surely you wish to speak on Verminstrauser’s behalf, seeing, as it were, that he’s your responsibility,” Even with such a friendly tone and amiable smile, the threatening glint of steel behind his eyes seemed to intensify as he added, “after all, he was assigned as an envoy to the Pferdsreich[5] under your recommendation.” The threat was very clear – ‘This is your fault, and I demand not only an explanation but a solution as well, or else…’ Claws shuddered, not daring to think of the ‘or else’ part. He did, however, have a chance to correct this mess – something which was seldom ever given by the Chancellor.

Immediately his mind (and mouth) set off into action, running through every conceivable option available to him as he attempted to pull himself out of the hole he’d suddenly found himself within. “I beg your forgiveness sir,” he began, “it was not my intention that young Felix would take such liberties when dealing with the Equestrians; in retrospect I would point to my own prior insistence that he reach any sort of agreement during the negotiations.”

Yes, he had indeed pressured the rather impressionable and over-eager Verminstrauser with the necessity of reaching some form of accord with the ponies, but with that self-incriminating confession out of the way he was now free to build up his case without the specter of culpability hanging ever-ominously over his head. Gathering his wits about him, Minister Schlauhirn quickly expounded upon his advantage, saying, “However, if I might be so bold to say, the original parameters were too constricting under the current circumstances, and Verminstrauser was doubtlessly hard-pressed to find any other solution.”

His defense was interrupted by the Chancellor’s sharp-tongued reprisal as he declared, “KaN[6] has relayed to me a different story – claiming that Felix Von Verminstrauser brokered the contract from a position of strength, and that the Pferdlanders were want to do anything but accept his conditions; think twice before lying to me, Claws – I don’t take kindly to deception.” Going two shades whiter at having his first bluff called, the Minister of the Interior quickly reformulated his approach with the overt understanding that he was treading on thin ice that only continued to grower thinner.

“Right,” he began, “my apologies, I was merely trying to reach a broader point – what my envoy failed to achieve should not overshadow what he managed to accomplish, and what he accomplished far surpasses anything we could have possibly hoped for.” Again he was cut short by the Reichskanzler, who, with crinkled brow and squinting eyes, interjected, saying, “Ah, yes – it says here that he managed to procure direct mineralogical access to the Black Shoals on top of twelve-thousand square kilometers in the Fields of Plazz… a shame, really, that he would reach such an agreement now of all times.”

Physically reeling back as if he’d been struck, the Interior Minister’s mind was at a loss with trying to make sense of Von Sylvestris’ out of character assessment, and it seemed the only thing he could do was openly gawp at his superior and ask, “P-pardon me, sir – I don’t think I quite heard you correctly; I could have sworn that you had just said that it was a ‘pity’ that we’ve finally managed to wrest control of a major geopolitical objective.” Surely the Chancellor was joking? The Black Shoals had been a point of contention between the two empires for nearly three generations! With access to such a bounteous and readily extractable source of crude oil, the Reich could finally work towards fuel-oil production instead of relying upon less efficient coal powered applications.

Again, it seemed as if the Reichskanzler were observing a rather distasteful speck of dirt that had the audacity to appear in his office – a stare that Felis Von Sylvestris had no doubt perfected over the decades and used to such affect countless times before. This did nothing to bolster Minister Schlauhirn’s rapidly deteriorating nerve, even as the Chancellor responded. “I wonder, Claws,” he began, “if you have spoken with General Von Alderz within the past few days, hm?” A nearly indiscernible frown formed upon the orange cat’s face as he responded, “No, sir – I haven’t had the chance of speaking with the Chief of the General Staff for quite some time.” And with very good reason; Rimmel Von Alderz was a very abrasive individual when it came to matters of statecraft and diplomacy – something which had constantly brought the two of them into heated debate.

More than one time nasty words had been traded between the two as their differing ideas over how world politics should be handled came up against each other. As it stood, the less Claws Von Schlauhirn had to deal with that sabre rattling bully, the better. With a chuff the Chancellor drolly remarked, “Then, I suppose, you have not consulted with the latest field mandate[7] for this quarter, have you?” With a growing unease with where this conversation was leading, the Interior Minister hesitantly replied, “No, sir, I don’t believe I’ve gone over the latest quarterly yet.” Even as he slowly began to realize what a monumental faux-pas he’d just committed by admitting to such, he could not stop from inquiring, “Why do you bring it up?”

Instead of words, Chancellor Felis used action; gracefully he pulled open a desk drawer, deftly gliding his gnarled old paws along the various tabs and manila folders until he found what he was looking for. With a nimbleness that belied his age, the old cat plucked up a thin green folder with the word ‘Geheim!’ in red letters plastered across it. Casually, he slid the docket across the desk with a single command – “Read the first paragraph of page sixteen.” Slowly, Von Schlauhirn retrieved the booklet and proceeded to open it to the proscribed page, whereupon he perused the first block of text – a growing sense of discomfort accompanying every word he read.

‘Quarterly Field Mandate – Third Quarter of Year Six in the reign of Kaiser Patzschwelt Steuernhetzer’
‘Mandate – Expansion’
‘Current projections have been reconfigured to account for anomaly ‘Q’, unprecedented occurrence of a monster outside physical explanation. As of now, ‘Q’ has destabilized Equestrian political power-structure ~ (KaN report 2294717 enclosed within file folder 62.58.1472) ~ current models predict sustained and endemic withdrawal of all Pferdsreich officials, personnel, peace-keeping forces, etc. Regions of particular note include the Kotchekt Mountains, Pindrall Valley, the Black Shoals and a substantial range within the Fields of Plazz.’

A wave of nausea seemed to crash upon poor Claws at that moment, for it seemed that he had unintentionally placed a stumbling block in front of the Imperial expansion agenda. If so, then he had undoubtedly provided a means of preventing permanent acquisition to lands that, for all intents and purposes, were now litigiously under lease. While it made him physically ill to see just how far he’d put his metaphorical foot into it, he continued reading.

‘In the wake of such fortuitous events, this Quarter’s assembly has appointed the current Chief of the General Staff, his Lordship Rimmel Von Alderz, with the task of consolidating the Reich’s hold upon these outlying lands. As it stands, all further political actions are to be enacted in compliance to the overall goal set about by this assembly:’
‘ – Land Law Policy shall henceforth be lifted until further notice’
‘ – Immigration policy will be set to its Wartime level’
‘ – All third-party Commercial activities shall be halted until further notice’
‘ – Limited Military Assistance will be offered to all parties who request it, Regardless of current Policy’
‘ – Diplomatic Brokerages are not to involve the procurement or distribution of Land until further notice’
‘ – Civil Liberties will be curtailed to Wartime standards for the time being’
‘These rules are subject to change at any time whereupon this assembly deems it necessary to do so. Failure to comply with any and all portions of this Quarter’s mandate is punishable under the Imperial Wartime Crime Laws Act ~ (Manual 338297-B, Page 347, Section 8, Article J).

‘This Quarter’s hearings were presided over by his eminence, the esteemed Reichskanzler Felis Von Sylvestris, in lieu of the Kaiser.’

With a grimace, Claws Von Schlauhirn, Minster of the Interior, closed the booklet and laid it once more upon the Chancellor’s desk. This was it. He was really in for it now. To break a Field Mandate policy under the Wartime Crime Laws Act was a one way ticket to a work-camp in the frozen northern reaches of the Empire. All too clearly, he could see all of his shortcomings, and all too late. With a stern frown the Chancellor broke the silence in saying, “Had you actually partaken in your duty as Interior Minister[8] instead of acting like a kitten, you may have spared yourself such disgrace.”

Hanging his head in failure, Claws was certain that the next few words out of his superior’s mouth would be a death sentence. Instead, they were something altogether unexpected – “Now, normally under these circumstances I would have you carted off to Kältegjarn[9] and be done with you… however, your lack of political tact may have actually provided the Empire with a means to come out even further ahead than was hoped.” Like a drowning man clinging to a floating timber, Schlauhirn all but clung to the hope that Von Sylvestris’ next few words would save his life.

With a grunt of effort the old Chancellor arose from his grandiose leather chair and began slowly shuffling his way towards a file drawer on the far side of his office, along the way saying, “The Kaiser, in all of his youthful optimism, wishes to pursue – against the insistence of many, including myself – a proactively friendly policy of mutual cooperation with the Pferdsreich.” The malaise of his words spoke of more than a mere objection to the idea, but that hardly mattered to Claws. What Claws sought were the words that the Chancellor spoke next, saying, “And so it is that he has seen it fit to enact his program ahead of schedule, and he insists that someone of high standing in the Reichsverwaltung be sent to represent him along side this expeditionary force.”

The crafty old cat had laid the bait, and Claws Von Schlauhirn would be a fool not to take it. But still he held his tongue – to spring for the chance of redemption could very well lead into a deeper pit; acumen was needed. And so he waited for the Chancellor to make the offer himself, and with the full weight of his own insistence – anything else was likely a trap. Finally reaching the file cabinet, Chancellor Felis methodically combed through the hundreds of folders and files before finally coming across what he was searching for. Snatching up the folder, the cunning old cat made his way directly towards the minister of the Interior.

With a ruthless gleam of pure guile shining from behind his old emerald eyes, the Chancellor presented the folder to his underling with all the flourish of one who could not be happier to be rid of a particularly troublesome insect, as he announced, “Under much consideration, the Kaiser and I have come to the conclusion that there would be none more fully capable of the task than you.” And there it was; instead of removing the problem, they would redirect it elsewhere. Well, Claws Von Schlauhirn was not one to complain of such a thing, and with a barely restrained eagerness he all but yanked the docket from his superior’s grip.

As he opened the manila folder and began scanning through the various notes of litigation and bureaucratic double-speak, he absently listened to the Reichskanzler speak further on his new ‘assignment’. “Officially, you are to insure that the Reich is represented in a manner that will promote a better understanding between our two nations under the assumption that peaceful relations will commence shortly; however, I am also assigning another role for you: the role of military liaison and wartime correspondent.”

