A Note To Any Royal Guardspony That May Find It
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A Note To Any Royal Guardspony That May Find It
My name is Bulwark, a member of the fourth expeditionary regiment of the royal guard, and even as I lay here, I can feel the blood leaking out of my stab wounds, into the battle scarred jungle floor. But that's not important right now.
What's important is that you read this note all the way through. It recaps the atrocities committed here, and is meant to warn the next wave of royal guard reinforcements of the acts of brutality that their brothers and sisters have performed. It is of vital importance that this note gets to Shining Armor, so for anypony of the royal guard that finds this note, please, promise me that you'll find a way to tell him. I know the sixth expeditionary force is scheduled to sweep through this section of the jungle within the next few days. I'll be dead by then, but take what I've written here to heart.
But before you read the note, I want you to remember what they told you when you enlisted. They told you you'd be doing your country a great service. They told you that you'd be a hero ...
Alright, with that out of the way, let's go back to where it all started, nearly two days ago, just south of this zebra village that I lay dying in, writing this note. My regiment and I were assigned to guard the trading outpost that was transporting ancient zebra artifacts out of the country, and back to Equestria. It was a mundane job, just watching the cargo day in and day out, listening to the cacaphony of the jungle. The wild and crashing seashore was the only thing that added any excitement to the job. The western walls were high, and waves never broke past them, but still, it was the only entertainment we had, watching the waves smash into the walls. It often reminded me of the swarms of zebras I had fought before getting redeployed here ...
But like I mentioned, it all started to go downhill just a short while ago. A raiding party of zebras, no more than a dozen of them, scaled the low walls on the eastern side of the complex. They slammed two guards into the ground with tremendous force, and sprinted straight into the middle of the camp, hollering in their foreign tongue the whole way, spears raised.
I saw them slaughter our dock workers, their spears ramming right through the skulls of them. To a normal pony, it would've been grotesque, morbid, and downright disgusting. But to me, it was just another day on the job. Confused yet? I would be too to be honest.
I was stationed at that quiet little trading post for a reason. Just a few months earlier, my friend Hot Hooves, who was always by my side, even as a colt, and myself were involved in the bloodiest engagement we've ever known. During those times, I couldn't bring myself to eat, or sleep, or ... function even. During Operation Stalwart, we had to sit in the trenches, for days on end, not moving, not sleeping, not doing anything. All we did was watch.
In a way I both thank and curse Celestia for being stationed in the second line of trenches. Our officer forced us to watch the first row of defenses, only a few hundred yards in front of us. We couldn't do anything, but just sit there helplessly, watching the zebras attack. They just kept coming, and coming, and coming. They wouldn't stop. It was just wave after wave of black and white fur, crashing down on the forward trenches, day after day, for nearly two weeks.
I had to sit there, and watch the whole thing play out. Our officer wouldn't let us leave our posts, and we weren't allowed to help the first row for Celestia knows why. Like I mentioned earlier, the zebras just kept smashing into that first row, and after the first few attacks, the bodies began to pile up. So great were the mounds of corpses, that during the night, the forward forces would creep out, dragging the bodies back into makeshift barriers in front of the trenches.
By the fourth day, the foul odor of decay had reached us, and the stench was almost overpowering. Hot Hooves vomited twice that first day the smell hit us, and I just barely managed to keep my rations down.
After two long weeks of the most intense and heart wrenching warfare I'd ever witnessed, I was finally reassigned. But Hot Hooves didn't make it. On the final day of Operation Stalwart, the zebras massed an enormous force, larger than any other two days combined. By this point, we had gotten used to the smell of death and decay, but we still grimaced each time a zebra warrior managed to make it into the defenses, slaughtering entire sections at a time. On this final day, the zebra tide punched right through the first line, killing each and every pony in the frontline trenches.
For Hot Hooves and I, it was our first taste of action during that operation. The officers told us to stay in formation, even as the mother of all armies bore down on us. I managed to pick off a few from range with the explosive magical spells we had been taught in boot camp, the ethereal orbs shredding the zebras apart. Soon enough, the smell of burnt flesh and hair was added to the overpowering stench of the battle.
The fighting continued on into the night, the seemingly endless reserves of the zebras finally beginning to die down by midnight. I had gotten a spear in the shoulder earlier in the day, but our squad medic Steady Hooves ripped the zebra apart with his sword, before taking me back to the medical tent. I was drenched in blood by this point, my light blue coat a crimson red, with only patches of blue poking through. Before I was dragged away, I promised Hot Hooves I'd be right back, and he hugged me so hard I thought he would crush me. I was still caked in blood, but he didn't care, he just held me tight, staining his orange coat, before he finally released me, shouting to me even as I disappeared in the labyrinth of trenches.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
I passed out when I arrived at the medical tent from blood loss, still fighting the overwhelming pain in my shoulder, to no avail. When I awoke, it was morning, and the light from the sun was a gloomy red, morbidly appropriate for the situation at hand. Steady Hooves urged me to stay on the cot they had placed me on, but I refused, and limped out of the tent, the aching pain of my stitched flesh still sending pulses of pain through my body.
I trudged as fast as my injured body would carry me to my post, a desperate grin on my face. When I reached my post, I turned around, and ducked behind a corner. I couldn't bear to stand more than a second of the terrible sight. There were bodybags everywhere, the glossy black material drawing my attention. But one in particular, caught my eye. I turned back, going to face the grim sight, and when I kneeled down to read the tag on the bodybag that had piqued my interest, it only read :
Name: Hot Hooves Trailblazer
Rank: Private First Class
Species: Earth Pony
Time Of Death : 2:57 a.m., July 19th
I didn't move for the next hour. I just sat there, staring at the motionless bag, tears rolling down my cheeks. An Officer came over to me, and smacked me on the backside of my head with his hoof. My vision was blurry for a moment, and I turned around, still reeling from the hit. I didn't dare ask him why he had punished me, but he was generous enough to offer an explanation, in his sharp, cold voice.
