Of Monsters and Mares

Chapters

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Act Two
Eight
Act One

One

Mud

Mud. Mud, mud mud. Mortain was mud.

Flick. Flick. The bright light of the cigarette lighter was a welcome sight, amidst the dark evening fallen over Mortain. Over hill 133.

“Thanks, Corp.”

“Yeah, no problem, You new?”

“Mhm. Just uh, rotated in from Champagne.”

“No shit? What for?”

The two paused, as Cannons echoed in the distance.

“Timing’s off.”

“Eh, probably for somewhere else. Marines nearby probably, over in Bellau.”

“Yeah. Anyways, uh, dunno. Got pulled out of medical and reassigned.”

“Huh. Alright then.”

The Soldier took a deep drag on her cigarette, exhaling a second or so later, her cigarette smoke wafting into the cool air above the two, out of the trench and into the night sky.

“Well, welcome to C-coy, Twenty-eighth Royal Guards Rifles.” The Corporal offered a hand. “I’m Corporal Yearling. You can call me Autumn, though.”

The Soldier nodded, and smiled weakly, shaking the corporal’s hand. “Serene Evenings. Nice to meet you, Autumn.” She then frowned. “So what’s up around here?”

“Recently, not too much. Mortain’s not on the front line, really, though it’s fairly close. We’re holding the hilltop as a spotting position for the gun batteries. I’d say shouldn’t be too bad but I know better than to tempt fate like that… Anyways, you said you were from Champagne, right?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, I’d been fighting in Champagne, until I was uh, wounded.”

“Ah. How’s it look, up there?”

“Piss-poor.”

“Ah, to be expected.”

“Yeah…”

“Left side, left side!”

Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat

“Keep up the fucking fire on that godsdamned flank! I want that fucking flank so full of lead the Griffons are shitting bullets for a week!”

“Yeah, it’s uh, it’s pretty shit, Corporal.” Evenings shrugged. “They’re managing, though.”

Autumn Yearling nodded, her rifle still slung over one shoulder. “Sure hope so. Champagne’s the main line of assault, innit it?”

Evenings nodded, her ear twitching slightly from beneath the rather flat army helmet as a sniper’s rifle crack split the night. Several louder cracks, probably from a gatling gun, sounded back in response, probably attempting to suss out the sniper from their hidey-hole.

“Well, anyways, I need to report to whoever’s in charge, here. Get myself assigned to a squad.”

“Yeah. Top of the hill, just follow the trench line. Keep your head down going up the connector between the second and third line trench, Griff snipers love popping runners from there. Accurate bastards, too.”

“Right, I’ll uh..”

Another Sniper’s rifle crack. A shout from down the line, someone calling for a medic.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Corporal Yearling.” Serene gulped, quietly, as she nodded to the Corporal, slinking off towards the trench lines heading towards the rear, dropping the cigarette butt into the muddy trench, being sure to squelch it out with her ammunition boot, as she slogged on, nodding idly to other soldiers, relaxing or getting some shuteye- or in the case of one section of bored guardsmen in a dugout gun nest, playing poker- as she made her way off the front lines.

Reaching the dreaded second line- third line connector, Evenings ducked down to a crouch, then, deciding that wasn’t low enough, her belly, sliding her way across the twenty meter gap about an inch at a time. It was slow, painfully slow going, but it was also safe.

Or at least, as safe as the trench lines got. They may not have been the front line, but the front line was only half a mile down the hill, at the town of Mortain itself. Part of what made this place such a great artillery spotter’s position, after all.

Inch after Agonizingly slow, muddy, wet, frustrating inch, Serene slid across the trench connection, exhaling as she reached the other side without further incident. Slipping up to a crouch, and moving off towards the back, Serene adjusted her helmet, loosening the chin strap slightly, as it’d become uncomfortably tight during her crawl across the connector. Sighing quietly, she finished adjusting the strap back to a comfortable length, and tugged once at her ammunition boots, making sure the ankle-length boots were still up to her ankles, and not slacking. She then continued down the line, nodding quietly to the occasional riflepony she passed on her way, saying a muted hello to those who bothered to say hi back.

Eventually, Evenings reached the rear-line trench, and with it, the Command post. The command post itself was a simple affair, a large room dug into the side of the trench, support pillars in the middle holding it up safely. A squat radio desk was tucked into one corner, overladen with the heavy equipment as a teal unicorn mare scribbled out notes, a headset wedged on her head and helmet resting on top of the radio box. Meanwhile, a dirty-white unicorn stallion wearing officer’s fatigues, a pipe wedged in the corner of his mouth, muttered quietly to another officer, as the two poured over a map of the front line. In another corner, a fifth pony was hunched over a typewriter, tapping away at some sort of report.

Serene cleared her throat, causing the two officers to give her a once over, as she snapped a short, proper salute. “Sergeant Major Serene Evenings reporting, sah. Transferred over this morning from Champagne.”

The white coated unicorn nodded, puffing away at his pipe, before returning her salute and waving her over. “Welcome to Mortain, Sarge-Major. Glad you could join our little stretch of the countryside. Come take a look, I'll fill you in.”

Evenings nodded, making her way over to the large map, as The Company Commander, 28th Guards Rifle Captain Shining Armor, began to lay out the map. “Right, we’re here, along this salient, just east of Hebecrévon, a Prench industrial centre. As such, we’ve got a fair bit of firepower massed here. Artillery, in particular, is being given by the local 419th howitzer battery… about here. Three miles back, at Saint Lô. Means a travel time of about…. five minutes from the call-in, should you order a barrage by radio- seven to ten by coloured smoke.”

“Understood, Captain. Anything about the surrounding area? Enemy strength, composition, strong points?”

“Strong point’s the whole ruddy line on both sides. No-man’s land is mined along most salients, aside from places where we or they’ve been advancing and probing. Wire’s mostly gone, but some is still clinging to the mud, so look before you leap. Enemy seems to be composed of some sort of shock division if aerial reports are correct. Crank-guns, infantry model gatlings, maybe an A7V or two, we couldn't tell, backed by one to two brigades of standard line rifles. Some artillery further back; larger guns, smaller number. Watch for gas shells.”

“Right. And my squad?”

“Platoon, Sarge Major.”

“Pardon, Captain, I'm-”

“Now a platoon Sergeant. Congratulations on your promotion.”

“I… right. Okay. My, uh, platoon, then?”

“Understrength- whole company is, sadly. You'll be taking over C-Plat, about eighteen; nineteen with you now. They're… here, right flank.”

“Excellent, Captain. Anything I should know about them?”

“Two elements of harmony… one Applejack Apple, and Fluttershy-who’s also the platoon medic. Honesty and Kindness, respectively.”

“Shan’t be an issue, Captain.”

“I hope not. I was given your dossier earlier in the week. Best of luck, Sergeant Major.”

“Same, Captain. Best of luck.” Another round of salutes, and out the door she went, as Captain Armor frowned, taking a breath on his pipe, before letting the smoke rings billow out his neutrally frowning mouth.

“Trouble, that’n.” He finally grunted, nodding to the other officer, a pegasus. “Back to the map, Lieutenant?”

“Aye, Cap’n. I was wonderin’ if’n we coul’ draw Jerry into a field of fire… here. Maybe if we started another tunnel?”

C-Plat; Charlie Platoon; held a short front of the hill, which suited Sergeant Major Evenings just fine. Surprisingly, the first Squad Sergeant she’d come across was Autumn, of all ponies.

“Oh. Corporal Yearling. Good to see you again, Corp.”

“Glad t’see ya, ma’arm. What are you doing over here, though?”

“I've been informed by the Captain that I'm to be your new Platoon Sergeant. Mind filling me in on who the other squad leads are? I need to meet with- well, everyone, really. Get to know the unit.”

“Not a Problem, Sarge. There's me, obviously. Second squad’s under Sergeant Storm Wind’s lead- teal Pegasus, white mane and tail. He's the colt who wrangles the trench raiders. He's not on sortie tonight, though, so he’ll be a tad further down our line, between our base of fire and Double Down’s rifle squad. Want me to round everyone up? Armory’s safe enough place to get a meet and greet.”

“Sounds good. What's Double Down look like, before you go?”

“Oh, sorry, Sarge. He's uh… He's a changeling, so… varies. Just start asking around for DeeDee, you’ll get him eventually.”

“Changeling, got it. Haven't seen any of them for a while.”

Autumn shrugged. “They're here and there. Just gotta know what to look for- or have their dossiers.” With a shared, dry chuckle, the two parted ways, Evenings to round up the rest of the Platoon, and Autumn, her own Squad.

The armory was almost completely silent; the soldiers of Charlie Platoon, Charlie Company, were tired as-is, and trying to gauge their new platoon officer, at that. For her part, Evenings was smoking a fresh cigarette, helmet tucked under one arm, her horn peaking out of her slightly lighter blue mane, her near pitch black coat stained lighter gray in a couple of places near her neck and cheeks from powder burns.

“Is this everyone?” She finally inquired, dropping and stamping out her cigarette, as the last of the three squads shuffled in.

“Yes ma’am, Sergeant Major. This is all of us.” Wind supplied, the teal stallion’s chopped down Manefield rifle slung in an opened up pistol holster.

“Right. Turns out I'm to be your new Platoon Sergeant, so I'm here to get to know you. Care to enlighten me, you scruffy lot?”

That got a couple chuckles, at least, and made for a good ice breaker.

“Suppose I'll go first, seeing as I'm first squad.” Autumn put forth. “Right, well, you know me, Sarge. Autumn K. Yearling, at your service. I keep my lot in line. Berry punch o’er there’s the platoon radio operator,” the magenta coated earth pony mare waved, carrying the heavy radio pack in place of her normal kit bag. “Aside from us two, we’ve also got privates Stone Wall and Cloud Kicker manning the crank guns, with Buck Shot and Live Wire loading. We’ve also got private Long Shot here with the long rifle- no relation to Bucky- rounding out my Squad.” Serene nodded, looking over each pony as Autumn introduced them. Stone wall, firstly, was a rather large earth pony stallion who carried a large calibre crank gun across his back, the mounting tripod slung across his loader- Buck Shot’s- back. Cloud Kicker by contrast carried her tripod, as she was a smaller, more lithe pegasus mare, whilst Wire, a more stout unicorn stallion, slugged their crank gun. Long Shot, finally, was a spotted Earth Pony stallion, lugging a very long Enfield pattern rifle, some sort of scope-like contraption to the left and above the breech, allowing the… actually somewhat short stallion to load full stripper clips into the rifle.

With a nod in respect to each pony, Serene then turn her attention to Storm Wind’s much smaller trench raider group. “Righto, Sarge. I'm Storm Wind, as y’know.” He nodded to two very familiar mares, off to his left, one an earth pony, the other a pegasus, with the pegasus mare interestingly wearing a medic’s outfit. “And I doubt the elements of harmony need much introduction. But, mah buddy needs some introduction, so meet private Steel Edge. He's the best knife fighter I've met along the line in my couple o’ years.” The gray pegasus stallion in question nodded, toying with a stiletto blade held in his right hand.

“Quite the team. You still raid trenches, Wind?”

“Yes’m, Sarge. Not as often anymore, but we do.”

“Good. Let me know whenever you go out.” She nodded, before looking over to the platoon’s resident changeling, who was currently copying Long Shot’s coat pattern, albeit with inverted colours. “And last but not least, Corporal Down?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” The disguised Changeling nodded, with a smile. “I've got a mix of rifles and hand-cranks, so I'll start with my rifles. Lugging enfields are Thunderlane, Roseluck, Quick Study, and Myself.” Down gestured with a hand to the other three rifles of the section, Roseluck being a tan coated earth pony, Thunderlane a dark grey pegasus stallion, and Quick Study a light fuschia unicorn mare. He then nodded to an orange coated Stallion, a muddy brown earth pony mare, and a light yellow coated Pegasus mare, all carrying hand-cranks- miniaturized Gatling guns firing pistol ammunition, but lightweight and quick to reload. “Then, we have Flash Sentry, Dusty Trails, and Wind Chill, my hand crank specialists.”

Serene nodded, idly tapping her right hand thumb against her chin, gauging the unit as a whole. “Well, you seem like a solid lot. Suppose my own introduction is in order. Nowadays I've been going by Serene Evenings, as I prefer the name, but… I'm sure most of you Would recognize my birth name, of… well, Nightmare Moon. No sense beating around the bush, I suppose.”

The response was understandably immediate, and about as expected: confused, concerned, and a tad shocked.

“... Yer kiddin’, right?”

“No, Private Apple, I am not, in fact, kidding. Plus, why would I be daft enough to try lying to the element of honesty?”

“... Huh.”

“Now then,” Evenings cleared her throat, “Moving on, I have been assigned as your superior officer. That does not mean you have to like me, but as your superior, you will respect me and follow my orders. Any complaints can, of course, be brought up when we're not being directly shot at. I'm not here to keep you alive and safe- we’re at war, and safe is being at home, cozy on your sofa while we soldiers fight here in the muddy charnel houses. So, I'm not going to lie and say I'll do my best to keep you safe. I'll do my best to keep you alive, but at no point here will we be safe, and… some of us will die. Possibly all of us, if we’re unlucky. Questions?”

“Yeah. Wasn't that supposed to be… ah dunno, inspirin’?”