Roughly grabbing hold of Schlauhirn’s shoulder, the chancellor leaned in and, with a voice that spoke of great suffering were he to not be obeyed to the letter, he growled, “You are to insure that the Reich’s soldiers are properly supplied and maintained, and you will make sure that the Pferdlanders never acquire any of our state’s military secrets or technologies; do I make myself clear, Claws?” With a vigorous nodding of his head, Von Schlauhirn exclaimed, “Of course, Lord Chancellor – I will do as you've said!” Maintaining direct eye contact with the Chancellor, Claws could only hope that this visit was nearly done.

Finally relinquishing his vice-like hold upon the orange cat’s arm, Felis Von Sylvestris muttered, “Good… I will expect daily reports from you to be sent directly to me for evaluation; I will then relay them to the Kaiser and the General Staff, who will then decide what to do from there.” Sitting once more in his extravagant chair, the Chancellor massaged his forehead as he gruffly declared, “You are dismissed.” As if a fire had been lit beneath him, Claws all but leapt from the chair and bolted for the door, only to stop mid stride as the chancellor called out, “Oh, and Claws?” Quickly about-facing, the Minister of the Interior demurely asked, “Sir?” With a look of frigid permafrost, Chancellor Felis warned, “Do not fail the Reich again.” It was a warning that Von Schlauhirn took to heart as he replied, “Of course, Herr Chancellor.” And with that, he made for a hasty escape.

Felis shook his head in exasperation. Were he not the boy’s uncle, he had no doubts that Claws would have indeed become just another frozen corpse on the northern tundra. But, as the saying goes, ‘Blood is thicker than water’, and for the Reichskanzler it was stronger than steel. Regardless, he could rest easy knowing he hadn’t sent his dearest sister’s eldest son off to some death camp. Still, there was work to be done, and with that in mind he picked up the receiver from his personal telephone and began perfunctorily dialing up the necessary address.

After a few rings, the call was answered by a quiet yet regal voice as it asked, “Heer Reichskanzler, to what do I owe the pleasure of you calling me at this hour?” The Chancellor replied in a genuinely friendly voice saying, “I apologize for calling you so late at night, Admiral Drücker; I merely wished to inform you that 'Operation Feuerschein' has begun; Projekt Feuerlanze and the Feuersturm Protokoll have both been approved as per your request.” There was a slight pause before the Admiral calmly remarked, “I see.” Deciding to get to the point the Chancellor inquired, “How soon can your division be ready for deployment?” This time the Admiral’s response was quick – “I can have it in the air in no less than eight hours; most of the crews are on leave and will need to be gathered up – however I cannot say the same in regards to the Feuerlanze contingents.”

The Chancellor was quick to assure him, saying “Don’t worry about them – the Feuerlanze prototypes are already en-route and will be ready for final testing upon your arrival.” Taking a moment to process this information, the Admiral asked the next prudent question, “Where will they be deployed?” Briefly looking at his notes, the Reichskanzler answered, “A few kilometers outside of a small rural town by the name of Ponyville – topographical analysis points to an eighty-two percent probability that 'Q'’s projected path will intersect it within a span of no more than three days.” The Admiral quickly declared, “I can have the Fleet there by tomorrow morning.”

Agreeing with the proposed plan of action, the two of them then chatted for a minute or two before the Chancellor ended up saying, “I hope you understand, Hans, that no one outside of this call is to know about this – the Kaiser was adamant about that; insure that this remains clandestine until such time that the creature arrives.” After giving his assurance, the line went dead as Admiral Drücker ended the call. Slowly hanging up the receiver, Chancellor Felis had little time to reflect on his decisions, as another important document was brought to his desk by his secretary, Marlow. As it was said, there was still work to be done…

The sun had not yet broken over the horizon, and the cool desert air was still filled with the sounds of singing insects. A dry, gentle breeze carried with it the chill of the early morning as it traveled east. All of this was ignored, of course, by Oberst[10] Mittens Von Fleischtauben as he once more reviewed his latest orders of dispatch. The off-white canvas of his command tent only just made the chill of the morning bearable, and, were he less of a man, he would have complained as such. However that was the furthest thing from his mind at the current time. If what he was reading were to be believed, there were more important matters to concern over; the Reich was going to war.

Not in the conventional sense, of course. From a very young age, Mittens had been brought up under the assumption that the greatest war of his lifetime would undoubtedly be waged on Equestrian soil. And, while that was exactly what was happening, it was not the Ponies whom they would fight on said soil. Instead, it would appeared that his division was being brought to bear against that most fantastical creature which had been sewing havoc across the Pferdsreich over the week – a beast that many had named ‘Gho'Zra’ in an attempt to salve their fears. To the Oberst, it looked as if his men were being sent as a sacrificial lamb to some ancient god of the old days.

His ruminations were momentarily brought to a standstill by the ruffling of canvas as someone entered his personal command tent. Looking up from his dispatch, he was mildly surprised to see his reptilian orderly, Oberleutnant[11] Ghresht, standing before him – a characteristically self-satisfied smirk was plastered across his beaded lips, with a small line of ubiquitous slaver only adding to the image of a dangerous predator. In his typically unflappable manner, the towering Gila-Monster[12] declared in his squelching, guttural voice, “The train is being loaded; we depart in four hours.”

Rising from his battered chair, the Oberst replied, “Then we are on schedule – excellent.” Crossing the sandy floor of his quarters, he lovingly opened a pine-wood box, retrieving from it a glass decanter of crystal-clear liquid and a pair of gilded shot glasses. Uncorking the flask, the long-haired officer laconically poured a generous serving of the Himbeergeist into each glass, before promptly offering one up to his friend. With a deep chuckle, Kujek Ghresht took up the proffered drink between his wickedly curved talons. With a toast, the two soldiers in braid downed the schnapps, savoring the subtle taste of raspberries as it glided down their throats.

Handing the glass back to his old friend, Lieutenant Ghresht remarked, “I’ve never been to the land of the ponies before; I’d always heard that horse-meat was greasy.” This earned a genuine bout of laughter form the Oberst as he returned his private stock back to its container. The Gila-Monster pallet was legendary in its lack of discernment or scruples, yet it always surprised the tawny cat just how gregarious their diet could be. “We’re not being sent to sample the local flavor, Kujek,” he replied with a chuckle (the play on words likewise engendering a laugh from his reptilian friend), “we’re being dispatched to lend aid to them in their ‘time of need’.”

With a grunt, the Lieutenant idly scratched his hide – a few flakes of skin falling loose in the process; by the looks of it he was molting again. As Mittens went to and fro, gathering up all his belongings to be packed aboard his personal Pullman, he was stilled momentarily by his old friend’s next words. “You don’t agree with this.” It was not a question, and both of them knew it. Mittens Von Fleischtauben held no love for the Ponies – in fact, he utterly despised them to his very core. A lifetime of engendered hatred for a people who had wronged his kin a handful of generations before him bubbled to the surface of his consciousness as he reflected on his feelings.

Looking down at his boot-clad feet, the aging Cat could not stop the dark scowl that marred his face from arising as he replied, “Whether or not I agree with it is irrelevant; I am first and foremost a soldier above all other considerations – I shall follow orders regardless.” A typical response for a genteel officer, but a truer statement there could not have been made – he would follow his orders, and he would insure that all those under him would follow likewise; feelings could never factor into it.

Seemingly unsatisfied, the reptilian Oberleutnant further pressed, “And if you were not a soldier – would you do it even then?” The answer was immediate – “No; but as it were, I could never envision myself being anything but a soldier.” Packing the last of his articles into a large mahogany chest, the Colonel took a moment to straighten his uniform before casting a genuine smile towards his good friends, saying, “Now then, shall we go and inspect the troops?” With a mock salute, the towering lizard gave his trademark smirk as he jested, “By your leave, Herr Oberst.” The two comrades chuckled between themselves as they stepped out into the dry, cool desert air…

The border town of Bahnhof13 had always held significance to the Empire for its access to the Bahnstrecke, the only major train-line to connect the Empire of Vorosh to its Equestrian counterpart, making it the only conceivable staging point from which the theoretical invasion of the Pferdsreich could possibly be made. With such an important role, it was no wonder that the military infrastructure of Bahnhof was immense – three nearby forts, (housing six entire Storm battalions, two detachments of the Thirty-Eighth Regiment of Infantry - the so called Wüstenläufer Regiment - and a compliment of two Sturmwagen Groups) five armories, and an academy dedicated to the art of military engineering all called this area home.

Yet despite all of these formidable fixtures, the town itself could only be described as small, quiet, and unimpressive save for the massive Bahnstrecke train hub. For the standing population of some twelve hundred citizens, the recent influx of so many troops and so much supplies was almost surreal; for the first time in memory the coffee houses were overcrowded, the bars were packed, and the hotels were completely booked! Of course, with so many hot blooded young soldiers in one place and with little to do, the local crime rate had also risen rather significantly – the local constabulary had seen more detainment's in the past week than in the last twenty years!

However, the majority of those soldiers mustered to the small town were more content to keep to themselves. After all, who better to spend time with than their fellow brothers in arms? While the officers primarily booked the hotels and dining halls, the rank and file were perfectly content to mill about the massive complex of tents and lean-to's that had seemingly grown overnight along the outskirts of the frontier town. The boot-clad ground-pounders were also more inclined to mingle amongst their own for the obvious reason that there was already a sense of trust and solidarity that allowed for the sort of conversations that were be had amidst such company.

And the subject of choice was, of course, the imminent deployment into the lands of Equestria. This was no different for the group that Schlosser[15] Second Class Bart Zipfel now found himself in. For the last half hour, the mixed group of mechanics, soldiers and auxiliaries had been avidly debating the upcoming expedition from every possible vantage, and it did not look to be winding down any times soon. One of the higher ranking members (an Oberfeldwebel[16]) of their band, a middle-aged Calico with a terribly notched ear and bright yellow eyes, continued speaking; “All I’m saying is, once that lumbering lizard is taken care of, we’re undoubtedly going to finish what it started; the Pferdlanders have no standing army, no hard defenses, and a government buckling under the pressure – we’d be fools not to finally do what we should have done decades ago.”

Having no objections of his own to the Sergeant’s idea, Bart merely nodded his head in agreement. His argument was met with criticism, however, from the likes of an incredibly young Private with long, ghost-white fur, lively blue eyes and a great bushy tail that twitched with pent up irritation as he cried out, “That’s absolutely ridiculous – to honestly think that there are enough men here to attempt all out war against the Pferdsreich is asinine at best; they possess so much territory that we would be hard pressed to hold all of it!”