"Soldiers don't cry son. Soldiers are heroes. You are a soldier, and therefore, you are a hero. Heroes don't cry. Now get yourself together."
He turned away from me, disappearing into the trenches, his harsh voice still ringing in my ears. I wiped the tears from my face, and looked at my coat for a moment. It had been cleaned while I was out, yet it still felt as if the blood was still there, staining me.
Later that evening, the remainder of the regiment attended a celebration feast, and the senior sergeant gave a speech, that I completely tuned out. To this day, I don't remember a single word of it. But I do remember what I was thinking on that day. I was thinking about how I had been told that soldiers didn't cry, and I began to wonder about it more. The more I thought about it, the more I began to think of just how machine like we all were. We obeyed without question, simply carrying out our orders, and we were expected to perform those orders without emotion.
And that brings me to only an hour ago. We had been formed into search parties after the twelve zebras that had attacked the camp were slain yesterday. We had lost several dock workers, and a guardspony, but overall, it had been a fairly harmless attack. "Acceptable losses" is what the officers called it, and until only a few hours ago, I believed their bullshit.
When my search party ran into the small village that was the source of the raid a few hours ago, the officer told us to kill every single one. We outnumbered them a good deal, and none of them seemed to be fighting back. It was then that I realized that there were no grown males present, only mothers and their children.
It was a bloodbath. I marched forward, just like a good little soldier, blindly carrying out my orders. I could see the blood of the children splashing across the ground, hitting it with a sickening plop. The air began to smell of blood, the metallic scent hitting my nostrils, and yet it didn't phase me at all. I advanced into the small camp, the teepees and huts of the zebras going up in flames as the wails of the mothers and their children echoed through the smoke filled air.
I entered an intact hut, smashing the wooden door down with a blast of energy from my horn. I entered the dark house, the only thing illuminating it the sunlight streaming through the holes in the roof and walls. Inside was a zebra cowering along the wall of the circular hut, clutching her two children tightly, sobbing and praying in her foreign tongue.
I readied my horn for a moment, beginning a spell, but it faded just as quickly as it had started, as the bawling mother opened her eyes for a moment, staring straight at me. They were filled with fear, and anger, and rage, and confusion, and I couldn't think straight as she sat there, grasping her offspring like only a parent could. Her face was soft and gentle, and yet it was riddled with stress marks, and contorted into a mask of sheer terror.
I began to speak, but all that came out was gasps of disbelief and panic. The zebra stayed there, completely still, her cries of anguish and fear having ceased. The chaos outside seemed so far away in that moment, as we shared a conversation that cannot be put into words. I saw her for all that she was, and she saw me, for all that I was. It had taken me a long time since Operation Stalwart to realize it, but I was not a machine. I was not a puppet to be manipulated and tossed around, expendable and emotionless.
I was not a soldier. I was not a hero. All I was, in that moment, was me. I was a pony, with emotions and a brain of his own, to make decisions on his own. I decided in that hut, that this was too far. That it wasn't right. That was where I drew the line.
I let my horn glow softly for a moment, causing the Zebra's to whimper slightly, but all I did was remove my helmet, and place it on the ground. I looked into her eyes for a moment more, before turning my back on the family, and leaving the hut.
Once outside, I walked over to the tree I lay beside now, writing this note. I knew the family in that hut was dead several moments later, their terrified screams resonating through the jungle, their cries for help in that strange language still ringing in my head.
The officer strode over to me several minutes after the camp was destroyed, and looked down at me laying beside the tree. He ordered me to get up. I refused. He implored once more, drawing the sword at his side, and adding a menacing layer to his voice. Again, I said no remaining on the ground.
He shook his head lightly, as he reared back, thrusting the sword into my abdomen twice, the blade missing my organs just barely. I did not scream, or cry, or complain. I knew what the penalty for my actions were, and I accepted them with open arms. As the officer walked away, sheathing his sword, I managed to weakly pry a notepad and pen from his left saddlebag using my dimming magic.
That brings us to now, to this very moment, only minutes away from death, I'm scribbling frantically in this stolen journal. I want the world to know of what I've been through, and I want it to stop. For a long time I thought that Operation Stalwart was the most horrific event in my life, the droves of dead soldiers everywhere. But I was wrong, for what I witnessed today was far worse than what any two armies could ever do to each other. What happened today, wasn't a battle between armies, it was a slaughter. It was murder on an epic scale. "Acceptable losses" is what they told me ... things that needed to happen no matter what.
That's a load of bullshit. What happened here didn't have to happen, and as far as I can tell, there was no reason to massacre those innocent zebras. They've told me time and time again, reminding me that acceptable losses are a part of war, and yet, what they don't tell you, is that you might just end up being part those losses.
But I'm not bitter about my death, I'm bitter about all those months I spent, believing all the lies they fed me, becoming more and more desensitized to the horrific orders they gave me. But I managed to catch myself, if only long enough to see myself die, and that's enough for me.
So, with my final moments upon me, the restorative magic I've been using to keep myself alive long enough to write this note, failing, I'll remind the reader of this note, who I'm presuming is part of the guard, something they told you a long time ago. When you enlisted, they told you you'd do your country a great service. They told you that you'd be a hero. I have only one question for you after reading this note.
Do you feel like a hero yet?