“If you wanted inspiration, Private Apple, go read a poem. Back on the line; dismissed. Squad leads, stay here for the moment.”

“We didn't expect a war in 1914. We didn't expect a war in 1915. We sure didn't expect to still have a war in 1918.”- attributed to Her Royal Highness, Luna Solaris, Equestrian Diarch.

Two

Semois

It was the worst storm of 1944. Rains became torrents, became floods, became muddy hell-holes. It brought back to mind the muddy, horrid trenches of the Great War, about thirty years old at this point.

Not that it currently mattered. What mattered now was…

“What’s…. Our….. status? Status! Sergeant, mad’m! Comp’ny command’s askin’ fir our status!” The hapless radiomare bellowed over the thunderstorm, Spandaus echoing across both ends of the town, intermixed with cannon fire and shouts from friendly and enemy infantry.

The Sergeant nodded stiffly, tugging at her helmet’s chin strap, Her Sten V gripped in her right hand as she fiddled with the helmet with her left. “Right! Situation normal! Have made contact with Jerry! No sign of heavy armour yet! Spotted two light Panzers, so there’s something out there! AT support would be appreciated!” The non-commissioned officer growled over the excitement, gripping her sten with both hands after she was satisfied with the aforementioned chin strap. “I need a runner!” She barked, flicking her eyes over the assembled Platoon garrisoning the church in the center of the shitty little Prench village, settling on a slightly short unicorn mare. “You there! Private Doo! You're up, miss.” She waved the young-looking mare over.

“Yes’m, Sarge?” She replied, tapping fingers across her No. 4 idly, probably worried about where she was running to.

“I need you to get across to Dust’s Platoon and let her know we’ve got the churchyard secured! She is free to pull back from the bridge soon as she gets confronted with Hun armour!”

“Right, Sergeant Wind.”

“Take the backdoor and head down the side-alleys. Don't get caught out in the open!”

“Yes’m, sergeant. I'll get to Sergeant Dust!”

“Good mare! Off with you!” And with that, Private Doo was off running. “Corporal Shimmer! Ammunition count!”

“Buggered, Sarge! We’re running low on Spandau rounds! Plenty of .303 for the Brens, though! Wish we had a vickers!”

“Wishing doesn't win wars, Corporal! Make sure those Spandau belts are distributed around the guns! I want a markspony up in that steeple!”

Dinky Doo belted down the side-alley across from the church, keeping her head tucked low beneath her helmet, as rain plinked off it’s wide, flat top, the roar of gunfire echoing throughout the small, quaint, town. Approaching Sgt. Dust’s Platoon, at the crossroads, she braced herself, and booked it out of the side alley, ears folded tightly against her head, rifle squeezed in a death grip, as gunfire crackled around her. Something slapped into the brim of her helmet and ricocheted upwards, staggering the young mare, who quickly drug herself back to her feet, and cleared the last few meters to the apartment building overlooking the crossroads.

“Fuckin’ hell!” She barked. “Canterlot Bridge! Canterlot Bridge! Let me in you bastards!” The door gave way amidst the storm of rain and gunfire, and the young unicorn slid inside, releasing the breath she’d been holding as the door slammed shut behind her. “Bloody tits, I think I got shot that time.”

Another infantrymare chuckled dryly. “Aye, you’ll need a new helmet missie. Sounded like a Schmeisser t’me.”

“Ahhhh, everything sounds like a ruddy Schmeisser to you, Russy. Whatcha need, private?” A second voice, a corporal, interjected with a snort.

“I… I need…” Dinky paused, catching her breath, as the Private from before gave her a calming pat on the back. “I need to talk to Sergeant Dust, Church is secured.”

“Righto. Sarge is upstairs, third floor.” With a nod and a weak smile, Dinky pushed her way past the two, who returned to their guard positions at the door. Jogging up to the third floor, the youthful infantrymare began asking around for the platoon’s commanding officer.

Sergeant Lightning Dust, grizzled old veteran she was, had, in fact, taken up a firing position with the rest of the Platoon up on the third floor.

“Sarge!” Dinky barked, refraining from snapping off a salute in case griffon snipers were watching- a lesson of the last war, which still rung true today. “Sarge we’ve secured the church grounds! You are clear to retreat once we’ve spotted Jerry armour!”

Lightning snorted, as she slapped a fresh pair of stripper clips into the top of her No. 4 magazine, raising and firing the rifle, before popping back into cover. “Aye, if’n we can spot the jammy bastards! Understood though, Private! Let Wind know we’ll shoot a flare before we pull back, let the Royal Trots lads earn their keep f’ once!”

Dinky nodded, and re-adjusted her slightly dented helmet, jogging back downstairs to the pair at the door. “Clear to cross back?”

“No, but prob’ly clear as it'll get, lass. Heading back out?”

“Yeah. Heading back to the church.”

“Right. Off ya pop, then.” The corporal nodded, opening the door, as enemy and allied gunfire remained steady, if slightly louder.

Steeling herself once more, she waited for a several seconds, before choosing a slightly quieter moment to rush across. Something thwacked across the back of her head as the nineteen year old Private crossed, knocking her flat into the muddy ground. For a few seconds, she just lay there, as gunfire crackled around her, catching the breath she’d lost.

Spitting out a tooth from her hard impact with the muck, she groped around for her rifle and crawled the rest of the way across the dangerous street, cursing under her breath. Once across, and back into her side-alley, she removed a mud-coated glove, and gingerly ran a hand across the back of her head, wincing and yanking it back in front of her, a sickly feeling rising up from her chest as it came back red.

Taking a deep breath, she gave her helmet a long suffering look, tossing the dented brass piece of crap away, and re-donning her muddy glove, before carrying on back to the church grounds. Thankfully, aside from the constant torrential downpour over the Prench village, she was mostly left to her own devices, as the chattering of Spandau machine guns carried on, growing in volume the closer she came to the church grounds themselves.

After a few minutes at a combat jog, she found herself back at the side door she’d left out of, swinging it open, roughly. “Canterlot Bridge! Cant’lot bridge!” She barked, as a Bren gun was jammed in her face, though it was quickly removed.

“Bloddy ‘ael! Medic!”

“Oh, shan’t be too bad, Private Doo. Just a graze.” The medic sighed in relief, as he wrapped a thick cloth bandage around the younger mare’s forehead, being careful to cover the entire wound in the back of her skull. “Lucky break, eh?”

“I guess. Hurts like ‘ell.”

“Well, I mean, a gunshot’s a gunshot. Alright, you’re good to go. Sarge is upstairs, still.”

“Right, thanks Doc.”

“No problem, private. Alright, off with ya.”

With a stiff nod, as she pulled her mane into a short bob again, Private Dinky Doo stood up from the makeshift cot she’d been sat down on, snatching up her No. 4 rifle and ammunition bandolier, before jogging up back upstairs, where her fellow Equestrian rifle ponies were firing at griffon targets, wherever they could be spotted through the tempestuous storm.

“Sergeant Wind!” She called, attempting to be heard over both the thundering gunfire and the thundering storm. As Sergeant Wind didn't hear her, she frowned, and slid over, nudging the sergeant on the shoulder.

Wind looked over, and winced at her bandaged head, then frowned, and removed her own helmet, tossing it to the younger mare. “I'll get a new one later! What's the situation, Private Doo!?”

“Situation Normal, all focked up, Sarge! Sergeant Dust’s Platoon understands and copies orders, and will launch a barrage flare a’fore they pull back here!”

“Ah, excellent! Good call, for her part! Are you still combat capable?!”

“Yes’m, mar’m! Just a graze!”

Sergeant Wind nodded, as she took a minute to tie back her long, light blue mane into a neat cavalrymare’s ponytail, pulling it out and away from her jade green eyes. “Excellent, stay here with me then, and shoot at anything that isn't a pony! Radio!” She barked, changing tacks immediately, “How's that support comin’!”

“Ach, I can’t hardly get a ruddy-arse signal, ma’am! Something about Yanks!”

“Amareicans? Ruddy perfect! All we need is Amareicans t’show up late an’ take all the credit!”

Dinky just snorted in amusement, as the two bantered, raising her own rifle to squeeze off a shot at a griffon who’d leapt out of cover to spray a burst towards the Spandau crews with his Schmeisser. Dropping the-frankly quite daft; a Schmeisser against two Spandau model 42s?- griffon, she racked the bolt on her rifle, and slid back into the cover of the window.

“There's their flare!” Wind crowed out, a few seconds later, before turning back to Corporal Shimmer. “Check fire, check fire! Friendlies pushing back this way!”

“Yes ma’am! Gun crews check fire! Short bursts and proper targeting, you jammy bastards! Watch for friendly fire!”

About half a minute following the flare, still quite visible despite the whirlwind of rain and lightning, the low, distant rumbles of the Royal Trots Engineers’ twenty-five pounder guns echoed, as shells raced over the town, slamming into its edge, where Sergeant Dust’s Platoon had been. Meanwhile, the Platoon itself was busy fighting its way past the mob of enemy griffons, and, though they took a couple casualties from the sheer amount of lead flying through the air, mostly made their way into the church, still in good spirits.

Sergeant Lightning, however, was anything but in a good mood, as she made her way upstairs.

“Hell’s spit, Tempest!” She barked, a grimace across her face, as she nursed a hip wound that had been hastily patched up by her own combat medic. “They brought up Tigers, looks like! Two of the damn things!”

“Ballsacks! Those yanks better show up with Anti-tank support then, or we’re knackered!”

“Well, I ‘ave a couple PIATs, if’n they don't!” Lightning responded, to which Sergeant Tempest Wind gave her a flat stare.

“Like I said! They better have AT support, or we’re knackered! I'd like t’see you hit the broad side of a damn barn with a PIAT on a good day, Lightning!”

With a shrug, Sergeant Dust slid back downstairs, as the weary equestrian soldiers continued firing back from the windows of the old Prench church, whilst the storm continued onwards.

It'd been about half an hour, and the evening was on-coming, when the griffon Tiger tanks burst into the churchyard, their main cannons blasting away at the old, now crumbling building, sending dust and shrapnel flying in all directions, whilst fire from both sides continued to fill the air, along with the endless rain.

“Aw, fohk me!” Tempest growled, her accent thickening the angrier she got, as the two platoons groped about for whatever cover they could find.

Thankfully, the Tigers did not fire another shot at the Equestrians. Another tank shot did ring out, though from a quite different cannon, as an Amareican Sherman, toting a high velocity 76 millimeter gun blasted away at the leftmost Tiger’s frontal armor. The griffon tank fired back in kind, sending the much less armoured Sherman up in a spectacular fireball, despite the heavy downpour.

However, the Amareican tank wasn't alone. Shortly behind it came several more Shermans, and, after a brief firefight, the griffon tanks retreated, followed by their remaining infantry, as Amareican troops, following closely behind their armour, began to stream into the small Prench town.

The stand-down was equally wet and rainy, but, at least the ruined church offered a good amount of cover from the clearing thunderstorm.

With a sigh, Tempest sat on a church pew, as a couple other troopers chatted quietly, and began sketching out a letter, looking over to where Private Doo was being looked over in better detail, now that combat had subsided. Others were taking naps, or standing as lookouts, but everypony looked exhausted for certain.

Dearest Mother and Father,

I’m sorry I neglected writing to you last week, my unit had been fighting it’s way up a certain Highway, and had been caught up in a prolonged engagement. I simply hadn't the time to write. However, I am still in good health, and good spirits, so please, do not spend any undue worry on me! Today, I was fighting near a small Prench town- though I can't, for obvious reasons, tell you where. Weather was… rather poor, sadly. But, such is life, and we made the best of it. Tomorrow, we head up a hill, on the edge of town. It'll be tough fighting, but I have utmost confidence that, somehow, we’ll find our way through it.

Hopefully, this war will end, soon, and I can return home, but until then, I'll do my duty, as best as I can.
Wish for peace;

Tempest Wind

Three

Long Night

“You know, Sergeant, you never got around to saying what happened at Champagne. Why’d you get transferred?”

Serene cocked an eye, as she stood in the trench, binoculars raised to her eyes, as she gazed down the hill towards the griffons taking position in the formerly Equestrian-owned first line trenches at the base of the hill. That particular firefight had been undergone yesterday, whilst her Platoon had been rotated to the rear lines for their afternoon meal.

Big ruddy cock-up, that. Half the company, caught with their asses up in the air. But, no use crying over spilt milk.

“I don't like talking about Champagne, Corporal Yearling. I don't have fond memories about the battle.”

“Ah.” Autumn paused, blinking. “Particular reason why?”

“Lost friends at Champagne, to say the least.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps. I-” she paused, as she caught sight of something in her binoculars. “Ah-hn. That's a mortar position. Probably…. yes, there's an ammunition dump right… there. Private Punch?”

“Aye, ma’arm?”

“Call in a short barrage on these coordinates, if you would?”

“Righto, ma’am.”

“Serene Evenins’. Hooey. Her name’s Nightmare Moon.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Applejack.”

“O-oh, uhm. She's uh. Right. Erm. Sergeant. Sir.” Fluttershy squeaked in, as Equestrian artillery grumbled in the rear, shells arcing overhead as the Platoon held position along the trench line.

“Truly?”

“Sho’nuff. Heart mean an’ black as Chrysalis’ asshole.” Applejack replied, which drew a snort, followed by a snigger of amusement, from Storm Wind.