Before the older Cat could offer a rebuttal, another voice spoke up (this time belonging to a wiry-haired grey Manx with curled whiskers; the markings on his kettle-helm denoting him as a grenadier), “Being this close to winter, I’d have to say the kit has a point – winters in the Pferdsreich may not be particularly cold but they’re wet and muddy; the Sturmwagon’s would have a hard time keeping up with the rest of us.” A Pangolin[17] wearing a cook‘s smock pulled the cigarette he’d been smoking from his mouth and, with a gravely voice that still held the slight twinge of his foreign origins, gave his own two cents, saying, “Supply lines would be struggling to keep up the farther we pushed – we’d starve before Spring.”

The young mechanic was near taken aback by these objections – he had never thought of such things when it came to a theoretical war between the two superpowers; he’d just always assumed that the Reich would win such a conflict with ease because of its superior military institutions and history of martial prowess. To hear others say otherwise, and for them to offer up such solid reasons against a war was fascinating. Perhaps there was more to such a conflict than he had imagined. Dropping that train of thought, Zipfel focused once more on the conversation as the Calico Sergeant finally replied, “So then we stick around until spring as a ‘reconstruction force’ and then turn around and crush them.”

A gruff looking Toad18 with a cigar stub hanging from his lips literally lept to his feet in protest, crying out, “You speak like some mongrel dog; Dolchstoß[20] is the work of cowards!” He was not alone in that thought, for many of those involved in the conversation were equally affronted by the suggestion of such underhanded tactics. The young blue-eyed Private spoke up again, saying, “This is all nonsense anyway – we’ve all seen the papers; seen the news reels – it’s highly doubtful that anything we could muster would be enough to stop something like that.”

And just like that the nature of the conversation shifted. One man asked, “Is it true that one of the monarchs was killed?” Another whispered to his neighbor, “I had heard that it can fly.” Someone exclaimed, “They say that it came from the sea.” One of them wondered aloud, “Do you think there are others of its kind still out there?” Bart Zipfel, for his part, asked the most prevelant question on his mind; “What do you suppose it’s doing here – what does it want?” All around them, a dozen different conversations, from murmuring whispers to full blown shouting matches, manifested – it was a situation that had been occurring across the entire camp.

One particularly robust voice (belonging to a towering Maine Coon with a scar running down his left eye and coming to a stop at his jaw) cut through all the chattering noise as it asked, “What do you make of it all, Spitzer?” A deep and rather gritty voice responded in saying, “Equestria can burn down for all I care; I doubt I’d lose sleep over it.” Looking in the direction of everyone else, the Machinist was mildly surprised to see that the owner of the voice was a heavyset Destrier Pony[21]. While Bart had heard of such ex-patriot mercenaries, he had never seen one before. As he observed the horse, his eyes were immediately drawn to its flank.

Where the mark of his calling should normally have been found, there was instead a tattoo of the black catspaw22. Upon further observation, Schlosser Sekunde Klasse Zipfel took note of the Pferdlander’s docked tail and the black ribbons that were interwoven with his short-shaven mahogany mane. A leather harness spidered across his trunk, terminating into a Lafettegeschirr[23], leading young Bart to the conclusion that this was a heavy gunner. But it was the black iron cuirass with a grinning skull of sterling and intricate etchings that covered the pony’s chest which clearly denoted that this was a member of the elite Erste Panzergrenadierkompanie[24]!

A young Gila Monster that had apparently been sunning himself during the whole conversation chose that moment to speak up, saying, “I’d heard that for the right price you can order anything to eat in Kanterlotte[25],” With a languid scratch of his flame-colored belly, the sleepy reptile continued, “I think I’d like to find out what the flesh of a Manticore tastes like.” The Calico Seargant from the prior conversation tossed a tin can at the gluttonous lizard’s head before exasperatedly bemoaning, “You’re always thinking with your damned stomach, Trubek – try thinking with your brain for once.” In response the Gila Monster jokingly grumbled, “But if I did that you would be out of a job.” The whole group laughed at this.

After a few minutes of this back and forth, the scarred Maine Coon (who Bart would later learn was also an Oberstabsfeldwebel[26] of the Erste Panzergrenadierkompanie) further pressed his Equine comrade, “Come now, Spitzer, aren’t you even a little bit excited to be going back to your homeland?” With a snort, the expatriate pony responded, saying, “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t even be going back.” Before the big Cat could press further, a frantic looking Ferret[27] ran by, his appearance made comical as he attempted to pull his trousers up and his boots on at the same time , shouting for all to hear, “Oberst Mittens is coming for inspections!”

As if a switch had been thrown the entire camp became a flurry of activity as soldiers scrambled back and forth. Everywhere there was a mad dash to throw on uniforms, hide whatever illegal hooch there may have been, and, of course, the ubiquitous attempt to dispose of whatever dirty magazines and photos that were out in the open. Oberst Mittens had an infamously harsh reputation amongst his men, and anyone who had served under him before was well aware of how demanding he was when it came to the conduct of the units he commanded. Needless to say, if he was to be inspecting them, then they needed to make sure that nothing was left to chance.

It was unfortunate that one of the Jerry-rigged liquor stills was knocked over in the chaos. It was even more unfortunate that Oberst Mittens Von Fleischtauben, the man whose nickname behind closed doors was ‘Meatgrinder Mittens’, would choose that moment to appear. With deadpanned eyes and a slight hitch of his bushy brow, the Oberst observed the spilled whiskey as it flowed across the sandy ground, coming to a rest before his black polished boots. The massive Gila-Monster that stood behind the Oberst was visibly shaking with suppressed laughter – though, he was the only one to do so.

As if suddenly realizing who it was before them, the Sturmtrüppen Toad took a final puff of his cigar before tossing it to the ground and standing at attention. With a bellicose shout he roared, “Offizier am Feld!” As one the surrounding troops lept into formation as if their feet were aflame. Casting a clearly unimpressed look to his Orderly, the sharply dressed Oberst took a rather relaxed posture before saying in a rough voice, “At ease.” Walking down the line of soldiers, the Colonel took to inspecting each of them in a manner meant to instill an extreme amount of discomfort.

Near the end of the lineup, Bart Zipfel silently began to panic. In his haste to look presentable to the Colonel, he had forgotten his Machinist markings; he had no discernible rank or class on his person! His panic only increased as he witnessed the Oberst’s legendary ire as it manifested. Pointing at the white haired Private (who’s boots and shoulder straps were both unfortunately absent from his person), the Oberst demanded, “You, what is your name and rank?” The response was immediate as the Angora responded, “Sir, Plüschaar, Bubbi – Obergefreiter[28], Thirty-Eighth Light, Sir!”

Contorting his grizzled countenance in mock astonishment, the Oberst exclaimed, “Now that surprises me, because your obvious lack of Kragenpatten[29] would suggest to me that you are a Schütze[30] and thus lack the necessary rank to even be standing here!” To the young Plüschaar’s credit, he maintained his firm posture of attention as the berating Oberst literally towered over him and dressed him down with his viperous tongue. But when the Colonel demanded, “Where are your boots, soldier?” the façade of reticent calm was shattered by the young Cat’s wavering voice, his words tinged with the high pitched patina of duress as he responded, “Sir, I’m not certain, Sir!”

With a barking chuckle that sounded anything but jubilant, the Oberst gave a toothy grin that sent shivers of fear down most everyone’s spines as he rather smoothly announced, “Well, that is a problem – but one that I can easily fix.” The grin then fell from his face and was replaced with an even more terrifying glare as he all but hissed, “And I’ll start by docking your salary, reducing your rations and demoting you to Gefreiter[31] - Oberleutnant Ghresht!” The Oberst’s imposing reptilian orderly responded, “Yes, Sir?” Without missing a beat Oberst Mittens ordered, “See to it that Gefreiter Plüschaar here receives a new pair of boots.” With a smirk the Gila-Monster gave a salute before making his way to the provisions tent.

With a contemptible sniff the Oberst remarked to the now humiliated young soldier, “Let’s hope you have a better time of holding on to these than you did your last pair, Gefreiter – now get back in line.” As the thoroughly reprimanded young cat returned to the lineup, the Oberst once more continued down the line of soldiers, inspecting them with just as much detail as before. From his place at the end of the line, young Bart Zipfel could only quiver in panic at the thought of a similar ordeal directed towards him.

However, to Bart’s relief, the grizzled old war veteran stopped three men short of him to inspect the gargantuan Maine Coon with the scar running down his face. With a piercing stare that did little to phase the towering feline, the Oberst remarked, “Hermann Kühn – still alive I see, and an Oberstabsfeldwebel no less.” With a cordial nod, the giant of a cat replied, “Herr Oberst.” The air of tense formality suddenly vanished as the Oberst’s face transformed into a smirk before he asked in a facieses tone, “Good God, man, what the hell happened to your face?” With a waggish smile of his own, the Maine Coon replied, “A Boar got a hold of me in the Hügelland campaign[32].”

As he spoke, he pulled a leather cord from around his neck, revealing a massive Boar’s tooth pendant to the Oberst before continuing, “Ugly bastard didn’t come away from it nearly as well as I did.” With a guffaw the Oberst teasingly exclaimed, “I must say, though, that it’s a marked improvement over what you used to look like!” At this, both men broke into a fit of laughter (with a few braver souls cracking a smile at their exchange) before the larger of the two finally caught his breath and, with a massive smile, said “It looks like I’ll be serving under you again, Herr Oberst – a sign of things to come I’m sure.” With as much composure as he could muster, the old Colonel switched gears and asked, “Under which Division are you serving?”

The response from Hermann was quick, “All ten companies of the entire first Panzergrenadierabteilung division have been transferred to the Thirteenth Armored – my company has been assigned to Sturmgruppe four.” Just as rapid was the Oberst’s next question – “What about that ill-tempered ungulate[33] you were always prancing about with – still alive, I should hope?” The Oberstabsfeldwebel was succinct in answering, “Hauptmann[34] Spitzer is doing just fine, Herr Oberst – in fact I would dare to say that you can ask him yourself, as he is not but three meters to your right.”