“Eloquent as always, Private.”

“Ah try.” AJ shrugged. “Anyways, two pair.”

“Oh, uhm, three of a kind.”

“Ech, bugger. Two pair.”

“Mmh, I've a flush.”

“Pot’s yours then, Edge.”

“Cheers, I… hey, y’hear that?”

Shrill whistles sounded out from the griffon lines, as the afternoon sun floated overhead, the normally gloomy Prench countryside actually rather bright and cheerful for once.

Well, cheerful aside from all the trenches, gun positions, and shell holes littering the churned, muddy ground.

Sergeant Evenings frowned, as she heard the same whistle, looking over to Autumn. “Back to the squad. Platoon! “ she barked, changing tacks, and raising her voice as loud as she found possible, “Prepare for attack!”

Up and down Charlie Platoon’s section of trench, and by extension, Charlie Company as a whole, the ponies of the Equestrian Expeditionary Force prepared themselves for a griffon attack, as the griffons themselves rose up from their trenches, flat caps intermingled with the pickelhaubes of Storm Troopers.

Snorting, behind her lit cigarette, Evenings shook her head. “Well, that's a sight for sore eyes. Corporal Yearling, are our crank guns ready?”

Yearling straightened herself from her slight slouch against the rear wall of the trench, and nodded. “Yes’m. Both Lewis guns are prepped and ready to crank. Ammunition’s plenty, today.”

“Excellent. Soon as they're within proper suppression range, begin firing. Infantry is to hold fire until they close to the barbed wire.”

“Right, Sergeant. I'll send that up the line.”

“Good mare.”

Wordlessly, Autumn left to pass on Serene’s orders, as Serene herself tapped her fingers across the odd looking pistol she’d “liberated” from the griffons in an earlier battle. Evenings had, due to the pistol’s odd design- it was a Mannlicher 1903 model, which for a pistol just looked odd- already gotten a couple curious looks, which she'd ignored as infantry curiosity.

Mouth twinging into a deeper frown, Evenings swished the cigarette back and forth in her mouth, a few times, before readying her Enfield rifle for combat, checking the ammunition and the iron sights. Ready to fire.

The crank guns- smaller .303 firing Lewis models, which traded the heavy .60 calibres fired by gatling models for the far more controllable and faster firing .303 “Equish” cartridge- began firing first, raking fire across the front line as their gunners earned their keeps, forcing the griffon formation to break apart into a more haphazard assault.

For their part the griffons continued to advance, finding scraps of cover wherever possible, until they began to reach the remaining bits of barbed wire.

Then, the Platoon’s rifleponies began to fire upon them, enfields barking up and down the line, intermingled with the steady, but rapid, thunk-thunk-thunk of crank gun fire.

Raising her own rifle to eye level, Serene chose a target as she stepped up to the firing line, squeezed off a shot, and racked the bolt, as the enemy she’d shot fell backwards, no doubt a large hole somewhere in his chest, whilst she took aim again.

The skirmish didn't last all that long, however, as the surviving griffons soon broke and ran back for their own lines, whilst the Equestrians continued to fire on the retreating boche infantry.

With a snort of derisiveness, Evenings lowered her rifle. “Call that a fight? Wasn't worth wasting the munitions.”

“Aye, they broke much too soon.” Berry Punch added, with a shrug, as she drew a swig of water from her canteen. “Pity, s’pose. I was itchin’ for a good fight.”

“Well, if those helmets were anything to go by, we’ll get one, once they get their acts together. Storm Troopers fight mean.”

“Mean, Sarge?” Autumn questioned, keeping her own Enfield raised to the firing line.

“Flame throwers, portable crank guns; grenades.”

“Ah.”

“Quite.” Serene nodded, shuffling through her chest pockets for her cigarette pack, wedging a lucky strike into her muzzle, and offering Autumn one, as Berry declined, but gave them a light, regardless. “Shock troopers,” she began again, in between drags on her cigarette, “Are bastards to fight. And those helmet spikes aren't f’ show. Solid steel, they are. Liable t’ crack y’ skull open, if’n they bring it down on you.”

“Sounds like y’all’ve fought ‘em before.” Applejack chuckled dryly, as Fluttershy checked the squad for combat wounds, and Steel Edge and Storm Wind took up skirmish positions with Autumn’s squad, on the firing line.

“Once or twice, Private Apple.” Serene confirmed, before taking a long drag on her lucky strike. “They're dedicated, I'll give them that.”

“Dedicated to dying, aye.” Berry snarked, as the three shared a quiet chuckle, resting against the trench walls. “So ye’er really Nightmare Moon, eh?” She followed up with, after the much-needed chuckles died back down.

“I am, yes. Celestia just had everything that made me… well, me, stripped away. Gone and forgotten. I'm just any old unicorn, now. She stripped me of my powers, and cast me out into the world.” Serene shrugged, taking another drag. “Well, shoved me into the military anyways.”

“So she had you drafted, basically?” Autumn inquired, removing her helmet momentarily, to run a gloved hand through her messy grayscale mane.

“Basically. I think she's hoping I'll die, and she won't have to deal with me any further. Can't really say I blame her, either.”

“Cuz’ of the whole “eternal night” thing?” Apple snorted.

“Amongst other things, yes. She can despise me all she wants, I suppose. She's won already, and I refuse to stoop so low as to apologize; doubly so if she tosses me somewhere to die. White nag can kiss my arse, f’ all I care.”

“Mhn. Figgur’ y’d stick it ta’ her, one last time?” Berry snorted, sipping from her canteen again.

“Sort of, I suppose. If I really wanted to stick it to her, I'd survive. Doubtful that’s going to happen though, from what I've already seen of this damnable war.” Sergeant Major Evenings scoffed, flicking her cigarette into the muddy trench, and scuffing it out with her boot. “Only reason I'm a ruddy fuckin’ Sergeant s’cos everyone above my rank died while we were fighting at Ypres. Figure I'll go the same way eventually.”

“Grim way to look at it.” Autumn blinked, slightly taken aback, as the dark coated unicorn mare just sighed, and offered another shrug.

“Accurate, though.” Berry grunted, cracking her back, stiff from lugging the ridiculously heavy radio kit. “This war’ll kill ye dead quick ‘s a flash an’ a bang.”

“Yeah.” Serene nodded, thinly. “Flash and a ruddy fucking loud bang.”

“Whaddya need, Applejack? I'm busy shifting crates.” Stone Wall grunted, alongside Buck Shot, the crank gun crew busy shifting ammunition crates about in the platoon’s ammunition dump.

“She's doomed, Stoney.”

Stone wall stopped, setting a crate of .303 cartridges back down on the dirt floor of the dump. Buck Shot, catching Stone Wall’s eye, stalked over and closed the dump’s entry door.

“Doomed?”

“Bitch doesn't even expect t’ survive.” Apple spat, arms crossed. “Expects she’ll die fightin’- an’ prolly drag us’n with her.”

“You sure, Yank?” Buck Shot interjected, idly fiddling with his 16 gauge shotgun, as he stood by the door.

“Sure as spit, Limey. Hell, the words came outta her own doggone mouth.”

“Huh. Doomed officer. Thought we’d gotten our last suicidal bastard at St. Lô.” Stone shrugged. “What are you suggesting, Applejack?”

“Ah dunno yet.” The Amareican mare shook her head, frowning deeply. “Ah really dunno. But ah’ll be spreadin’ word along the plat. Ah had t’deal with Nightmare Moon a’fore. Guess ah’ll have to write Twi a letter sayin’ ah had t’do it again.”

“Guess so, Yank. We’ll start talking with the rest of our squad. Why don't you chat with DeeDee’s squad?”

“Sounds good t’me, Bucky.”

A few hours passed, as scattered gunfire from skirmishers crackled across the muddy field, midday sun beating down on the company’s helmeted heads.

“They ought to attack again.” Evenings frowned, now pacing across the trenchline behind Double Down’s squad, as they kept active in their section of trench, occasionally rising up to the firing line to shoot off a round at the barest hint of a griffon soldier. “This morning was a crapshoot. They’d better attack again or command’ll think they're pulling back fro’ the area.

“I doubt the Boche share your sentiments, Sergeant, ma’am.”

“Yes, well, the Boche can go hang themselves and squawk like chickens f’r all I care.” Serene snorted in response to Double Down, who simply grunted in response, not quite sure how to respond to his new Sergeant.

However, the relative peace was short-lived. The whole platoon froze, as the griffon guns began roaring in the distance.

“Incoming!” Evenings began, snapping herself out of her stupor. “Take bloody cover! Get outta th’ open!”

And, as quickly as they could scramble into the relative safety of the ammunition dump, in the back wall of the trench over near Cpl. Yearling’s squad, the platoon did, slamming the makeshift wooden door shut. Only then did they relax slightly.

“Bloody ‘ell’s flamin’ focks.” Berry muttered out, over the echoing and bellowing artillery coming from griffonian lines, as the walls of the small cave-like ammunition dump shook and grumbled from the constant barrage.

“Damn. That’s a lot o’ artill’ry.” Apple whistled, as she shakily sat down on a munitions crate, trying to open her water canteen. “Whole lotta artillery.”

Serene, meanwhile, was counting. “Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. We’re missing two. Sound off, who’s missing!”

“Ah saw Steel get pegged by one of the first shells.” Applejack replied, as Serene nodded, mentally bringing the squad count to eighteen.

“O-oh, uh. I'm uh, here. I'm just...hiding.” The work table Serene was sat upon squeaked, causing the unicorn to jump up, and look underneath, where her buttercup yellow combat medic was sitting beneath, braced against it and the wall, her Enfield squeezed tightly between her fingers as her eyes darted back and forth across the room.

“...Right. Okay. Only lost Steel Edge then. That's...manageable. Glad everyone else is reasonably okay.” Serene nodded fingers rubbing together as she contemplated the pros and cons of lighting a cigarette inside an ammunition dump full of gunpowder. “Alright. Gather up weapons and munitions. Soon as… this,” she gestured to the rumbling ceiling, “lets up, we’ll get reorganized upon the line. Storm Wind, have your squad attach onto one of the other two, as you see fit.”

“Aw shucks, y’want us to go back out inta all that mess? Hay no, ah’ll take my chances here. Least here we won't get blasted t’tartarus.” Private Apple snorted, as Serene grit her teeth.

“That's an order, Private.” Sergeant Major Evenings shot back, resting a hand idly on her right hip, above her pistol belt. “And you will follow my orders.”

“How about y’go an’ fuck y’self. You ken have a deathwish all you want- ah heard what you were sayin’ back on the trenchline.”

“What I was- what, that Celestia is probably hoping I die?”

“No, th’ other bullshit. YES! Y’basically admitted you don't care if’n you live or not!”

“Which is none of your bloody business, Private!”

“All due respect, ma’am.” Double Down interjected. “I don't like the thought of following a doomed officer either.”

“Doomed?! Why I ought to-”

“Sarge, we’ve had a few too many suicidal officers.” Autumn interrupted. “We’re getting kind of sick of it, honestly.”

But, I-”

Besides, ah’ve got family to go back ta after all of this is over. You’ll probably get a ticket straight back to th’ moon like y’
deserve.”

That did it.

Evenings froze. The room fell silent. A few of the other soldiers had started to speak up, but caught one look of Sergeant Major Evening’s expression, and wisely kept their mouths shut.

Eyes narrow, a scowl across her face, Applejack almost thought Serene Evenings looked exactly like the Nightmare she’d once been, as her pistol was withdrawn from the holster- and just about jammed in her face, as Serene’s free hand gripped her by her shirt collar, standing her up as she crossed the small, cramped ammo dump in a couple short and efficient steps.

“You want to say that again, Private?! I don't fucking care what the damn hells you think, I am your superior officer, and you will follow orders!”

The Mannlicher pressed to her chin, Applejack smacked it away with and open palm, knocking it from Evenings’ grasp, before shooting out a kick into her knee, causing the Sergeant to drop her.

Wincing at the pain in her knee, Evenings barely had time to look up before the country mare decked her, sending her ass-over-teakettle across an ammunition crate.

“That all y’got, Nightmare?!” Applejack guffawed, shaking away the slight numbness in her knuckle, as the rest of the platoon simply looked on, not wanting to get in the middle of the fight.

With a growl more befitting an animal than a pony, Evenings drug herself to a standing position, wiping away the blood pooling at the corner of her lower lip. The Sergeant looked about ready to kill Private Apple, and, if looks could kill, the Amareican Private would have already been at Tartarus’ black gates.

“I am going to hurt you.”

“Ah’d like t’see you try.” AJ snorted, glaring right back at the Nightmare turned unicorn.

The two stood there for several seconds, as if gauging each other’s intentions, bodies tense like coiled springs, fists balled and knuckles edging on white.

The ammunition dump remained deathly silent. A minute passed. The artillery barrage continued; the only noise amidst the cold silence of the ammunition dump, and the platoon gathered within.

Another twelve seconds passed. Evenings grit her teeth, then looked about at the rest of the platoon.

No pony would look her in the eyes.

“Fine, then. I'll go fight off the whole gods-damned griffon army by myself. Unlike your hypocritical selves, I'm no coward. I'll die fighting, not crying and cowering in a cave. To hell with the lot of you.” She snapped, mentally exhausted, as she stalked past Applejack, whose smug look she sorely wanted to wipe right off her face, snatched up her pistol, and slammed it into it’s holster. “Hope you fucking rot in here.”

And with that, she stalked out the door, as the platoon gazed on, slamming it shut behind her, whilst the artillery fire finally began to slacken off.

For several moments, nopony said anything, simply watching the door, halfway expecting the mate to stagger back inside and stay with them. To beg forgiveness in an apology, especially to Applejack, who was glaring daggers at the door, despite her smug grin.

But she didn't, and if they strained their ears, the could just make out the shrill whistles of griffon officers.

Sergeant Evenings, however, could hear the whistles quite well, as she wedged the last cigarette in that particular pack of lucky strikes into her mouth, lighting it as she sat behind an abandoned Crank Gun, ammunition box full of cartridges ready to feed laid next to her, as well as her Enfield and Steel Edge’s cut-down enfield, as he didn't particularly need it any longer.

Resting her back against the rear of the gun dugout as the griffons prepared to advance, she exhaled smoke from her cigarette and sighed, looking up towards the setting sun, as evening crawled upon the line.

Well, everyone dies someday, right?

With a sigh, she doused the cigarette, leaning back over the gun, as the griffons began to cross the open field. Resting one hand on the crank, and the other on the adjustment grip, the unicorn Sergeant gazed down the targeting sights, and, as the griffon… brigade, maybe? As they crossed the first third of the open ground, she began cranking the handle.

Ears twitched beneath helmets, as they listened to the telltale steady cracks of a crank gun being operated.

Berry punch’s mouth twitches slightly. “Crank gun. She's on Kickers’ I thin’.”

“Crazy mare’s got a deathwish.” Storm Wind sighed.

The crank gun continually barked out rounds, as Evenings laid on the handle, pausing only to prepare the next batch of cartridges to go into the hopper. The large gun’s withering fire had thinned the griffon assault, a fair bit, and they'd slowed down and spread out about halfway across the open land, but they were still advancing, and beginning to open fire on her position- she’d already been knocked off the gun once by a rifle shot to the left shoulder. That was painful, but the lone Sergeant had just ripped a shirtsleeve to tie it off and staunch the bleeding. Then, she'd hopped back on her gun and started firing again.

Maybe she did have a deathwish.

The gun crank continued spinning, as the lone Lewis crank gun continued barking out across the line of advancing griffons, falling like wheat before a scythe. Yet, more and more advanced.

Maybe she did, really, have a deathwish.

But she was also a soldier. Her orders were to hold this line.

And dammit, she was going to hold the line.

The platoon listened, quietly, as the crack-crack-crack of an Equestrian crank gun continued to echo along the trench, occasionally intermingled with rifle fire-probably from griffon rifles.

Autumn Yearling bit her lip, tapping her fingers along her Enfield rifle’s body. “We ought to do something.”

“What, and die like her?” Dusty trails piped up, snorting, as she sat upon a work table. “I'll pass, thanks.”

“Well hell, Dusty! We’re soldiers!” Autumn barked, as the others looked on in mild shock. “This is our job- fight and kill and die. And here we are, with our damn thumbs up our asses, because we don't like our fucking superior officer.”

“Aye.” Berry grunted, slipping the heavy radio pack back onto her own back, and snagging up her enfield. “We should be out doin’ somethin’. Nae hidin’ in here like scared lil’ pussies.”

“Y’ll are welcome to piss away yer lives all y’want. Ah’m stayin’ here.”

“Ach, aye. Ye’er free tae doo thae all y’wan’. Ah’ naet r’spons’bl fir ye’er own conscience. Jus’ m’own. Y’comin’, Corp’l?” Berry questioned, as she stopped near the door, looking over to Corporal Yearling, who was standing off to the left.

The Corporal looked around the room, mouth twitching, then shrugged, and snagged up her enfield. “What the hell. Rather die fighting than hiding in a hole. Lead on, Private.”

It was approaching dusk, as the two happened upon Serene’s gun position. The mare was roughly hunched over the second crank gun, Cloud Kicker’s Lewis discarded off to the left, its barrels warped from overheating; the brass barrels twisted and melted around and into each other.

She looked half dead, four bullet holes scattered across her wheezing body, as she gingerly loaded her cartridges into the heavy weapon, the fingers of her gloves worn off and her fingers powderburnt; probably permanently scarred.

She jumped in shock, eyes wild, as Autumn and Berry gingerly pulled her off the gun. “Easy, Sarge. It's just us. Let's get you back to Fluttershy.”

“N-no! No.” She wheezed, trying to make her way back over to the gun, unable to walk due to a rifle shot in her lower hip. “T’many gh-griff’ns. s’awhl d-vshon.” She slurred, finally dragging herself back behind the crank gun, and re-aiming the sights.

She wasn't wrong, either.

“Berry.”

“Aye, corp?”

“Go get as many as will come. We've got to hold as long as possible.”

“Ah’l be quick.”

Berry Punch basically kicked the door of the ammunition dump down, a grim frown on her face. “Yew fockers. We’ve got a whole dam d’vision out thaer. Nae are ye fookin’ soldiers, aer pussies?! We ‘aev saem work tae do! Die here or focken helpin’ saemthin’!”

And with that, the purple earth pony, normally the cheeriest mare in the platoon, was gone.

“Shite, a whole division?” Storm Wind mumbled.

“And we’ve got an artillery battery behind us…” Flash Sentry piped up, fingers restlessly tapping against his hand crank.

“Hell, we’ve got to do something, then. At least buy some time.” Double Down frowned. “Idiots. We’re fucking idiots. Third Squad! Rifles and ammo, we’re heading back out!”

“Come on, First Squad, we can't just leave Autumn and Berry out there alone!”

Storm Wind paused, as he passed Applejack, who hadn't moved, and Fluttershy, who looked torn between leaving and staying. “...You don't have to go, you two. Especially after… what happened between you and the Sergeant. I won't make you follow us into battle. Godspeed.”

“Uh-huh. See you around, Storm.”

“Mhn.”

And with that, he was gone.

Silence reigned in the ammunition dump again, as Applejack took stock of her surroundings.

“U-uhm… A-Applejack?”

“Hm? What's up, ‘Shy?”

“O-oh, uh… I erm… I'm heading out with the others.”

Applejack blinked. “Er, pardon?”

The timid medic took a few deep breaths, as she gathered up her meager supplies. “W-well… our friends are out there. And… and N-Nightmare moon, too. And I… I don't know what I'd do with myself if I just h-hid here, and they…” she paused, gulping visibly as she came to terms. “If they died. I… I'll see you later.”

And then she was alone.

Sergeant Evenings hissed with pain as another griffon rifle found it’s mark, a cartridge flying once more through her shoulder, near the last one, as she flopped back from the gun, on the verge of tears.

The enemy felt endless. Were endless. Pickelhaube and griffon flat cap littered the ground, rifles discarded and bodies twisted in unnatural positions.

Storm Wind lay dead somewhere behind her, caught in a grenade blast that had torn into Evenings’ back, now a muted pain amidst the rest of them.

Sentry lay bleeding out a little farther down the line, a Mauser round buried in his throat. Thunder lane was missing a leg, thankfully stopped from bleeding out by a hasty tourniquet.

And others lay scattered about. Fluttershy, bless her, was doing the best she could, tying a bandage around Cloud Kicker’s ruined eyes, destroyed by the fragments of another grenade.

Coughing harshly, the unicorn mare drug herself back onto the gun, then frowned when she remembered that it was nearly empty again anyways. Storm had been coming to help load, but… that wasn't going to happen.

Grunting, she slid off the gun to grab up more ammunition, though paused as another pair of hands snagged the ammunition box, pouring some of the heavy cartridges into the feed.

“Ah don't like ya.” Private Apple grunted, as a rifle round cracked by the dugout. “But ah guess I shouldn't jus’ leave you, either. Ah’ll keep you loaded.”

With a cough, then a nod, Evenings re-manned the gun.

C company had work to do.

Hours passed. With the falling night, the griffon units quit the field, returning unsuccessfully to their own units, though medics from both sides would be working well into the night.

Serene Evenings slumped over the burnt out crank gun, feeling each of her wounds now that her adrenaline had run dry. It was all she could do to stay still, lest another searing pain stab through her body.

“She's o’er here, ‘Shy. Looks bad.” Applejack’s soft voice rose from behind, lacking the spiteful edge it had earlier. “Lotsa holes.”

“Let me see her.” The timid battlefield angel’s voice whispered, as she felt herself being removed from the crank gun, and laid to rest on a stretcher. “O-oh, my… she’s lost a lot of blood. Let's get her back to the field hospital.”

“A-yep. Up y’come… Sarge.”

“Often times I look out from this castle, simply watching the ponies of Canterlot. It had been a hobby of mine for many, many years… Yet lately, I look out on Canterlot… and wonder how many of my little ponies that are out there, in fields abroad… I wonder how many of them I shall never have the great pleasure of seeing again.”

-Celestia Solaris, during a personal meeting with Court Grand Magus Twilight Sparkle, ca. 1917

Four

Alamein I

New Recruit

The dry desert heat of Northern Zebrica was stifling, even this late into the evening. Here she sat, drenched in sweat, and the ruddy sun wasn't even up anymore.

Bollocks to Zebrica.

‘It'll get cool when the sun goes down’, they said.

Cocks, the lot of them.

Wiping her sun-scorched face gently, Private First Class Tempest Wind slogged her way across the desert sand, over to her assigned defensive line, only to be met by an Amareican made Thompson’s barrel. “Oh, Canterlot Bridge you twitchy prats. Private First Class Tempest Wind. Just rotated in from the rear.”

“Nice t’meetcha. Sergeant Applebloom Apple. Welcome to Baker Company. Sorry ‘bout the gun, Private; Scoots has been twitchy since El Agheila.”

“For good reason, ‘Bloom! That Schmeisser coulda sawed us in half!”

“Shucks, I wuddn’t sayin’ it were a bad thing. Jus’ ecksplainin’ stuff to th’ newbie. Tempest Wind, right?”

“Yes’m, Sarge.”

“Right. Well, hop on in, Private Wind. Ah’ll introduce ya.”

With a sigh, followed by a tired chuckle, Tempest did so, resting her No. 4 rifle- a tried and venerable design that’d served quite well during the last war- against the wall of the slit trench.

“Righty. Ah’m Sarge Applebloom, as y’know. This’n ‘ere’s Scootaloo, on th’ Tommy gun, she's our short range spec’list.”

“Yo.” The clearly Amareican- Manehattanite, maybe?- waved idly, chewing on a pack of gum. “Ain't you from Ponyville?”

“Oh, uh, yes.”

“Thought I recognized ya. You got your mom’s eyes, kid. Dad’s mane though, looks like.”

“Hey! I like my mane!”

The others simply giggled, as Tempest snorted in annoyance.

“Mov-snrk-movin’ on, we’ve got Sweetie Belle, resident radiomare, and if’n you happen to be lucky, singer, ‘fore the war broke out.”

“Truly?”

“Sure, Miss Wind. I sing a little. Maybe later, when we’re not being shot at, though. Griffs are poking at our lines, lately.”

Applebloom nodded, seriously. “Sho’ nuff. They're right assholes… movin’ on, though, we’ve got Tree Hugger on the Bren gun.”

“Like… ‘Ello. You the newbie, poppet?”

“Erm. Yes?”

“Cool.”

“Ayep. She don't talk much, but uh, she's pretty darn good on the Bren. Juuuuust don't smoke anything she offers.”

“I… I see.”

“Moving on, haulin’ up th’ end here is our token changeling, Powder Keg.”

“Eh, ignore her. She's just jealous. Keg or Bug’s just fine, whatever’s faster for ya.” The changeling shrugged, as he dropped his Pegasus disguise to show her that, yes, in fact, he was a changeling.

“Uh-huh. Complet’ly jealous. Keg’s great with explosives, and he's luggin’ our Boys AT rifle. Which leaves us short a sharpshooter. Ah take it that'n’s you?”

“I… yeah. I uh, guess so. My mother taught me how to shoot.”

“Yeah, she's solid, ‘Bloom. They used to hunt Everfree, last I heard.” Scootaloo chimed in, the former weathermare nodding as if to reaffirm her statement.

“Dang. No sights though?”

“Sights are stupid.” Wind grunted automatically, snapping up her rifle. “Too easy to see glint, especially off reflective surfaces.”

“Yeah? Who said that.”

“Stallion named Häyhä. They called him White Death.”

“Hay-ha?”

“Häyhä. Served during the 39-40 winter war. Five hundred and five reported kills.” Tempest shrugged, adjusting her reading spectacles.

“Ohhhh that dude. Shiiiiiite, poppet. I like… took a picture of him once.”

“Really, miss Hugger?”

“...Poppet, kiddo, Miss Hugger was my mom. But yeah, I was like… a journalist. For a while. Then I sorta got drafted. But yeah, I got like. All sorts of colts and fillies on film. S’cool.”

“Ayep. Anyhoo, settle on in, Private. Won’t be goin’ nowhere in a rush.”

“We won't, Sarge?”

“Ee-nope. ‘Least, not unless we go backwards. That ain't happened since we got back ta Alamein, though. Anyhows, might as well calm down for th’ evening. Ain't nothin’ happenin’ tanight.”

Tempest was nudged awake late into the evening- about nine if her watch was to be believed.