Briefly looking to his left, Bart was only mildly unnerved to find that the Pferdlander – this Hauptmann Spitzer as he was apparently known as – was indeed standing at attention besides him, his large form both intimidating and strangely reassuring at the same time. It would seem that the Colonel was likewise reviewing the pony, for his next words were stiltedly directed towards him; “Herr Ross[35], I presume you are well?” To the quadruped’s credit, he did not show any outward signs of resentment at such an insult, and simply replied, “Yes, sir, I’m doing fine.” Seemingly pleased with the pony’s response, Oberst Mittens turned once more to Oberstabsfeldwebel Kühn, saying, “Alles gut, dann – I shall take my leave then; other soldiers to inspect, you know.”

As he began to remark one last time, the Oberst was interrupted by the return of his adjunct – a pair of new boots in hand. Baring his characteristic grin, Oberleutnant Ghresht approached the still shaken Gefreiter Plüschaar and, with a wet and gravelly voice that set the hairs of Bart’s neck on edge, announced, “Here are your new boots, son – let’s hope you can hold on to this pair better than you did the last one.” Letting loose a self-indulgent laugh as the young Angora cat received his boots, the great Gila-Monster gave a nod of recognition towards the Oberstabsfeldwebel as he returned once more to the Colonel’s side.

Taking the time to straighten his uniform, Oberst Mittens continued from where he had been interrupted, saying, “As I was about to say, I would suggest that you all begin breaking camp – departure takes place in four hours, and the Attaché from Purlin[36] should be here with the hour; we don’t want to make a poor impression for some petty bureaucrat to use as ammunition in next Quarter’s Finance Mandate.[37]” Again, the black-clad Toad bellowed, “Achtung!” as the Oberst purposely marched further down the camp in search of another group to inspect. When he finally disappeared from view, the trench coat wearing amphibian hollered “Rührt euch!”

Finally relaxing their stance, the majority of the group began at once to break down their tents and gather up their belongings in preparation for deployment. The only ones to do otherwise were those NCO’s and Officers who felt it prudent to discuss the matter amongst their selves. And as Schlosser Sekunde Klasse Bart Zipfel quickly found and applied his Kragenpatten before setting to work on his bunk kit, he surreptitiously listened in upon their conversation, all the while attempting to appear busy so as not to attract attention. Around him he could see that many others were doing likewise.

The conversation itself was rather interesting, to say the least. “He can’t possibly expect us to move out in just four hours – there are over four thousand men here, not including tanks and equipment!”, this from the grey haired Manx whose prosthetic leg[38] was a novelty to many present. The Sturmtrupper Toad – a new cigar already lit and situated loosely in his mouth – responded with his own concern, his words carried upon a wisp of gray smoke as he exclaimed, “I’m more concerned with whether or not the ponies have enough room for so many soldiers.” At this, Hauptmann Spitzer responded, “I wouldn’t worry about that; from what I can recall they’re more than willing to bend over backwards to accommodate complete and total strangers.” The twinge of disgust that laced his words was very pronounced.

A ferret with round-rimmed glasses (whom Bart was almost certain had not been amidst their group earlier) chose that moment to chime in, “Any idea on what we’re supposed to be doing over there?” With a shrug, Oberstabsfeldwebel Kühn hazarded a supposition by saying, “Monster hunting, if I were to take a guess.” With a hollow laugh a rather scraggly looking Horned Toad39 acerbically remarked, “Let’s be honest with each other here; we are no more likely to stop this creature than we are to turn back the Manx River – we are being sent to slow it down until such time that we are all dead.”

At this, the gruff looking Toad all but growled, “You live a charmed life, Zephaniah – it’s always wonderful to hear such encouragement emanating from the wellspring of optimism that is your mouth.” The Thorny Devil’s response was as swift as it was blunt – “I am a realist, Major[41] Lachespringer, and pragmatically speaking, we are being sent as fodder – a means to gauge the strength of our opponent before the military becomes fully invested.” The Major was irate as he exclaimed, “Isn’t it a little early to begin preaching such doom and gloom upon our heads when we have yet to even set off?!”

With one final drag, the Toad’s cigar was reduced to a stub before he heatedly tossed it to the ground, using his boot-clad foot to grind it into the sandy soil. With a curt nod the Toad excused himself from the group and left to go gather up his own belongings, but not without a backwards glare towards the Thorny Devil. Swiftly turning upon the Feldwebel, Hermann Kühn pertinently remarked, “You understand, of course, Herr Mög, that your words are little more than a great weight that most of us would rather do without.”

With a sagging sigh, the Feldwebel replied, “Leopold and I have our differences, and while I respect him for his courage and assertiveness, his optimistic view towards our current predicament can only lead to disaster.” By this time Bart felt that he had heard enough. So with a final once over, he hoisted his pack and headed towards his designated unit’s embarkation zone. It took him a good ten minutes of wandering, and once or twice he was certain that he’d gotten turned around at some point, but he eventually found what he was looking for; a massive steel beast bristling with guns and gleaming in the early morning sun’s rays.

Yes, for the young Schlosser it truly was a sight to behold. And standing around the imposing Stürmwagen were the other members of its crew – all in varying states of dress and overall wakefulness. Insuring that his crusher cap was placed upon his head, the young cat made for the metal machine and its occupants with a giddy hop in his step. His seemingly upbeat mood was instantly picked up by the tank’s driver – a lithe and wiry Sphynx by the name of Schmüllie Katzenkratz – who said as much when he asked, “You seem awfully happy this morning, Zipfel; any particular reason?” The tawny haired mechanic just smiled and said, “Just excited over the prospect of seeing her in action on the field.”

From around the other side of the vehicle came the familiar Shorthair form of the tank’s primary gunner, Frank Müller, as he pulled a cart full of Kak22[42] shells behind him. Noticing Bart’s presence, the silent shorthair gave a nod of recognition before continuing a little further towards the battle wagon’s front, whereupon he planted the cart and began the long and meticulous process of loading the shells into the magazine (and anywhere else that would fit them for that matter). Bart’s attention was soon arrested by an ungodly racket – as well as a few very colorful swearwords – coming from the aft side of the Sturmwagen as the lanky form of the crew’s Tankwart[43], Toni Längermann, came stumbling out of the coal hatch; his grey-and-white striped fur was all but black with soot.

With a languorous smile, the Scottish Fold greeted the mechanic with an enthusiastic wave, saying in quick succession, “Hallo, Bart – glad to see you made it – the coal’s been loaded on, and the furnace cleaned out; I’m going to rinse off – see you in a bit.” And before young Zipfel could even respond, he was off, racing towards the nearest bath house. With a shrug, Bart once more began to look around, intent on finding those members of the crew still unaccounted for. He quickly spotted Walter Fisk, the crew’s Ragdoll machine gunner, sleeping (as per the usual) in his preferred spot in the gunner’s pit[44]. He immediately accounted for three of the others as soon as he made his way around to the other side of the tank.

It seemed that Ernst Fänger (the crew’s Havana radio operator) had taken the short wave radio out of the crew compartment and was now fiddling with it for some unfathomable reason. Surrounding him on either side were the two sponson gunners (a pair of Tonkinese brothers by the name of Hirschel ‘Hirsch’ and Pipin ‘Pip’ Kügelbach), who, as per the usual, were whispering back and forth to one another – something that always put Bart on edge, considering the fact that the last time he’d had the misfortune of dealing with them was when they’d somehow inexplicably broken a leaf-spring and needed him to fix it before the Kommandant found out.

‘Speaking of whom…’ Now that he thought about it, there was one member of the crew whose absence was ostentatiously apparent. Walking up to the trio he began to open his mouth in questioning, only to be interrupted by a sharp curse as Fänger began to physically beat upon the radio console – the effect of which was simply a louder stream of static interference. As he began to speak again he was once more interposed upon, this time by Pipin, who noted, “Try setting the band frequency to three-hundred; you’re not trying to reach Purlin with this thing.” The rapidity with which Hirsch gave retort to his brother was nothing short of eerie – “Don’t be stupid; at three-hundred we’d be lucky to even get static – no – you should set the wavelength to five-fifty and raise the receiver up another meter.”

The two then began to bicker between each other in that unsettling murmur of theirs, all the while ignoring the poor Van trying to get his question through. Finally giving up, the young Schlosser decided to merely wait them out. After all – they couldn’t go on like this forever… could they? But it was the large-eared Havana of the group who would silence them as he calmly asked, “Is it conceivably possible for either of you morons to be quiet for five minutes?” As if to punctuate the question he gave one firm and final smack to the top of the radio console and as if by magic it suddenly came to life, filling the air with music[45] of all things!

With a collective cheer the three of them crowded closer around the transponder as the signal faded in and out. With eagerness all but dripping from his voice, Hirschel exclaimed, “Try and see if you can find the race!” To which his brother responded, “Nuts to that – I want to hear this week’s finance report!” But as both of them made a move to turn the dial, Ernst’s placid voice brought them to pause as he nonchalantly remarked, “It sure will be interesting watching you both try to explain to Kom’dant Stoßauge why it is that you both only have one hand remaining.” It was silently (and quickly) agreed between the two brothers that they were perfectly content with listening to music.

But on that note, Bart finally asked the question, “Speaking of whom, have any of you seen the Kommandant at all today?” While the two tiny Tonkinese physically jumped at the sudden sound of his voice, the Radio Operating Havana acted just a nonplussed as always, casually saying, “Knowing Ziggy, I’d say he’s more than likely in the close and personal company of some impressionable young lass.” Ignoring the sniggering of both brothers, the engine mechanic pressed for further clarification, asking, “So you’re saying that you haven’t seen him?” Sighing in exasperation, the brown cat sardonically answered, “Oh, I’ve seen him – just not within the last twenty-four hours.”

Grumbling over how there was no need to be so rude about it, Bart Zipfel decided that he might as well begin making last minute inspections of the boiler engine. As another song began to play on the radio[46], the young Van cat crawled into the tank’s interior (nearly tripping on Walter in the process) and began checking the various levers, dials and gauges. While the crew compartment wasn’t exactly spacious by any stretch of the word, it still allowed for seven to be seated in close quarters. He quickly came across Frank, who was currently wrestling with the overcomplicated shell conveyer system that had been forced upon them by the Munitions General[47] a few months ago.