“Up’n’attem, Private. We’re movin’.”

Tempest yawned, stretching in the dusty trench, the rest of the squad in various states of wakefulness. “We’re retreatin’ already?”

“Eenope. We’re movin’ forward. Get ready ta shoot, newbie.”

“Oh.”

And that'd been that. Half an hour passed, and the squad had formed up into its Platoon, then it's Company, and so on and so forth.

As they formed up into their Universal carriers, whose steam engines chugged quietly into the late night, Captain Heart surveyed her company, making sure to take the rounds to each squad. Halting at Applebloom’s squad, she nodded, stiffly, standing perfectly straight, her uniform dusty and obviously worn. “I see you've picked up your replacement, Sergeant.”

“Yes’m, Captain, ma’rm. We’re good ta go… Any idea whut’s goin’ on?”

“Some. The Division is to advance on Jebel Kalakh’s right flank, covering for a main advance from seventh armoured, and the Prench on our left. That's all I know.”

“It's enoug’ ma’arm. Thank ya.”

“Godspeed, Sergeant. You're on point.” The Captain warned, as the two saluted, before the Captain moved on.

“Damn. We’re point again.” Scootaloo groused, jamming a cigarette in her mouth, before shrugging. “Guess it could be worse. Could be the Sappers.”

“Sappers?” Tempest inquired, sat across from Scootaloo.

“Engineers; minesweepers.”

“Ah.” Private Wind nodded, looking out over the desert. “Aye, can't say I envy them.”

Sweetie nodded herself, tuning the squad radio, whilst Keg made doubly sure to keep the Boys clear of dirt and other debris. “Me either. We’ll probably be covering them, though.”

“Seems like it, yep.” Applebloom sighed. “You all good then, Hugger?”

“Like, I’m always good, Sarge. Just locked and cocked and loaded to harsh someone real good.”

“Alrighty then. Jus’ don't f’get yer extra ammunition this time.”

“Yeah, yeaah, Sarge. We’re all good in the neighborhooood. I've got like…” the green earth pony mare paused, counting with her fingers. “Like fifteen magazines shoved in my pockets.”

“Sure it's not five again, Huggy?”

“Like, not cool, Keg Brah. Don't harsh my mellow, man.”

“Pipe it down, y’all; we’re moving forward.”

Artillery flared across the desert night echoing thunder following shortly behind, as the infantry carriers and crusader tanks left their lines, rumbling across the desert dunes. The Universal carriers chugged, pale smoke churning into the air and disappearing into the night sky, as the small squat troop carrier Tempest sat in jostled the squad, the bumpy ride rather uncomfortable but quick, which mattered on this Zebrican evening, where speed was key.

The drive continued for a short sprint across the dune sea, before the column began taking Griffon gunfire, and Tree Hugger began tapping out staccato replies with the light machine gun, a far cry from the crank guns of the last war. That particular change had been for the better, probably.

“Alrigh’, squad dismount, w’ got some work ta do! Wind, start pickin’ machine gunners, Scoots, help Hugger load until we get closer! Sweetie, on mah ass an’ stay there! Keg, save yer ammunition f’r cars an’ Panzers!”

“General, Sir, first reports from the line coming in.” His aide de camp saluted, as the General nodded, sipping from his Brandy snifter, whilst he poured over a large map of the area of operations.

“Well, out with it, Lieutenant.” General- normally prince, but… desperate times and measures, and so on and so forth- Blueblood gestured, as his fingers thrummed across the map table, a frown present across his face.

“O-oh, right, uhm, sorry, General, I'm still new to all… this.”

“Quite alright, Lieutenant Glimmer. The report?”

Second Lieutenant Starlight Glimmer blinked, then nodded, clearing her throat. “Right. Thirty Corps is bogged down in the devil’s gardens, but holding and advancing slowly. No armour has broken through as of this report, thirty minutes ago.”

“And the Prench of thirteen Corps, down south?”

“Much the same, sir. Slow advance under heavy fire. Apparently they're being fought by the Folgore division.”

“I'm… sorry, Lieutenant, but who?”

“Bitalians!” Scootaloo swore. “We’re fighting fucking Bitalians!”

“Hey Sarge, isn't your cuz’ Bitalian?”

“Shadapp, Sweetie! Gimme a fire mission on that gun nest at bearin’ one fifty!”

“Break, this is Bull Four, over! I need a concentrated barrage at azimuth three hundred, bearing one-five-zero! Three rounds HE!”

Tempest, off to the right, racked the bolt on her No. 4, re-settling behind her peep sight, finger brushing against the trigger, as she lined her foresight up with the staggered flashing of a Bitalian machine gun position, the outline of the pony behind the gun framed against the rear of the gun nest.

Slowly and methodically, Tempest eased into the trigger, the No. 4 kicking against her shoulder as the rifle’s bark joined the chorus of gunfire echoing across the desert, as she grimly noted that the gunner was no longer firing.

Tree Hugger, meanwhile, continued laying on the Bren, the light gun chattering brashly into the night, the same bemused smile from earlier plastered across her face, as her gun barrel swiveled almost lazily across the enemy line.

All of a sudden, a crack echoed out between gun bursts, along with the wet sound of a gunshot impacting flesh, and Tempest watched Hugger slump back, writhing and groaning, as the squad tucked deeper into the depression they’d taken position in.

“Dude, like, what the heck? I was settin’ such a nice pace, too.”

“Shite, where you hit, TH?” Keg grumbled, as Private Wind began scanning for the Bitalian sharpshooter, eyes straining against the dark, teeth lightly squeezing her tongue in concentration.

“Uh, like… in the chest somewhere.”

“Oh. Oh, fuck, okay, Scoots, I need the aid kit.”

“On it, Bug!”

Across the way, Tempest’s sights settled on a lump of something that definitely wasn't desert sand, and she squeezed the trigger again, nodding with satisfaction as a spray of some sort- probably blood, but she couldn't tell with the evening’s darkness- splashed out behind the mound, which slumped and didn't move further.

“Okay, shit, shit you're bleeding bad…”

“Rad.”

“No! Not rad you bloody addict! How the hells are you so damn calm with a focken’ hole in your chest?!”

“Shit, my good stallion, I dunno. Hey, and, like, eyes up here, dude.”

“I am trying to stop you from bleeding out and you're worried about your fuckin’ tits?!”

“Folgore; Bitalian paratroopers. Right, they may break more easily than Rommel’s griffons. I don't know, though. They're good troops too.” Blueblood mumbled, pacing back and forth across the field command post, fingers crossed behind his back, eyes not particularly focused on anything in particular.

“General, sir?”

“I'm thinking, Lieutenant.” Blueblood groused, biting his lower lip. “I want you to get me on the radio with the 4th Division as soon as possible, Glimmer.”

“Aye, General, right away.”

“Alright, Sarge. Tree Hugger’s stable and lucid.” Keg frowned, Boys Rifle slung over his shoulder, as the squad sat around in the dune’s depression, relatively safe from rifle fire at the moment.

“Good ta here, Bug. Private Wind?”

“Yes’m sarge?”

“Ever been to Bitaly?”

Tempest blinked, caught wrong-footed. “Erm. No, Sarge. Why?”

“Cuz they've got hot mares.”

Scootaloo snorted. “Yeah, I’d drink to that.”

Tempest couldn't help but chuckle along with the others, as artillery softened up the Bitalian line.

“Man, ‘Bloom. Soon as we get back to Ponyville, I'm gonna call up that cute cousin of yours, Bab, and I’m gonna take her out for a drink or two.”

“U-huh, Scoots. An’ ah’m sure that's all ye’ll do wit’ mah cuz.”

“Well, I mean, if she’s offerin’.”

“Ahhh fuck off. Alrigh’, Sweetie, tell ‘em correct to one seven seven.”

“Yes’m, Sarge. Breaker, this is Bull four, over.”

With morning came the desert heat, as Tempest wiped sweat away from her brow, her squad taking another momentary break from gunfire to stay hydrated, and eat some cold chow. They hadn't moved too far, really; the Bitalians still held their defensive line on the ridge, despite being battered by artillery, which was still shelling their line hourly.

Snorting, as Tree Hugger tossed her combat tee at her, Wind folded the offending piece of clothing, chucking it back at the still jolly Bren Gunner. “Oi, you better keep y’pants on, else you're liable to die nekkid.”

The Bren gunner shrugged, discarding her helmet, instead tying her dreadlocked mane back with a bandanna. “Can't take them off anyways dude; I don't got no panties on, they were, like, full of sand and stuff. Got itchy.”

“I did not need to know that, TH.” Keg grumped, cigarette shoved in his mouth, as he ran a hand across the back of his neck, wiping away sweat of his own. “Just keep your damn bra on, you absolute nutter.”

“Well, like, duh.”

Sighing and shaking her head, Tempest took the momentary lull to slide out a small journal and pen, and a pencil, and started scribbling out a note.

Mother,

It's me, Tempest. I've arrived in Northern Zebrica, finally, and begun settling in with my squad. I can't tell you where I am, right now, aside from such broad strokes, but, I am in combat; that much I've been told I am able to say.

Please pray for both me and my unit.

Tempest

Five

Champagne

Evenings found herself staring at the roof of the company medical tent, as Fluttershy and another triage nurse tended to her wounds in better detail, the army surgeon off amputating a pony’s leg, that had been unfortunate enough to trod on a mine. Her Mannlicher 1903 lay next to her, half disassembled, as she'd been maintaining it when the pair of combat medics had come to check in on her.

As they weren't currently on the front line, Autumn, Berry, and Applejack were sat on an empty cot next to her, as she frowned.

“So you really want to hear about Champagne so badly you sought me out in a medical tent?”

“Figgur’d it’d be… ah dunno. Cathartic? T’ talk about it. Was f’r me an’ Autumn, back when we were at Verdun.”

Serene blinked, glancing over. “You served at Verdun?”

“For a time. Long enough, time.”

Grunting in agreement, Serene relaxed slightly, as Fluttershy asked the nurse to help her refill the blood drip. “Yeah. I know that feeling.” She paused, frowning. “Anyone got a cigarette?”

“Yeah, I-” Autumn paused, looking to Fluttershy, who nodded that it was okay. “I got a pack of strikes.”
A cigarette and lighter later, the Sergeant was quietly thinking, whilst she took long, methodical drags on her cigarette.

“Champagne.”
---------

The second battle of Champagne. I… wasn't there for the first battle, for obvious reasons.

Second Champagne. My first battle as a non-commissioned officer of the Equestrian Expeditionary Force. Before Champagne, I'd served as an enlisted soldier, same as anyone else, at Ypres. After Ypres, I made Squad Sergeant off the basis that I was the most experienced soldier in the squad.

By the time my company arrived at Champagne, however, the Equestrian and Prench offensive had begun winding down- we were part of a holding force whilst that section of front pulled off to re-arm and refit.

--------
“Incoming!”
“Take fuckin’ cover!”

And other, similar cries went out along the trench line, as Sergeant Serene Evenings leapt into a crank gun dugout, immediately feeling about the muck for her lost Enfield pattern Rifle, which she snagged after a second or so, curling up with the rifle held tightly, into as small a ball as she could force her body. Outside, all around and all along the line, Griffonic artillery fell like righteous fury from the heavens.

The world itself was artillery fire. Steel death from above cascaded across the lines, here and there kicking up the battered shreds of corpses along with torrents of muck and grime. For what seemed like eternity, Boche guns roared their hatred, as Serene curled up in the muck, praying vainly to whatever gods may be out there listening, hoping for her luck not to run out.

A shell burst outside the dugout, sending mud spraying into the dugout itself, coating all three EEF soldiers inside. That was the closest shell to come to Serene’s dugout, landing a mere few feet away, her only shelter being the wooden walls of the gun nest itself, that being thankfully enough.

Finally, after an agonizingly slow hour of shell after shell after gods forsaken shell, the Boche guns quit firing. Serene lay there, knuckles stuck tightly in a death grip, her breath ragged and harsh, as she waited for several tense seconds, her and her comrade’s breathing the only audible noises.

Then came the shrill calling of the whistles. High-pitched; carrying over no-pony’s land, and letting the Expeditionary Force know exactly what was coming next. Quietly and methodically, the Crank-gunners re-readied their .60 calibre Gatling model, one mare resting behind the crank and adjusting the targeting sights, no doubt thrown off by the bombardment, as the other leaned over the top loading magazine, double checking the ammunition seated within the feed.

With quiet resolve, Evenings drug herself back to her feet, shaking off a bit of the mud, though most still clung to her, and racked the bolt on her Enfield, satisfied with the audible racking noise itself. Slipping her way back out of the dugout, she crept her way back over to where her Platoon was gathered, her own squad- the base of fire squad- setting up its pair of crank guns in the in the middle of the platoon’s line.

“Here comes Boche!” Her Platoon lead began. “Let's get t’ work!”
And, sure enough, Boche came. Hundreds- perhaps a full brigade- of Griffons came rising out of the gloomy Prench afternoon, carrying an assortment of rifles, pistols, hand-cranks, and the most hated of enemy weapons: Flammenwerfers. The weapons didn't just kill- they burned, and scarred, and tortured.
The Equestrian gunners held their fire, tense around their guns, as the Equestrian infantry followed suit, waiting impatiently to see the predatory eyes behind the Griffonic infantry’s gas masks. Seconds passed into minutes, as the Griffons crept their way forward.

Then the gates of Tartarus were swung open, as one hapless Boche soldier tread on a mine, getting torn apart as a reward for his foolish treading. Crank guns roared, as their heavy rounds raked back and forth across the advancing griffons, who took cover in the mud and artillery shell holes wherever possible, occasionally hitting another Equestrian mine, which sent the occasional Boche flying backwards in a heap of flesh and torn uniform. For her part, Serene simply continued firing at any enemy in view, as quickly as she could rack the bolt on her mud-caked, yet still operable Enfield, as the rest of the company did much the same, controlled bursts from Crank Guns, as Enfields cracked and barked across the trench.
A round from somepony’s enfield glanced off a Flammenwerfer tank, causing the temperamental weapon to ignite, still attached to the hapless soldier wielding it, taking its user and itself in a beautiful fireball of death, as those nearby who were unlucky enough to catch fire dropped into the mud, whilst the EEF soldiers cheered at the enemy’s loss of the despised weapon. Straight to the gates of hell, with any Flammenwerfer’s wielder.

For a couple seconds, Serene paused to watch in morbid fascination, as the weapon’s operator, engulfed in flames, staggered forward a few steps, almost like a zombie, before falling flat on their face, as the flames consumed the operator fully. With a shake of her head, she focused away from the ashes, and returned her focus to the still advancing enemies.
And, not a moment too soon. A Griffon unit charged the trenchline, bayonets fixed, one in particular singling her out, a guttural screech riding from his throat as he ran through the mud, steel blade raised high above his head, ready to stab downwards into her skull. Firing her Enfield without a second thought, she side-stepped, as the round buried itself in the griffon’s chest, racking her rifle bolt methodically as the dead enemy flopped into the trench.

But, now the surviving enemies were in the trench, and she couldn't risk firing and hitting an ally. Turning her Enfield about, she swung the rifle in an overhead cleave, cracking the butt-stock and grip in half from the rest of the rifle, as a Griffon soldier dropped dead with a fractured skull. Snagging a nearby entrenching spade instead, as she dropped the abused Enfield that had served her well, she turned about to focus on another Boche riflegriff.

Swinging the spade about, she buried it into his neck, right beneath the edge of his gas mask, as his bayoneted rifle dug its way into her shoulder with a wince. Gritting her teeth, she tore the spade free of the griffon’s corpse, his blood splattering her nowhere near pristine combat uniform, as she moved past the corpse to the next enemy.

A third griffon met her gaze, holding a metal-forged blackjack, spinning the thin club about in his claws, his grizzled, veteran gaze hawkishly studying the mare in front of him. Closing the distance, she acted first, swinging the spade towards the griffon, who easily batted it away, burying it blade first in the side of the trench, as he followed through and slammed the blackjack into Serene’s chest, lifting her off her feet and knocking her back several feet, into the trench. Groping about frantically, and painfully aware of the burning in her chest area, she looked away for a split second, snagged a pistol of some sort out of a dead griffon’s hip holster, took aim, and emptied the magazine- apparently six or so shots- into the blackjack wielder, who slumped in the trench where he stood.

Staring at the dead griffon, Evenings took several ragged breaths, nearly deaf to the rage of the battle going on about her, as rifles cracked overhead, guns chattering as soldiers roared and screamed and cried, shattered and furious, all at once. Standing to her feet, her chest sucking for air, as she looked about, mud splattered and intermingled with blood, her upper torso feeling like a burning fire where she’d been struck with the billy club. Almost in a daze, she watched as the rest of the company drove the last dregs of the griffon attack out of the trenchline, hazarding a breath of air, wincing slightly; she must have broken something, she supposed.

The gunfire slackened off. Mostly the dead and the dying, of both sides, remained in the trenchline, here and there a pony of the EEF still clutching a rifle, and still very much alive.

The survivors met along the center of the line, several minutes later.

Wait, what happened during that time? Did you just sit down, or…?

I don't really know. Can't remember. Can I continue?

Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry.

The survivors met along the center of the line, several minutes later. There was perhaps a third of their original 100-odd company still combat capable.

“Who's in charge?” Sergeant Evenings croaked, as she held another Enfield rifle, snatched off a riflepony who didn't much need it anymore. The griffonic pistol she’d borrowed off its dead owner remained holstered in its own holster, now wrapped around her own hip, spare magazines in mud-caked chest pockets.

“I…” one soldier began; a corporal, by the chevrons. “I think you are. Ma’am.”
Evenings blinked, then looked about, taking in the survivors’ ranks. Corporals. Privates. The occasional Private First Class.
Sergeant Serene Evenings was now the most experienced and highest ranking soldier in the entire company; for what was left of it, anyways.

“Okay.” She paused, wincing as her chest wound prodded at her, again. “Okay. Gather… gather up weapons and ammunition. They'll… probably be back… Stallions, Mares… there's not many of us left. Allied lines are back that way. Griffon lines are in front of us. If you're leaving, I won't stop you. I'm going to stay.” And that was all she said. She'd never been that eloquent of a speaker, anyways. That was always Celestia’s forte.
But, she supposed it was enough. The shattered remnants of the company shrugged, and began preparing themselves for another attack. Rifles were gathered up and distributed along the line, making sure that every pony had a loaded rifle, of whatever make or model they could scrounge up. The crank guns were re-crewed, and re-positioned to different dugouts, so as to confuse the boche, should they barrage again before their next attack.
A small, ineffective barrage that fell far short of the trenchline came, a few hours into the wait, followed by the shrill shrieking of whistles again.

“Hold the line!” Came somepony’s cry, as the whistles halted, and the griffons took the field again, rising from their trenches once more. Serene nodded grimly to the loader of the crank gun she sat behind, as she took up the gunner’s position, being careful not to put any more pressure on her chest and shoulder than necessary.
Seconds passed.

Once more, the griffons entered no-pony’s land, toting their hand cranks and light crank-guns- probably MG-08/15 types. More worrying was the lack of the normal Griffon soft caps that most enemy infantry wore. No, there were no soft caps in sight. Just the gleaming steel spikes of Pickelhaube helmets of griffon storm troopers; elite trench-fighters.
The crank gunners wasted no time or energy opening fire, as Serene and the others in the unit began cranking their weapon handles, the loud and powerful weapons churning out cartridge after cartridge as fast as the lever would spin. The griffons marched in smart formation regardless of the rapid-fire guns, stepping over or around casualties, as they held their fire until they could guarantee enemy casualties.

Here and there, a griffon trod across a mine, blowing up themselves and occasionally a fellow soldier, but they unnervingly remained in their formations. The crank gunners continued to rake their guns across the front, shredding numerous shock troopers, yet they continued marching, until they finally closed to firing range, and took up cover and shooting positions wherever possible.

One enemy trooper, spotting Evening’s nest, primed a grenade. Her loader, spotting the enterprising grenadier, drew a service revolver of some sort, and snapped off two rounds, dropping the griffon with a live grenade, before quietly returning to the work of loading the heavy crank gun, pistol back in her holster. The explosive itself detonated a couple seconds later, sending mud and shrapnel flinging about the immediate area.

Slowly and steadily, however, the griffons continued to advance despite their heavy casualties. Here and there, an Equestrian fell, dead or dying, cutting sharply into the small amount of remaining Equestrian firepower. But, what the hell, no one lives forever, so the soldiers of the EEF stood firm regardless.
The eight barrels of the Heavy Gatling model crank-gun whistled as they spun about, snapping off Cartridge after cartridge.

Then the low rumbling sounded out in the gloomy early evening, as dusk fell. The griffons themselves had contented to shooting and harassing the few beleaguered ponies- now down to under twenty- and keeping their heads down in the trenchline.

For several tense seconds, the Equestrians strained to see what was causing the noise. Then, when they did spot the culprit, their hearts sank.

Two Land Battleships of the Griffonian Imperial Cavalry Corps. The two box-like vehicles rose out of the gloom, main guns in the front swinging towards the two heavy gun nests. Serene let off the crank, blinking, as she made eye contact with the loader.

The two shared a look, for what seemed like the longest second of her life.

Then, there was a roar, like that of a howitzer, and the gun nest exploded in a blaze of explosives and cooking off gun cartridges. Evenings found herself slumped against the back wall of the trench, coughing, as the smoke cleared, and she drug herself away from the destroyed gun nest, shakily feeling around herself, and finding some minor shrapnel cuts in her legs- nothing too dangerous having missed her arteries, but painful. More pressing was the fact that she couldn't see clearly out of her right eye, which was foggy and as blurry as the morning fog.

Griffon crank guns from the land ships cracked, as they tore apart the few shattered remnants of the defensive line, as others crawled their ways back towards the rear lines.

For a few moments, Serene was tempted to join them, but then, had a thought.
They couldn't just abandon the trench line, after all.

Coffee. She needed to find Coffee.

Reaching down for her holster, she shakily drew the pistol she’d earlier liberated, and readied the pistol, pausing momentarily to gaze at her blood-slicked left hand, not quite sure if that was her own blood or not.

Shaking off the queasy feeling rising once more in her stomach, she snuck down the trenchline, pausing at every little crack or noise, fearful of griffons moving into the trench, as the gloomy evening gave way to a gloomy, moonless night.

Finally, she stumbled upon Coffee, in a secluded corner of the front left gun dugout.

She gave the corpse a wistful gaze, as she knelt over Lieutenant Coffee, rooting through the harsh stallion’s belt pouches.

She'd never really liked Coffee. He'd been a hard-ass on all of them, almost like a drill instructor. But, harsh as he was and as much of an utter ass the stallion had been, he'd been a damn fine Lieutenant.

And, if the six griffon corpses at his feet, as he clutched an empty Webley revolver in his right hand -left fingers still curled about a fist full of six thirty-eight caliber rounds- were any indication, a damn good shot with a gun.

After a few tense seconds of searching his pockets, she sighed in relief, wincing at the harsh, sharp pain still permeating her upper chest, as she retrieved a cylindrical grenade from his pouches.

Specifically, a blue smoke grenade, helpfully marked with a large bold “B” near the handle.

B for blue, or, more importantly, “barrage”. Hazarding a peek out of the front of the gun dugout, Evenings pulled the pin on the grenade, slowly, squeezing the handle, as she pulled her arm back, heaving it towards the two idling land ships.

She immediately hit the dirt as a burst of crank gun fire flew her way, amidst angry griffon shouting, and she sprinted down the trenchline, rifle and hand-crank fire crackling around her head, as the mud and muck of the front line trench began to give way to the planking of the second line trench. Her chest burning, and black spots flashing across her left eye, the right still incredibly blurry, she tripped and fell, a few meters from the second line trench, as her legs finally gave way under her. Shouting-in Equestrian, thank the gods- rose up from the line, and a group of soldiers slid their way out of the trench over to her, two of them lifting her up between their shoulders, walking her back to the trench, as the other four guarded the three.

Evenings made it into the trench itself, with their help, and finally, after hours of fighting with several wounds, passed out due to blood loss.

Sergeant Major Serene Evenings simply continued to field strip and maintain the Mannlicher 1903 pistol on the side of the medical cot she was resting on, discarded cigarette resting in a provided ashtray nearby, as Autumn Yearling and Applejack Apple sat nearby on an empty cot, whilst Fluttershy continued to check over her wounds from the recent skirmish near the base of the hill.

“Last count said that about twelve of us made it back to the second line trenches. The artillery I called in made short work of the Land Ships- one of the privates made sure to show me pictures of their corpses whilst I was recovering in the field hospital. Still can't see perfectly out of my right eye, but I see well enough to shoot straight. Still waiting for some corrective lenses to come in.”

She paused, looking over the Mannlicher once she'd finished putting each piece back in it’s proper position, and nodded, sliding the stolen enemy pistol into its holster, hanging on the frame of her bed.

“That's my story of Second Champagne.”

“It was said, by the great ancient philosopher, Hayrodotus, that in times of war, fathers buried their sons. But, over the course of this bitter war, so many sons of Prance have died that barely any fathers remain to bury the few sons we have left.”
-Attributed to Capt. Fleur Dis Lee, future Prench Field Marshall, following the battle of Verdun, Prance, 1915.

Author's Note

Whoops, forgot to post this yesterday. My bad.

Six

Alamein II

Folgore

“Getting sick of being fuckin’ shot at, Sarge.” Scootaloo groused, cigarette wedged in her mouth as yet another Bitalian rifle cracked overhead forcing the company as a whole to keep it’s head down. “Why the hell are we always the one being shot at?”

“Cuz’, Scoots. It's that big ol’ head o’ yours.”

“Har-har.” Scootaloo grunted, flicking away the burnt out cigarette. “What's the holdup, though?”

“Cap Heart says we’re waiting on artillery to soften them up again, as well as armoured support from the Prench, who are diverting a tank squadron to our Sector.”

“No shit? Hey, TH, you hear that? We’re gettin’ some tank support.”

“Far out, Scoots…”

“...”

“That means put ye focken shirt back on you numpty. We’ve work to do.”

“Oh. S’allright. Lemme find it, dude.”

The Free Prench Armor squadron arrived a few hours into the day, riding on Equestrian made Matilda and Cruiser type tanks, steam engines gamely chugging along the desert, their hatches left open to allow the coal furnaces to vent more readily, already hot enough from the midday desert sun.