Catching the gunner’s attention, he asked, “Need a hand with that?” With a quick nod and a grunt of ‘Hmhn’ as his only response, Müller pointed towards a radial ball bearing hanging loosely from one of the lower conveyor axles, demanding in his low and raspy voice, “Hold that there.” Doing as the gunner requested, Bart was quick to find that simply holding onto the greasy bearing was no easy task. With a few dozen swears shared between the two of them, they finally managed to secure the drive chain to the top runner wheel. All that remained was to insure that the device actually worked.

So, pulling a lever next to the assemblage, the two of them held their breath in anticipation. With a slight electric hum, the feed belt began to move… in the wrong direction. Pulling at his ears in frustration, it took all of Frank Müller’s self-control to not take a hammer to entire contraption! However that didn’t stop him from cursing up a storm, setting a new record for the longest Bart had ever heard the stoic feline speak. Demurely, Bart inquired, “Do you want me to help you fix it?” Running a paw down his face in disgust, the heavyset Shorthair rasped, “No – just need’s rewiring; I’ll do it myself.” Taking that as his queue to leave, Schlosser Zipfel did a final once over of the engine before scrabbling out of the escape hatch.

As Bart stuck his head out into the fresh morning air, he was met with the sight of Hirschel Kügelbach’s trouser-clad posterior as he struggled to lift himself out of the left sponson. Directly behind the baffled mechanic, on the rim of his own sponson, sat Pip; clenching his sides in a bout of uproarious cackling at his brother’s expense. Hirschel’s muffled voice could clearly be heard shouting from within the turret’s interior, “Pip’ – don’t be such a bastard; you’ve had your laugh, now help me out!” Trying and failing to suppress the mirth in his voice, the younger brother laughed and said, “Ja, hang on you big baby – I’ll get you out.”

Choosing to leave well enough alone, the red and white haired mechanic pulled himself from out of the crew hatch and slid down the side of the tank in a desperate bid to avoid further tempting fate (nothing ever went well when those two were involved). Landing deftly onto the dusty, sand-strewn ground, Zipfel was quick to move to the other side of the Sturmwagen – closer to the relative safety of Ernst. It seemed that both Schmullie and Toni (who was now back to his former Tabby coloration) had taken to sitting with Ernst whilst he had been busy in the tank; the three of them were now in the middle of a game of cards – a stack of notes[48] sat between them. As he crossed over to sit with them, he took note of the fact that Walter has apparently moved from the gunner’s pit to the gun mantlet at some point, he didn’t know when though.

Contenting himself to sit down and observe their game, Bart finally took the time to simply relax. Ten minutes in and his relaxation was cut short when Schmullie casually called out, “Hey, Ziggy – glad you finally decided to show up.” All at once the crew was on its feet, dusting off sand and donning their tanker caps. As he fixed his own bearings, Bart finally caught site of his commanding officer. A tall, slim and lively straw colored German Rex, Panzerkommandant Siegfried Stoßauge made for quite the dashing sight… At least he would have were his uniform not buttoned up crookedly, his hat not skewed at a jaunting angle, or his boots unlaced.

Even his naturally unruly hair seemed more ruffled than usual… and was that lipstick on his face? Taking a whiff of air, none could have missed the strong sent of alcohol and perfume wafting from their commander’s person, nor could they miss the near ruddy glow of his complexion as he smiled and exclaimed, “Hallo hallo hallo, boys – how are we today?” Bart could not help but giggle at how unprofessional it all seemed as Ernst (being the only one to keep a straight face) replied, “Not nearly as good as you are, I would imagine.”

This got a laugh from the Kommandant as he explained, “Oh, ja, I recently ran into an old acquaintance of mine – hadn’t thought of her in years, but she remembered me; we’ve decided to pick up where we last left -- is that music I hear?” With a poker face that gave nothing to chance, Ernst answered him, saying, “Yes, sir, it is; I managed to rig up the radio to pick up local civilian transmissions.” With an excited grin, Siegfried beamingly praised, “That’s fantastic – totally illegal – but fantastic nonetheless!” As if by magic, the two Kügelbach brothers appeared on either side of the commander, giving their most hopeful and innocent stares as they asked, “So we can keep it like this?”

With another laugh, Kommandant Stoßauge patted them both on the head before answering, “Of course not – that radio is Reichs-Heer property; if anyone saw you using it as a private device they’d ship you off to Kältegjarn for sure!” Even as he said this, the smile on his face never wavered. Crestfallen, the two brothers began to mope over how unfair such a rule seemed. Their despondence was cut short when the commander continued, “However, I don’t see any problem with leaving it alone for a few hours; the day is still young and I’ve yet to have any breakfast.” With smiles all around, the crew of Wagen Seven was soon situated around the transponder, eating toast with eggs and laughing gaily with one another… Within a few short days they would look back on this memory and wonder as to whether they could ever find such happiness again…

At that same time, on the other side of the continent, a lone red stallion had just finished eating his own morning meal and was set to begin another day of hard work. Yes, for Big Macintosh it was just another day – like any other day, really. Or it would have been were he not in such a miserable mood to begin with. Truly he hated the life of a farmer. Yet, if given a choice, he’d still pick farming over anything else. In all honesty, he’d been entertaining the notion of one day dropping everything and walking off the farm – to explore the wider world and see things he’d only ever heard about in stories.

But no, he could never do that. The fear of the unknown and the weight of familial responsibility were far too great for him to ever act upon such things. Very recently, he had even settled for the idea of staying on the farm ‘til his dying day, so long as the girl of his dreams might be there to share those days with him. But after all the self-doubt, the fear and turmoil over matters of the heart, after finally manning up and telling her how he felt, the elation of her actually reciprocating his feelings – Rainbow Dash had gone and spat on his heart.

She had stood him up. He stayed up all of last night waiting for her – she had told him that she would be there at eight o’clock, and he’d taken her at her word. But when the clock rolled to one in the morning, and she’d still not shown up, he knew within his heart that she’d rejected him. And just like that, the dream of maybe settling down with what he had went up in smoke, and the monotony of life-as-usual set upon him like a heavy black cloud. He couldn’t hold it against her – couldn’t hate her for her decision – because if he were honest with himself, he could understand why.

As he hitched himself to that horrible, Godforsaken plow that affixed him to the land, he ruminated. She was too free a spirit to be tied down to some dirt-poor dirt-farmer, too wild to be bound to one place and take on the mantle of a farmer’s wife. Maybe that’s why he was (and still is) so enamored with her; she represented everything he had ever dreamed about – everything he had ever wanted to do in life. Maybe if he had been born with wings, or if he weren’t shackled to a farm that he grew increasingly weary of… but no; thinking of what could have been, what might have been – it was an exercise in futility.

And as the large carmine pony slogged through his own bleak thoughts whilst tilling the dark soil in his wake, he failed to notice the limping form of a cyan Pegasus as she wheeled and stumbled down a hill and towards him, her every move punctuated by pained gasps and shuddering breaths. It wasn’t until he heard a voice – her voice – call out, “Mac?”, that he was ripped from his self-reflection. Snapping his head in the direction where he’d heard her, his eyes widened in both surprise and horror! Again, she called out, her voice so frail and weak, “Mac, is… is that you?”

“Rainbow!” he exclaimed. All but shattering the chains that bound his yoke to the plow he rushed towards her tottering form, he could hardly suppress the fear he felt for her. Her cyan fur was covered in soot and ash, and her dazzling mane was singed and caked in crusted blood. Her once beautiful feathers were little more than charred quills and blisters – many of which were leaking white pus and a thick brown liquid that smelt of blood and rot. Her back legs were completely bare of hair, and instead were covered in open sores and terrible scabs. One of her front legs was obviously broken, and the blood and mucous that caked her face had crusted one of her eyes close.

But it was her wings that caused his heart to tremble in savage fear, for they were so hideously mangled that he could not stare at them without feeling the bile crop up from within him; her left wing was obviously rent from its socket, and the other one was folded in so awkward an angle that there was no doubt in his mind that she had shredded its muscles. Throwing off his yoke, Macintosh cautiously covered the last few meters to her – his heart breaking further as he saw her in greater detail. With shaking limbs and fevered breathing, the young mare weakly called out, “Mac?”

Delicately placing an arm around her flank to try and calm her down, the farmer halfheartedly answered her, saying, “Yeah – I’m here, Rainbow, I’m here.” Like a great weight had finally been lifted from her, the Pegasus all but dropped like a dead weight. Had Macintosh not been on hand, she would have fallen hard upon the earth, but his steady grip kept her aloft long enough so that he could hoist her onto his back before making his way towards the old farmhouse in a hurried gait; he needed to get the wagon ready to take her into town – there was no way that his grandmother would be capable of dealing with wounds like this, even as good as she was.

Along the way, he ran into his eldest sister who, upon sighting her good friend’s deplorable condition, gasped and desperately inquired, “What happened to her?” Having little time to explain, Macintosh gave the only answer that could work, saying, “I don’t know, but I’m takin’ her into town to have a doctor try ‘n fix her up.” Without missing a beat, Applejack asked, “What can I do to help?” Never faltering in his steps, the older of the two siblings replied, “Go ‘n get the wagon prepped while I get something to salve her wounds.” With a nod of conformation, his sister galloped at full speed towards the barn.

Stepping into the old homestead, Macintosh was relieved to find that his grandmother was awake. Catching sight of her oldest grandchild, she was all set to ask him how his day was going until she took note of the battered Pegasus passed out upon his back. Hobbling towards the two, she didn’t press for explanations or demand answers; instead, with a serious tone, she asked Macintosh, “What all do you need, sonny?” His answer was short and to the point – “I need some liquor, Granny.”

Shaking her head, the old dam rebutted him, saying, “No, boy – what you need is some of that there mountain dew[49]; I’ll get a couple jars out from the old warsh[50], in the mean time I need you to go ‘n get a couple of rags from the clothes line.” With a nod, Macintosh laid Rainbow Dash’s prone form upon the old couch, caring little if it were stained by the blood, before running outside to the wash line. Casting a pitiful gaze upon the broken girl, Granny Smith tottered to the broom closet, where she raised up a floorboard and withdrew two clear glass jars filled with an equally cleared liquid.