With a wave and a greeting, the armored squadron rode past the Equestrian front line, the ponies rising up from their hastily dug defensive positions to follow the mixed Matilda and Crusader Cruiser tanks into the fight once more against the Bitalian Folgores, who were already responding to the Equestrian movement with gun and cannon fire.

Finding themselves behind a Crusader, Tempest’s Platoon crept up behind the slowly rumbling tank, keeping as low and tucked into the vehicle as possible despite the coal fumes, in order to take as little enemy fire as possible, especially over the open ground.

Trying not to breathe in the thick coal smoke, Tempest practically hugged the Crusader tank, whose Vickers machine gun was chattering gamely towards the Bitalian line, main gun occasionally belching out a round at any perceived Strong points, shell ejecting out the bottom of the tank, forcing the ponies following to watch their steps or slip on a 3-inch shell casing.

Artillery continued to echo down ahead of them, hammering the Bitalian position into the Stone Age, as the Equestrians and their tank support crept forward, doing their best to stay out of the enemy line of fire.

Something slammed into the front of the Crusader they were following behind, causing Tempest to fall back, as the vehicle sputtered and died, black smoke taking place of gray.

“Anti-tank gun up there! We’re stuck out ‘ere!” Keg grunted, as Second Squad’s Bren gunner began laying down concentrated fire, using the wrecked Crusader as cover.

“Right! Platoon, pop smoke and get moving! Ah want a wall of smoke grenades towards the enemy line! Hop to it y’all!”

“You heard the sarge! Smoke grenades out, you blimey lot! I want so much fuckin’ smoke out there that th’ Bitalians think we’re smookin’ whatever Huggy’s cookin’!”

At the Platoon and squad leads’ directions, the infantry platoon started heaving their smoke grenades out into the desert sand to their front, waiting several seconds for the thick smoke cloud to billow outwards. Despite the smoke, one unlucky private that stuck his head up from behind cover was rewarded with a machine gun round to the forehead, killing the soldier instantly.

“Smoke innit helpin! They've still got us’n pinned down over here!”

“Well hell! Git crawlin’ forwards! We’ve got work ta do!”

“S-sarge?”

“Jus’ keep low an’ pray t’ whatever that y’ don't get hit! It's either stay here an’ get shot or move forward and get shot. ‘Least ya get to shoot back if’n you’re in range.” Applebloom shot back, as she began to crawl forward, keeping her No. 4’s barrel clear of the sand as best she could.

Not having much better in the way of options, her squad, then, slowly, her platoon, began following suit, as withering Bitalian gunfire flew over their heads. Ammunition snapping and hissing over their heads, pinging and plinking off the tank wreck to their rear.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, man. ‘S Like the… I’unno, the Somme or something?” Tree Hugger complained, her Bren before her, as she shuffled along the dirt. “Dinni’ sign up for this, ya know?”

“Since when were you at the Somme, Hugger?”

“I wusn’t.” She grunted, as a Bitalian rifle round cracked over her head. “My da was, though. Spent his time. I got him to open up one day.” The opiate addict continued, finding the small talk comforting as she crawled along. “Tha’s why I got inta journalism I guess.”

The platoon halted at the edge of the smoke, dug into their packs, and heaved more to their front, as suppressing fire chattered all around. Waiting for the fresh smoke to billow forward, the platoon’s Bren gunners, now in range with their light machine guns, began laying down suppressive fire, emptying their small but numerous thirty round magazines in short order.

Unable to see five feet to her front, Tempest kept close to Scootaloo’s rear, as the latter crept forward through the dense smoke cloud. On the verge of hyperventilating- a hazardous idea what with all the smoke in the air, Tempest’s ears lay flat against her head, as heavy weapons fire echoed both from her front and rear.

Summoning reserves of perseverance she didn't know she had, the mare continued forwards, gritting her teeth, as she kept as close as she could to her squad. Shutting out the noise of the gunfire as best she could, the young mare simply kept on crawling forwards, nearly running Scootaloo over as the latter finally stopped, laying at the berm of the Bitalian trench.

Tempest began raising her voice to protest the halt, then stopped, as Scootaloo lurched over to shove a hand over her mouth. The older mare then pointed to the grenades on Tempest’s belt, followed by a nod to the trench berm, where the two could hear Bitalians chattering along with their heavy machine guns.

Catching Scootaloo’s hint, Tempest nodded, and slid her No. 4 onto her back, before retrieving two of the four Mark I grenades off her grenade belt, whilst Scootaloo did the same.

The two pulled the pins, held the Spoon for two seconds, letting the live explosives “cook” for a couple seconds, then heaved them into the trench, repeating with the second pair of grenades as pained cries intermingled with twin explosions, followed by another pair of explosions shortly after.

“Into the trench, go, go, go!” Scootaloo barked, as other squad members continued slipping out of the smokescreen to join them.

Retrieving her rifle again, Tempest leapt into the trench behind Scootaloo, whose Amareican-made Thompson was already spitting hot lead further down the trenchline. With the aid of its fifty round drum magazine, it was well suited to the job, shredding any Bitalians that happened to find themselves out of cover, and suppressing those who were within cover.

Her own rifle a slower firing bolt action, was less suited to this sort of work, but was, as most Equestrian rifles, serviceable, though she was far less gung-ho than Scootaloo.

The two mares having secured themselves a foothold on the Folgore’s trenchline, the rest of the surviving platoon began filtering in, setting up a defensive perimeter as along the line, other platoons forming the company, and by extension, the regiment, did the same, as their allied Armour pushed onwards, deeper into the defensive position.

“Alrighty, ah count fifteen. Who'd we lose?”

“Whippoorwill's down, Sarge. Same with Crusher.”

“Ain't seen hide n’er ‘air of Steady Beat. Medics snagged Bass Line.”

“Anybody seen Corp Fulcrum?”

“Yeah, took an AT shell to the everywhere. Poor bastard.”

“Alright. Wait two for any stragglers, then we’re pushin’ on.”

“Bollocks.” Blueblood swore, running a hand idly through his now dirty-blonde mane, as he read the lastest front line report. “We’re falling too ruddy far behind schedule.”

“Too much stiff resistance?” Starlight questioned, as she looked up from the battlemap.

“The Griffons are holding firm. The Folgores have been pushed on, but continue to hold, and I can't commit any more of the seventh FPA without cutting out of their own advance.”

“This isn't the best of ground for the Bitalians.” Starlight pointed out, after a moment’s consideration. “I'm surprised they've held out this long.”

“Mhn.” Blueblood agreed, scratching his chin, idly. “Let's hold fast here on the Right flank. Have them strip out two companies by truck and U-Carrier, and rotate them out to the Jebel Kalakh salient. We’ll push the Bitalians until they either break or the Griffons abandon them.”

“Sir?”

“Her Majesty’s Royal Navy has reported several confirmed sinking of enemy coal transports, and oil is more prevalent than coal, here in the desert. They've got to be low on fuel for their Panzers, I would wager,”

“Risky gamble, Sir.” Starlight replied, as she started for the radio set to relay the order.

“Better hope it bloody pays off, then.”

Neither he nor Starlight wanted to add the “or else” to the end.

With Nightfall, Tempest’s new platoon hadn't made much progress, much to Sergeant Applebloom’s frustration. With the frigid cold of the Desert Night, a far cry from the blaze of the day, the unit bundled down for the evening, unable to light a campfire due to enemy proximity, and a lack of wood to do so anyways.

“So your dad was at the Somme?” Tempest questioned Tree Hugger, whilst Powder Keg swapped out her bandages, and checked on her bullet wound.

The Journalist-turned-Bren Gunner nodded, quietly. “Yeah, he served.” She confirmed, quietly thinking over her words. “Until we had that talk, we didn't really like… see eye to eye. Since uh, y’know. M’life choices an’ whatnot.” She continued, softly, as she Laid back against the wall of the trench, Bren off to the opposite side of Powder Keg. “It wa’ eye-op’ning, ta be honest. So ma’... understood… I guess.. when I joined up.”

“How'd he handle it?” Tempest questioned, as Keg nodded, his work finished, before he sat down off to Hugger’s side.

“Eh. He understood. Dinni’ like it, same as Ma, but he's th’ one who calmed her down- an’ got ‘er to quit chasin’ me with the frying pan.”

The three shared a good, quiet chuckle over that, as they bundled up in their coats- something Tempest would have never expected to carry in a desert. Still, she was glad she had it.

Whilst the others in the squad slept, she fumbled with a cigarette lighter- a memento of her parents’, a small book resting against one knee and a pen held tightly in her other hand. Looking up as someone walked by, she nodded wordlessly to Applebloom, who was on guard duty at the moment, as her Sergeant did much the same.

Applebloom, being an Apple, also understood the importance of family, after all.

Mother,

It's been a tough day. I was shot at, enemies attempting to kill me, and I them. I'm not sure how to feel, about that, to be honest… I don't like to spend time considering it, because then my mind gets to thinking that that’s someone else’s child, that I'm shooting at; that's shooting at me. But this isn't something I can just quit; that I can't just leave and come home and pretend it doesn't exist.

I miss you, and Dad, and Gale.

Tempest

Seven

Panzerkrieg

“So we’re s’posed to be comfortable around this… big metal beast? Ma’arm?”

Command Sergeant Major Serene Evenings shrugged, Enfield slung over her shoulder, as she and one of the fresh replacements looked over the coal-fired beast idling behind the front lines.

“Suppose so… Private.. Cracker, right?”

“Yes’m, ma’am. Private Fire Cracker.”

“Right. Welcome to C coy. Anyways, Private, I’d suppose so. Aye, they're bloomin’ loud tossers, but they're handy in a pinch- and ruddy good at catching bullets for us. Just… don't stand directly in front of it; their driver’s eyesight is not particularly good.

“Why would anyone stand-” Cracker began, though he was cut off, as Corporal Apple slogged her way over, Storm’s cut-down Enfield held securely in her fingers.

“Howdy, Sarge. Cap Armor wants ta speak with you. Sounds important.” She greeted, as she moved to stand with the two. “Huh. Tanks. S’plains it, alright.”

“Tank? I thought it was a land battleship.”

“Well heck, I dunno. All them crew calls it a tank, and sayin’ tanker’s a lot easier’n sayin’ “land battleshipper”.”

Chuckling, as she let the two banter, Evenings shot Apple a nod, and began making her way back to the command tent, lighting a fresh cigarette as she went. She paused, though, and looked back to the Corporal. “Oh, Corporal?”

“Yes’m?”

“Let Sergeant Yearling know I’ll be late to brief for sentry rotations… and run it down the line we may be advancing, if these bloody big bullet magnets are anything to go by.”

“Yes’m, ma’rm. c’mon, Cracky, let’s get back t’ th’ platoon. We got shootin’ ta do later.”

“Sergeant Major Evenings reporting, sah. Charlie Platoon squad lead.” Evenings saluted, smartly, safe to do so within the confines of the command tent, nestled in the fourth line- far enough back to not draw Griffon sniper fire.

Captain Armor nodded, puffing on his own tobacco pipe, officer’s cap resting on his head, the brim cocked to the left side of his horn. “Good timing, Sergeant; that's the whole company present. Lieutenant Trace?”

“Aye, Capt’n?”

“Lay out the map, if you would.” Armor ordered, as he looked over the formerly three-now four, due to reinforcements- Platoon officers. With the exception of D Platoon’s lead, the three veteran Platoon Leaders looked exhausted-mentally and physically, dirty, and wounded in some fashion. Evenings herself had a fresh bandage around her head, where she'd been grazed by a stray round the day before, just visible beneath her flat helmet.

“Right away, Sirrah.” First Lieutenant Fine Trace- a former sketch artist, apparently- nodded, unfurling the hand drawn map across a pair of ammunition crates. The map itself was fairly accurate, having been pieced together by several raiding parties and scouts across the company.

Better than the two years out of date one supplied by the regimental command, at least.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Armor nodded, pausing to address the four Platoon Leads. “Right, as I'm sure a couple of you have noticed, we've gained a few friends from the Royal Equestrian Cavalry Division. As I'm sure you guessed by extension, we’ll be advancing today.”

Leaning further over the map, and gesturing for the Sergeants to do the same, Captain Armor tapped a point across from Mortain Hill. “This is our target. It's a small Prench town called Autry, that the Griffs are using as a lynchpin for the right flank of their first and second trenchline. Our company, supported by Artillery and Landships, is to push down Mortain hill into Autry, and hold the town itself until such a time as the Royal Seventeenth Rifles is able to relieve us. Questions?”

“Expected enemy resistance?” Began one sergeant.

“Expectedly Stormtroopers of the 98th Heer Regiment, and their guns. Possibly Griffon Armour, if we’re unlucky.”

“Enemy artillery support?” Evenings chimed in, looking over the long, open ground running down the hillside.

“Should be concentrated on the Amareicans at Bellau wood, but I'll see if I can pull some howitzers for counter-battery duty.”

“Timetable?” The new Platoon sergeant inquired.

“About two hours. We’ll be awaiting a walking barrage, which we will advance behind. Alpha, Baker, Charlie, you'll be pushing straight for Autry, using the Landships as mobile cover. Dog platoon, you'll be moving staggered behind their Advance as clean up.

“How long until we can expect reinforcements?”

“I don't know. Any more questions?” Waiting several seconds, Captain Armor nodded, curtly. “Dismissed.”