Soon enough, her grandson returned with a handful of rags and a desperate look about him; this girl was obviously important to him. Taking the proffered rags from him, she unceremoniously dunked them in the jars before placing them on the worst of Rainbow’s wounds. Even while unconscious, the young Pegasus clinched her teeth and wheezed in pain – the high proof grain alcohol no doubt felt like liquid fire on her open wounds, but it was a small price to prevent possible infection. Repeating the process a few more times, Granny Smith casually asked, “I assume you’ll be takin’ her to the hospital in town?” A hurried nod was his answer. “Good,” she replied, “take what time you need, Macintosh.”

Recognizing his grandmother’s blessing, he swiftly took Rainbow Dash and replaced her onto his back and then just as quickly headed back out the door. His sister was there to greet him, the wagon fully prepared and ready to be hitched up. Carefully placing the cyan mare down upon the fresh bed of straw within the wagon’s bed, the large red farmer silently had his sister help secure his yoke (which she had taken the liberty of retrieving it from where he’d tossed it so thoughtlessly) to the wagon’s drive. When that was done, he made a steady cantor towards the direction of town. From behind him, he heard his sister shout, “Take good care of her, Mac!” He solemnly swore to himself that he would.

When he’d finally arrived to the Ponyville general hospital, he’d startled some poor unfortunate nurse nearly half to death when he’d barged in covered in blood, carrying what looked for all intents and purposes a corpse and demanding at the top his voice that someone help him. When one of doctors finally did come running in to see what the problem was, he acted more than accommodatingly, showing the stallion to a proper preparatory facility, where he and a handful of other hospital staff took the egregiously wounded mare and rushed her to the emergency wing.

Two and a half hours later, and Big Macintosh was a frazzled bundle of angst-ridden nerves. So absorbed was he in his distressed state that when the doctor returned and touched him on the haunches, he physically jumped in surprise. The doctor was kind enough not to make anything of it, as he began, “Mr. Macintosh?” With a heavy nod, the farmer replied, “That’s me.” Pulling a clipboard from his coat, the doctor took that as his queue to explain the situation, saying, “We’ve managed to stabilize her, and while most of her wounds are still severe, none of them should be considered life-threatening at this point in time.”

With a massive sigh of relief, Macintosh visibly sagged into his chair as a tired smile crossed his face. It fell soon enough as the doctor went on, “However, there are a few things that you need to understand before we continue; there will be a great deal of scar tissue that will develop in the coming months --” With a snort the farmer grunted, “I don’t care about no scars!” Tactfully keeping on as if he hadn’t been interrupted the doctor carried on, “--, she will more than likely walk with a slight limp for the remainder of her life,” that one brought Macintosh to pause, as he began to feel that doctor was trying to lead up to something.

His worst fears were confirmed as the doctor finally finished, “She will also never be capable of sustained flight ever again.” And there it was. Jumping to his feet, the workhorse shouted, “No – you need to fix her, she has to fly!” Flying was everything to her; her whole life and future pursuits hinged on her ability to fly! If she lost that, she lost it all – he couldn’t let that happen, he had to fix this! “Mr. Macintosh – sir, please calm down.” In his blind fear for the mare he loved, he irrationally demanded, “Y’all are doctors aren’t you? You’re supposed to fix this sort of thing, so fix it!”

“Sir,” exclaimed the doctor, “please listen to me.” Realizing how foolish he was being, Macintosh carefully listened as the doctor tried to explain the situation to him. “I understand that this is a distressing revelation,” he began, “it’s never easy for any of us, and it will never get easier no matter how much we wish otherwise – the damage done to her wings is near irreparable; she more than likely tore the ligaments during a crash landing… this would also explain her broken leg.” This still left Macintosh to question, “I still don’t see why you can’t fix it with surgery.”

With a sigh the doctor despondently frowned at his own inability to fix the problem as he explained further, “Aside from how risky that sort of operation can be, there would be no point to it; her primary flight feathers have been burnt at the very root – they’ll never grow back – and if they did, there’s far too much internal vascular damage for blood to be properly supplied to them… I’m sorry.” And he was – sorry for the fact that he couldn’t help them, and for the fact that he had to tell them as such.

A few minutes of silence passed, before the larger of the two of them finally spoke up, asking the next big question on his mind, “Is she awake?” Again, the doctor sighed as he said, “No – she’s being kept in a sedated state so that the stitches have time to settle.” At hearing this, Macintosh then asked the next prudent question, “Can I see her?” A sad smile crossed the doctor’s face as he replied, “Yeah, you can go and see her now… However, I feel it best to warn you that you won’t like what you see.” Macintosh sincerely doubted that. After all, he’d been the one to deliver her broken body to the doctors. As the doctor led the farmer along, he casually handed an envelope to an orderly and requested that it be sent to Canterlot as quickly as possible…

Back in Bahnhof, things had exploded into a storm of energetic activity as soldiers ran to and fro, getting last minute details in order and collecting together in their designated deployment zones. For the crew of the Number Seven[51], things were just as lively, though not nearly as chaotic. The ammunition feeder had been fixed, the ammunition itself stored in its proper place, and when Schlosser Sekunde Klasse Bart Zifpel had started up the boiler engine, it had run smoothly for the first time in recent memory.

Now they sat within their machine, its cozy yet claustrophobic interior was a din of noise and motion, a slight haze of misting steam filled the compartment as last minute adjustments were made. In his place at the back of the compartment next to the boiler hub, the young mechanic smiled excitedly towards Toni (who sat across from him next to the firebox and the coal chute), who gave an equally eager grin. Further ahead of them, front and center sat Schmullie at the drive console – fully immersed in making the minute alterations to the controls that made this machine his.

To the Sphynx’s right sat Ernst at the radio station (returned once more to its rightful place) fastidiously fixating on the various dials, twisting and turning them to just the right frequency. To the left of the both of them sat their bow gunner, Walter, his sleep undisturbed even amidst the rocking motion of the great machine’s oscillating engine – his laconic form was strapped tightly to his chair in copious amounts of crash webbing, making for quite the humorous sight to behold – the electronics panel that he was supposed to be manning was left alone, apparently functioning just fine without him.

Above them, situated in the turret housing, sat the grinning figure of Kommandant Siegfried at the commander’s cupola where he was currently making minute adjustments to the telescopic rangefinder. Sitting to his right, Frank Müller simply waited patiently in his seat, apparently finished with his own prep work. Over the radio could be heard the two Kügelbach brothers, who were apparently just as ready to go as Frank was. All they awaited was the general departure order…

At the same time, and relatively near the same place, Oberst Mittens Von Fleischtauben confidently strode across the pavement of the train hub with Oberleutnant Ghresht keeping pace. Their destination was clear – a highly ornate and exquisitely crafted Pullman car that had rolled into the station some five minutes ago, pulled by the silver clad ‘Silberzug VII’, one of the twelve Reicheigen Klasse engines designed for the safe transport of high ranking members of the imperial hierarchy.

As they came closer and closer to the imposing car, Kujek gave question to what they both wondered, saying, “Who do you suppose they’ve sent to us?” Turning his head over his shoulder, Mittens answered, “I don’t know; I only hope it’s not one of Listruck’s[52] sycophants.” While the Gila Monster said nothing more, the chuffing snort he gave was more than enough of an answer on what he thought of that. The Oberst didn’t blame him – ‘Der Wiesel’ was not a pleasant man to deal with in any situation.

As Claws Von Schlauhirn awkwardly stepped out of the Pullman and into the dry dusty morning air, the first thing that came to his mind was how cool it was – he had always assumed that the desert was supposed to be hot. The next thing he noticed was how dirty everything around him was – everywhere he looked there was soot and dirt; not the best environment for the expensive dress suit he was wearing. But it was the rather tall and imposing cat approaching him (followed by a frightfully taller and much more intimidating Gila Monster) that caught his interest the most.

This was no doubt the senior ranking member of the military expedition; one Oberst Mittens Von Fleischtauben. And if the scowl on his face was anything to go by, Claws was sure that the coming days would be an altogether unpleasant experience for him. Still, it was better than the alternative, so he would make the most of it. Intending to break the ice, Claws was only slightly miffed that the Oberst chose to beat him to it, as he asked, “You’re the attaché from Purlin, I take it?” Quickly extending his hand, the Minister of the Interior was pleasantly surprised that Von Fleischtauben actually accepted it, shaking it in an iron handed grasp.

Still, there was no point in complaining – he’d start things off right. As they shook hands, he used his friendliest voice and replied, “Claws Von Schlauhirn, his majesty’s Minister of the Interior – and you must be Oberst Fleischtauben.” Strangely enough, both the Oberst and his companion had a look of relief swim briefly across their face before he replied, “That’s correct; we’ve just begun to mobilize, and with your arrival I feel that we can begin expediting the process in earnest.” Gesturing towards his reptilian orderly, the Oberst offered, “Oberleutnant Ghresht will attend to your luggage.”

Before Claws could protest, the hulking Gila Monster casually stepped up to the Pullman car and began collecting up the Minister’s retinue. As he did that, Oberst Mittens took Claws by the shoulder and lead him further into the depot. As they went along, the Oberst ran over the various units at his disposal and what he intended to do with them, inquiring from time to time as to what concessions, if any, would be needed to accommodate the Minister, and whether or not any changes would be needed to the overall plan. Having no real experience in matters of war, Claws was more than happy to agree with anything the Oberst had to say.

As they approached an ironclad boxcar replete with various antennae, an officerial insignia emblazoned on the side, Oberst Mittens was quick to announce, “This is where I must leave you for now; I’ve instructed the honor guard to allow you into the radio car, and Oberleutnant Ghresht should arrive shortly to deliver your baggage...” Looking at his wrist watch, the Oberst appeared to be pleased before he turned one last time to Claws and said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.” And before the Minister of the Interior could even blink, he was off, walking briskly towards a vast sprawl of tents…

The camp was alive with activity as men and equipment moved this way and that; a commotion of sights and sounds that could only be described as organized chaos. Last minute adjustments and mental checklists were made, as the sun finally cleared the horizon, casting the surrounding landscape in a refulgent haze of honeyed light. All activity ceased amidst the crackling hiss and whining screech of the dozens of megaphones scattered around the camp – the rugged voice of Oberst Mittens carried across the entire camp, his words amplified tenfold so that none could possibly ignore what he had to say.

“Soldiers of the Reich,” he began, “Today begins the day of days – that glorious and terrible day for which we have spent nigh on three generations contemplating over, preparing for, and ultimately hoping against.” An acrimonious bout of static punctuated his pause before he continued – “Today, we endeavor to cross the vast wasteland that marks the boundary of our great empire, and from there we shall march upon Feindesland[53] – the country of the Pferdlanders has, in recent days, come under the unassuageable assault of a monster… a creature outside the realm of both nature and probability.”

To many, it was strange – hearing the characteristically gruff and laconic officer speak so eloquently. Yet none could dispute the veracity of his candor, speaking as he did with authority as he continued; “I will be honest with you when I say that, I have no doubt that many of you who are hearing this will not live beyond the coming weeks… departing from this final bastion of our homeland will insure that we are marching headlong into the ravenous jaws of death, and truth be told, I find myself held in fear’s grip at such a notion.” There was no small number of the soldiers listening who were shocked by his admission; Mittens Von Fleischtauben – the hero of the Kaproß Run[54], was admitting to being afraid?”

Again, the Oberst’s voice blared across the camp as he exclaimed, “Many of you already know me – know of my service and my victories; some of you have no doubt served under me before… You know that I would not have you do anything that I myself would not willingly do.” Many of those listening nodded in agreement, Hermann Kühn and his Panzergrenadiers amongst them. Amidst attenuated static, the Oberst continued his speech, “This monstrosity – this Gho’Zrah – is unlike anything that our empire has ever faced, and it represents a threat far greater than any our forefathers could claim to have witnessed…”

“Remember this when it comes time to do your duty; we are not doing this for a people not our own, nor are we doing this out of altruism.” What he would say next sent a shiver down the spines of all who listened – the vehemence and determination with which he declared them stirring within their hearts a flaming resolve that would nourish their spirits in the coming days. “We do this not for our empire, nor for our lands or traditions, nor for our Kaiser or for Purlin, but for our families, for our loved ones, for our children and their future children… We do this for the survival of our species and our way of life!”

And there it was – a reason for why they should fight. This was it – the time had come. When the megaphones screamed to life once more, it was not the voice of Oberst Mittens, but of someone else – their deep, scratchy voice phlegmatically relaying, “Soldiers of the Reich, prepare for departure – boarding groups one through five begin embarking procedures, boarding groups six through eleven stand by; boarding group twelve, begin deployment.”

Inside the ‘Schwartzie’, Kommandant Stoßauge smiled before saying, “That’s our cue, boys – Schmüllie, if you please.” With a grin, the Sphynx applied power to the engine and with a heaving lurch the great machine they manned began moving forwards, onto a loading ramp. Within minutes they were situated amidst a dozen other tanks on an open topped car – a crew of breakers were fast in securing the Sturmwagens with chains and blocks. Opening up his cupola, Siegfried watched in awe as some four thousand men marched with mechanical precision, breaking off into smaller groups before finally coming aboard the desert-bound express.

As the soldiers made their way on board, many of them were pleasantly surprised to see that much of the townspeople of Bahnhof had largely come out to see them off – beautiful girls waved to them; many blowing kisses and declaring their undying love and affection for this soldier and that, with children coming out in droves to cheer on the men that they would one day hope to be like. Young and old alike waved the national banner with enthusiasm, chanting the Imperial motto of “Peace through Strength, Blood, Steel and Honor!”

The local town Veteran’s League[55] presented their arms in ceremony, firing off a salvo in salute as the locomotive’s engine began to hiss and groan, it’s wheels slowly turning. As the train began to slowly crawl forwards, the local band broke out into a rousing rendition of ‘Der Anschlußlied[56]’, the music’s vigor inspiring both the soldiers and the people of Bahnhof to a frenzied roar of patriotic zeal! Gradually, music and cheering alike faded beneath the din of roaring steam pistons, squeaking wheels, and rattling cars. They were fully on their way towards destiny. To the east, the Sun had finally cleared the horizon in full…

Night had fully given way to the daylight as it came over the town of Oakridge… or, rather, what remained of Oakridge. What had once been a burgeoning town of some eight-thousand souls, situated near the southern reaches of the ‘Oak Spur’ (itself being the colloquial name for the southernmost reaches of the vast, sprawling forest collectively known as the ‘Everfree’), was now little more than a smoldering heap of timber and rubble. As it casually reviewed its work, Gho’Zra felt little of the solace it would usually take in such destruction. In all honesty, the quaint hamlet had been little more than a target of opportune happenstance; the beast had all but stumbled upon it by chance.

The town had had no warning whatsoever to his approach – no chance to prepare or to even flee. Many of its citizens had not even risen from their sleep yet, and with little discernment he had culled them all in an outburst of biblical proportions. Just the sight of their houses, the smell of the smoke that arose from their chimneys and hearths, had been enough to arouse his anger. Like a storm he came, tearing through cobbled streets and picturesque cottage homes – it had taken little effort to sweep them aside; a casual flick of the tail, a simple stride, and they were rendered into naught but splintered heaps of ruin.

The silence of the morning air was befitting of such a spectacle, as if the elements themselves had been shocked into stillness by the ferocity of his actions. But as the high of the moment began to fade, there was little satisfaction to be had by the behemoth; the ache of emptiness becoming ever more pronounced as he went along. No amount of anger or destruction would change what things were – vengeance seemed ever hollower as the days progressed. Yet it was this hollowness that fed into the rage of existing in such a way that kept him on his path; he would see this through.

To the north, something beckoned him – an unseen force that had guided him from the start, pulling him to some final destination that was beginning to become increasingly irrelevant to him. Perhaps it would lead to a way out of this existence. Or maybe it was merely more of the same. Such thoughts bred more vitriol into his soul; instincts that had once been writ law were now questioned by a mind that increasingly began to think in ways it had never done before. Yes, he could see things clearer for what they had become – the instincts that had held sway over his kind for untold generations were beginning to lose their purchase.

He could feel the pull, and though he knew it to be not of his own will he followed it all the same. Looking back one last time towards the smoldering wreckage of the town, he realized that he felt nothing. No pity. No regret. No anger or hatred or fury. No satisfaction or vindication. No solace in retribution. No, all he felt was the emptiness that he’d begun to truly despise. There was no hesitation as he took the first step towards a destiny he cared little of. The Everfree grew silent…

[1] A collection of like-minded kingdoms situated upon the Manx River (of which the Vorosh Valley Duchy was the most seminal member), the Confederacy was the brainchild of Prince Felis Von Sylvestris, who saw the Serval Republic and its allies as a threat to the established hierarchy. Aside from military obligations, the Confederacy also strengthened ties through trade and other methods of inter-state commerce. The Manx River Confederacy would ultimately be reformed into the Empire of Vorosh, ‘der Katzereich’.
[2] Formed in response to the growing power of the Voroshian state by the combination of near a dozen different underground groups (all of whom shared the ideal of a Voroshian Liberal-Democratic insititution), the ‘Schisma-April’ officially began on April 7th in the 32nd year of the reign of King Monstro Von Steuernhetzer, Grand Duke of Vorosh, with an armed revolutionary insurrection that managed to take control of a number of vital regions. The revolution would end violently on April 24th, during the siege of Purlin, where Prince Felis Von Sylvestris took personal control of the Purlin Garrisons and swiftly defeated the Revolutionary Republic Army. His order to gun down the surviving members of the insurrection that had surrendered after the battle still lives on in infamy – at home and abroad.
[3] The lifespan of a Cat, even one of high standing and good living, very seldom passes sixty years – the average itself being fifty.
[4] The basic military organizational unit used in deploying Strumwagens, one Katzergruppen is comprised of 4 to 6 vehicles.
[5] Literally meaning ‘Horse Empire’ or ‘Horse Kingdom’, this is the Voroshian name for Equestria. The term ‘Pferdlander’ is used in regards to the citizens of Equestria.
[6] Founded by Reichskanzler Felis Von Sylvestris in the years following the formation of the Empire of Vorosh, the ‘Katzenaugen-Netzwerk’ (Literally: Cat’s Eye Network), or KaN for short, is the Empire’s Information Network and Secret Police all wrapped up into one. Utilizing civilian spies, foreign-born informants, hand-picked enforcers and the full backing of the state, KaN maintains a constant vigil over matters both within and without the Empire, with at least one agent in every foreign capital.
[7] A quarterly report that reviews past decisions and sets the goals of the coming years on all matters pertaining to the state; production, trade, diplomacy, social programs, laws, funding, appropriations, war, etc.
[8] The Office of Interior Minister exists under the function of political streamlining. It is the Minister of the Interior’s job to insure that the various branches and wings of the ‘Reichsverwaltung’ (Literally meaning ‘Imperial Administration’ the term loosely used to describe the collective body of bureaucrats, politicians and functionary offices that make up the Imperial Government’s elective body.) are informed of each other’s actions and should therefore synchronize for better efficiency. It is often a thankless job, but without it the empire would likely grind to a snail’s pace in getting anything done.
[9] Designed from the start as a penal work camp for those elements of society convicted of major felonies or seditious activity, the mining town of Kältegjarn has the ignominious distinction of being the northernmost town of the Empire, and where political traitors and common thugs alike are sent to work and ultimately be forgotten. Life expectancy for those sent there is not considered to be very long at all.
[10] Equivalent to a Colonel, the Staff Officer rank of Oberst is the highest field rank below the General ranks. It is an Oberst’s job to insure that the orders of the General he is staffed under are carried out by the men of his divisional command.
[11] Equivalent to the rank of First Lieutenant, the rank of Oberleutnant is typically bestowed upon commissioned officers after five to six years of active duty service. In this particular case, it represents a special military post as an assistant to the Oberst. Should the Oberst become indisposed, it is the job of the Oberleutnant to direct the army where needed in said Oberst’s stead.
[12] The Homeland of the Gila Monsters is situated within Voroshian territory, and is thus a protectorate of the Empire. Renowned as mercenaries of the highest caliber, and infamous for their non-discerning palate, Gila Monsters are a common sight amongst the forces of the Empire, where their natural strength and tough hides are always in high demand.
[13] Literally meaning ‘Station’ or more accurately ‘Railway Station’, Bahnhof lives up to its rather droll name (no doubt whoever founded it was not of the imaginative sort), being purposefully built to accommodate a train hub that wouldn’t be built for another two decades after its founding. It stands as the eastern most point of Voroshian territory.
[14] Roughly translating to ‘Great Waste’, or ‘Great Desert’, the Großewüste is the vast, intercontinental desert that seperates the Katzereich from Equestria. Stretching roughly 6,200 kilometers from east to west, and some 13,000 kilometers from north to south, it has always represented the dividing line between the two great nations. Notable for the rich mineralogical deposits in its eastern half, and a string of lowhung mountains on its western edge, the Großewüste is a vast and near inhospitable environment for most people. However, there are exceptions to this, particularly in regard to the Gila Monsters, Horned Toads, and Camels.
[15] A sort of Military Mechanic who specializes in armored vehicle engine maintenance. The rank of Schlosser can only be awarded to those who pass the mechanical aptitude tests used in the curriculum of certain engineering schools.
[16] Synonymous with both the rank of Sergeant 1st Class as well as that of a Technical Sergeant, the use of Oberfeldwebel in this case is meant to refer to a Gunnery Sergeant.
[17] An exotic sight to behold on the continent, a majority of the inhabitants of distant Pangolia are pacifists by nature, abhorring violence in all forms. However, they are also an extremely close trade partner of the Empire, with roughly 70% of their gross domestic product sent oversees to the Katzereich. That some could be found in the armed forces of the Cats is a novelty to many.
[18] The kingdom of Kröte, homeland of the Toads was one of the original members of the Manx River Confederacy. Noted for their traditions of martial ferocity and loyalty beyong question, they are an important part of the Empire’s military machine. Domestically, Toads are also famous for their skills at terraformation and hydroengineering, as they constantly needed to insure a stead water supply as they expanded in the past.
[19] A black insignia patch with four silver scratch marks, worn by soldiers to mark them as being part of the elite and venerated Sturmtrüppen Division.
[20] Betrayal, underhanded treachery, cowardly conduct unbecoming of soldiers, literally – to stab in the back; Dolchstoß is considered the gravest of charges by most soldiers.
[21] While it may seem odd, some ponies have forsaken their own kind to pursue goals that they could never achieve in Equestria. There is a small, yet notable population of Pferdlanders who call the Katzereich home. Some were born within the Reich, but most immigrated there. The term Destrier is used to describe an Earth Pony who serves in the Reichsheer (The Imperial Army) though not nearly as rare as others; it is still a fairly uncommon sight, as most Ponies who have decided to live within the Empire have taken to more economic niches. The size and strength of Destrier Ponies is such that they are often equipped with heavy weaponry and given the role of a squad support unit.
[22] A stylized, jet-black image of a Cat’s paw print – the Catspaw is the national symbol, and is commonly integrated into the various badges and insignia worn by its military.
[23] A specialized gun carriage that is worn as a harness, the Laffetegeschirr (literally ‘Gun carriage harnesses’) is both versatile and reliable on the field.
[24] The First Panzergrenadier Company is considered the elite of the elite. The symbol of the grinning silver cat’s skull evokes confidence in allies and dread in enemies. Selected from the best and the brightest troops, this venerated Company has taken part in every military campaign in the Empire’s history.
[25] This is phonetically the Voroshian name for Equestria’s capital city.
[26] Roughly equivalent to a Sergeant Major, the Oberstabsfeldwebel is the highest rank of the Company he is in, holding overall responsibility for the men he commands.
[27] Another seminal group from the former Manx River Confederacy, the Ferrets are a cunning lot who use wit and guile to accomplish what others might use strength and perseverance to achieve. As such, they make excellent strategists, and have ferreted (pardon the expression) their way up the rungs of the Bureaucratic ladder and into leading positions in the empire. Reconnaissance units are often heavily comprised of Ferrets, as they have a natural tendency to avoid outright confrontation. They are also renowned for their ability to procure whatever one might want, forming black-markets in every barracks they’re stationed at.
[28] A rank that roughly translates to ‘Senior Lance Corporal’, it is more akin to that of a Private First Class. An Obergefreiter has command over his squad, and must have at least six months of service.
[29] That is, the collar patch used to denote both rank and service – all soldiers are issued a set, and must have them upon them at all times when on duty.
[30] The lowest military rank; a recruit who has served for less than a month.
[31] The basic military rank of Private – a service time of at least three months is required.
[32] A war from twelve years prior, it would be one of the bloodiest campaigns on record. In response to increased aggression against a political ally by the Boars of Kalnasšalis, the Hügelland Campaign (literally ‘Hill Country’, the Voroshian term for the Kalnasšalis highlands to the far south of the Empire) was conducted under the order of then Kaiser Albrecht Von Steuernhetzer. What followed would be 8 months of the most brutal and personal fighting in Imperial memory, with nearly 800,000 dead or wounded on both sides. It would only end at the behest of the Boar king, Gurg the Wartless, who would abdicate as a condition of surrender. In the end, victory had come down to numbers, as the Boars were always comparatively few in numbers. To this day, their population is still reeling from the loss of so many of their young men.
[33] A derogatory term used by some to describe ponies and other odd-toed races.
[34] Comparable to the rank of Captain, the term Hauptmann in this case is actually that of a specialist designation (i.e. a squad support gunner). Pertaining to a Pony, the rank is more akin to the rank of Feldwebel in a Cat.
[35] While the word literally means ‘Horse’, it is in the context of a lowly beast of burden and is meant as an overt insult to those who would understand it.
][36] The capital city of the Empire, and a direct play on Berlin – I know it’s horrible, but I could not resist putting that in there; it was just too perfect… or should I say purrfect? No? Okay then.
[37] The Finance mandate is that part of the quarterly field mandate that pertains to financial appropriations and where such resources will be deployed. It is a constant battle with politicians to insure that the military is properly funded.
[38] Prosthetic technologies have only recently been implemented in the Empire, and the novelty of it has yet to wear off.
[39] Like the Gila Monsters, the Horned Toads have filled a mercenary niche in the Empire, where their natural calm and patience make them naturally inclined to positions of leadership and decision-making. Their ability to survive in hostile environments also makes them prime candidates for the Sonderkommandotruppen (Literally - 'Special Commando Troops', a special operations Commando unit) throughout the empire.
[44] The cleft in which the bow machine gunner stands when operating the hull mounted machine-gun. It comes fully stocked with 12 crates of ammunition, and a crèche to take cover in should things become hairy.
[45] Funkerlied (Vintage Radio Broadcast Version) (Modern Digital Broadcast Version)
[46] Im Wald, Im Grünen Walde (Vintage Radio Broadcast Version) (Modern Digital Broadcast Version)
[47] The Current Munitions General is a Ferret by the name of Lang Kash. He’s rather infamous for testing new patents out by issuing them as mandatory gear. In return, he gets a cut in the profits.
[48] Scratch Notes – the standard currency of the Empire. One Note is roughly equal to seven Equestrian Bits.
[49] Having experience firsthand the potency of what you people in America call ‘White Lightning’, I can attest to the fact that it can disinfect anything upon the face of God’s earth.
[50] An antiquated term roughly meaning a hole in the wall – it would later come to mean a closet or utility room of some sort before finally passing out of the common lexicon of the English language.
[51] Unit 7 of the 13th Sturmwagenabteilung, affectionately referred to by her crew as ‘Schwartzie’ ('Blackie').
[52] The Ferret known as Ethan Listruck, commonly referred to behind his back as ‘The Weasel’, is currently head chairman of the ‘Finanzverwendung Fachkollegium’ (The Review Board of Financial Appropriations) and one of the most vocal proponents of the austerity movement that calls for a massive decrease in overall expenditure. Since a majority of the Katzereich’s funding goes towards the military machine, Listruck and many other likeminded individuals on the review board (others would call them cronies) have taken up a personal crusade of sorts in redirecting appropriations to other outlets, not least of which would be Listruck’s pocketbook. Corrupt and ruthless, he has shown before that he would not hesitate to destroy the careers of those who oppose him; A vile man in every sense.
[53] Feindesland literally means Enemy Territory.
[54] At the height of the Hügelland Campaign, the battle of the Kaproß Run represented the climax of the entire conflict – the last battle waged on equal standing, when the entire war was still up for grabs. Some 327,000 soldiers would participate in what had initially started out as a routine reconnaissance mission gone wrong. At a narrow valley between two great escarpments known locally as ‘The Gash’, a seemingly unimportant skirmish between two opposing surveillance squads snowballed out of control due to poor communication and no amount of misinformation into the largest infantry battle in world history. It was during this time that a hitherto unheard of Leutnant by the name of Mittens Von Fleischtauben would rise into legend at a nearby washout that the soldiers had taken to calling the Kaproß Run (After the late Generalmajor Heimdall Kaproß who had been killed there by a random mortar shell some two days prior). Rallying his assault squad, Leutnant Fleischtauben lead a bold run across the washout, taking three bullets during the charge, before ordering his forces to split into three divergent groups. Using the confusion sewn by such unusual tactics, he personally accounted for the destruction of 24 heavy mortars, six cannons, and 13 Boars. In less than ten minutes his squad had killed some 62 enemy combatants and apprehended some 300 prisoners. This in turn lead to the collapse of the Boar’s left flank which resulted in a general rout. For his actions on the field, newly promoted Hauptmann Von Fleischtauben was presented the Reihenfolge der Löwenpranke (Order of the Lion’s Paw), the highest military honor to be bestowed by the Katzereich.
[55] An institution designed for those former soldiers of the Reich who are either too old or physically incapable of continued service. A chapter can be found in every town and city of the Empire.
[56] The song's real name is Unter dem Doppeladler

A Feline Soldier's Portrait.

A Feline Assault Trooper in full field gear

Hauptmann Spitzer

Hauptmann Spitzer in full field gear

MK 19 Cat Machine-Gun (Information on it can be found here.)

SB 22 Cat Assault Rifle (Information on it can be found here.)

Various Badges, Patches and Pins and devices of the Katzereich. Also featuring some non-feline members of the Empire. (More information can be found here.)

Cat Tank (Detailed Information and Specifications can be found here.)

Image of the Cat Tank from above (More information can be found here.)