“Two hours, eh?” Berry Punch grunted, as she tied her unkempt mane back into a rough, but proper, ponytail. “Bloddy ‘ell. Hope this yonder toon’s worth th’ trubble.”

“You and I both, Corporal Punch. At least we’re the ones with ruddy land ships this time.” Evenings agreed, handing the Corporal back her helmet.

“Ye ken, ah’v never fought wit’ a Landship a’fore.” Berry shrugged. “Th’ crews seem amicable, tho’.”

“Quite. I got to see them fight, briefly. Villers-Bretonneux, back in ‘16.” Sergeant Yearling spoke up from nearby, readying herself for the upcoming advance. “Loud, though.”

“Indeed.” Serene nodded, readily agreeing. “Let's hope they soak up enough bullets. I'm getting damn sick of writing letters home.”

“Thought th’ Captain did that.” Steep Dive- one of the newer replacements- piped up, blinking.

“O-oh, uhm. Sergeant Evenings writes them for uh… our um… platoon.. personally.” Fluttershy, whispered, her voice barely carrying over the constant sporadic skirmisher rifle fire. “I um… think it's nice.”

Evenings, for her part, simply shrugged, giving no explanation, as she changed tacks. “Sergeant Yearling, how's your ammunition for Kicker and Stone Wall’s cranks?”

“Fine for now, Sarge Major. Plenty of spare.”

“Excellent.” Serene sighed, as she stood, adjusting her helmet’s chin strap. “Platoon.” She paused, a scowl crossing her features, as she looked over the grim ponies of Charlie Platoon. “Bayonets!”

The artillery began to fall at the allotted time, blasting away at no-pony’s land, as Equestrian and Prench land ships rumbled across pre-prepared bridges, the ponies of the company clambering up their wooden ladders, quickly falling in behind the large lumbering beasts, smoke from their stacks churning out dull-gray exhaust behind them.

The artillery itself did well to blast apart the veritable seas of land mines that comprised both ends of no-pony’s land, as the company advanced slowly, and the Griffon crank gun positions began to come to life, the spraying mud from shells falling back to the ground, some finding itself on the infantry’s shoulders and heads.

Finding herself at the front of the platoon, rifle leveled forward and bayonet gleaming beneath her Enfield’s barrel, a grim and determined look set itself upon Sergeant Evenings’ face, and was mirrored across her entire platoon.

The Griffons’ rounds clattered and plinked off the front of the landships, whose own crank guns and six pounder cannons began blasting away at the first Griffon trenchline, at the outskirts of Autry.

As the unit lumbered forward, the Griffon cranks continued firing, rounds glancing off the large metal beasts. One of the stray glances off the landships ricocheted around the side of the left flank landship, and wedged itself in Corporal Applejack’s lower chest. The Raid Squad Lead, having taken over from Storm, grunted, as Fluttershy slid over whilst Fire Cracker leapt over to carry the wounded mare. Keeping her on her feet and moving forward, whilst Fluttershy began retrieving and bandaging the wound, instructing Cracker to keep moving with the tank, so the three of them didn't get caught out catching any more bullets than necessary.

Serene grit her teeth as she glanced over at the trio, then refocused forward as the company continued inching closer to Griffon lines. The Hebecrêvon battery that was supporting them, upon reaching Griffon lines with it’s barrage, redoubled it’s efforts, hammering shell after shell into the trench line, mud, blood, and other manner of material spraying haphazardly around, the Infantry and landships slogging gamely forward through the muddy mush left behind.

Finally, the landships rolled up and over the Griffon first line, just as the artillery barrage ended, almost as perfectly timed as a ballet, and the Equestrian Company fell into the Griffon trenches.

Serene squeezed off a single shot from her own rifle, as Buck Shot swept his Trench Gun- the quite reliable Amareican M1897 pump-action- across the trench, finger squeezing and holding the trigger, as he racked the pump, each forward and back movement emptying out another shell of buck into the enemy Griffons.

Having fired a shot from the lip of the trench, Evenings quickly followed Buck into the trench, other ponies falling in behind, as Serene thrust forward with her rifle bayonet, impaling a hapless Stormtrooper. The half-dead Griffon screeched in pain and threw a claw across her face, a quick tug back on her part saving her right eye, as he then held fast onto her rifle barrel, refusing to her her remove it.

Swearing vehemently, as she felt her own blood run down her cheek, she let go of the rifle with her right hand, drew her Mannlicher, and emptied two of it’s six shots into the dying soldier, turning away as he writhed his death throes, neatly sidestepping a swing from a makeshift club, as she squeezed off another pair of shots.

Berry and Autumn, meanwhile, stood back to back, having dropped in the midst of a Griffon gun position. Berry swung her rifle-butt upwards, smashing heavily into one Stormtrooper’s chin, and followed up with several rough bayonet thrusts into the downed soldier, as Autumn, screaming at the top of her lungs whilst a Griffon screeched similarly, impaled said enemy on her rifle. She then squeezed off a bullet to kill the skewered enemy, letting the corpse slide off her rifle, as an enemy round streaked by her face, racking her bolt as quickly as she could manage.

Fluttershy froze at the lip of the trench, as a Griffon raised up, rifle staring at the three. Applejack in no position to fire, and Cracker too green to kill as quickly as a seasoned veteran, the demure mare reached down to Applejack’s hip, slid out the cut-down Enfield, and shot the Trooper dead, before replacing it in Applejack’s hip holster. “Quickly, we’ll be safer in the trench.”

“Right- uh, sorry, ma’am.”

“Just keep pressure on that while I finish up the gauze.”

“Move the ladders!” Evenings barked, as up the line the rest of the company command did much the same. “Come on you jammy Bast’ds! Keep up with our Fokken tanks! Go! Go!” She threw an arm in the direction of the second trench line and their advancing landships, as the surviving members of her platoon- having lost Stone Wall nearly immediately to a stray ricochet in the same manner of Applejack, and losing Double Down and Wind Chill clearing the first line trench- scrambled to shift the Griffon ladders to face inwards.

As quickly as they could manage, the Platoon scrambled up the ladders and ran to fall in with the tanks again, Roseluck going down with a pained swear as a rifle shot tore through her upper hip. “Fuck me! I'm buggered, Sarge!”

“Back to the trench! Fluttershy’s settin’ up an aid station! Kicker; covering fire!” Autumn, taking command of both her Base of Fire and Double Down’s Assault section, commanded.

“Aye, Sarge!” Kicker barked, as she braced the heavy crank gun against the moving tank, spraying wildly with the gun as Roseluck crawled back and dropped into the trenchline. Seeing her comrade safe, Kicker slipped back behind the slow moving vehicle, as the landship trundled forward towards the second line of trenches, on the outskirts of the far end of town.

The town itself was packed with retreating griffons, and rifle fire cracked and echoed with the staccato bursts of gunfire all over, offset by the far off rumbles of artillery fire and the close roars of tank engines.

As they trundled on, the platoon halted in shock as a Griffon A7V Sturmpanzer trundled around a corner near the middle of town, it’s front mounted cannon blasting away a shot at the lead Mark V landship, which glanced off the lower glacis and dug into the dirt, the Mark V responding in kind with a squarely placed shot from it’s own six pounder cannon.

“Spread out! Spread out now!” Evenings barked over the impressively loud gunfire, snapping off orders as quickly as her mouth would move. “Yearling, button that ‘Panzer! Gun squad move left through these houses! Raiders with Gun Squad!”

“Boff Squad get yer ruddy Cranks firing! Button that landship! Targeting glasses, spotting sights! Keep them off their guns!”

“Gun squad displacing!”

Another massive KLONG filled the air, as a follow up shot from the A7V sunk itself into the frontal Armour of the Mark V, the Equestrian tank smoking around the hole, but still operational, if the return shot was any indication.

Base of Fire Squad’s cranks barked incessantly, plinking constantly off the A7V’s armor, whilst it's own side mounted crank guns twisted and turned, looking for targets.

Again, the two tanks traded gunfire, their cannons nearly deafening in such close quarters. Evenings’ ears rang, her head aching from the reverberating cannon fire, as she and Corporal Punch remained in cover behind the Mark V.

Gun and raid squad had, meanwhile, been leapfrogging up the back alleys parallel to the street they were on, taking up positions in a house looking over the A7V. Serene watched from behind the Mk. V, as one of Gun Squad’s replacements- Silver something- pulled herself out of the second story window, and leapt from the windowsill onto the top of the Griffon tank with an audible clunk, as she laid flat to ward off as much gunfire as possible.

Retrieving a couple hand grenades, the unicorn mare wrenched the top hatch open with her horn, sliding out the grenade pins as she did. For her efforts, she was rewarded with a pistol shot to the chest, her body stiffening as if struck by lightning, before falling over the turret itself, either dead or dying.

Not that it mattered, as the grenades she dropped- apparently into the turret, exploded within the tank, as thick black smoke poured out the back, seconds before the entire vehicle erupted, as ammunition cooked off inside the wrecked vehicle.

“Well this is going brilliantly.” Yearling snarled, from nearby, as her Crank-gunners disassembled their guns.

“Tone, Sergeant; though I do share your sentiments. Casualties!”

“Buck’s knackered. Took a few crank rounds.”

“Silver Song’s dead. Bloody reckless.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ells.” Evenings muttered, as the platoon regrouped, waiting for the Mark V to get moving again.

Autry itself was captured in totality without much of a further fight, though the second line trenches were about as bloodily fought over as the first. Of her platoon, Evenings guessed about five- herself included- were still combat capable, most of the others either too wounded, or for seven of her unit, dead.

Having taken up position in a Church near where they'd encountered the Sturmpanzer- miraculously still standing, even after all the cannon fire- Charlie Platoon was holding position in case of counter-attack, whilst casualties from across the company streamed in, the church being the new field hospital for the moment.

Silver Song.

That mare’s name had been Silver Song.

Now just one more letter to write amongst six others of the same kind. Maybe more, depending on how the rest of the day went.

“Howdy, Sarge.” Applejack grunted, visibly pained from her chest wound, as she sat down on a ruined pew next to Serene.

“Howdy yourself, Corporal. Holding up alright?”

“Ayep. Shit luck today, huh?”

“Fairly lousy, aye.” Evenings agreed. “Hope this buggery is worth it. Griffons don't seem to be contesting the attack, at least. We caught a bit of artillery after we cleared the second line, but.. nothing formidable. Thought this place was supposed to be their linchpin.”

“It was, Sergeant.” The Captain replied, walking with a crutch, his leg bandaged and bloodied.

“Captain Armor, sir.”

“At ease, Sergeant, Corporal… Autry was holding their line together, Sergeant Yearling. Seems the griffons were just as battered as we were headin’ into this. They've pulled back to shorten and reorganize their lines.”

“What's that mean for us, Captain? I don't have the pony-power for another Advance. Most of my platoon is here on stretchers.”

“As are the others, yes. We’re standing down, Sergeant.”

“...Sir?”

“Once those of your unit are fit to do so by the medical team, gather your platoon and report to the Company Command Post. We’re rotating back to the rear, then home, after a stop-over in Mareis. We’re on reserve and training duty for the foreseeable future.”

Evenings blinked, her cigarette drooping from her loosely tightened lips, as her brain processed his orders.

“We’re heading back to Equestria.” He finally, absolutely, confirmed.

“I no longer care who is “right” nor “justified” in starting this war. Now, my only interest is in finishing it.”
-Attributed to Her Royal Highness,
Princess Luna Solaris

Act Two

Peace

"The Minstrel Fell! But The Foeman's Chain
Could Not Bring His Proud Soul Under;

The Harp He Loved Ne'er Sung Again
For He Tore It's Chords Asunder;

And Said No Chains Shall Sully Thee,
Thou Soul Of Love And Bravery!

Thy Songs Are Made For The Pure And Free
They Shall Never Sound In Slavery!

Eight

Homecoming

The hot shower felt like a miracle from the heavens, as the warm water poured out of the brass shower head, washing away all the accrued muck, grime, and gunpowder that had pooled on Serene’s body across her two year tenure on the frontline. Content simply to stand underneath the warm water, eyes closed and lips curled into a small smile, Evenings was privately glad that she wasn't on a timer anymore- and that she had actual hot water to wash with.

That was best, more than anything.

Slumping against the wall of the shower stall, Evenings exhaled a weary sigh, closing her eyes to rest them, as the hot water poured down like rain.

Refreshed and clean for once, Command Sergeant Major Evenings simply wandered the Prench streets, bedecked in her fresh dress uniform, soft cap tilted off center slightly to keep from covering her horn. She'd handed in her Enfield Pattern Rifle to her quartermaster, but her Männlicher remained holstered in it’s holster on her hip, the Griffon writing clearly out of place when put aside her Equestrian uniform.

Since the Company wouldn't be leaving Mareis for another week, whilst their wounded were made ready for sea transport, Serene was just wandering the streets, her only timer being the company’s ten o’clock curfew.

It was strange to look out at the streets of wartime Mareis and have it not look too terribly different from peacetime Mareis. Civilians still flocked to the streets, carrying themselves as if the war was far away, and not directly on their doorsteps. Merchants still hawked their wares, civillians still went around their business, chatting amicably in Prench.

Finding her way into one of the “army bars”- civilian taverns and bars advertising cheap or free drinks for fighting soldiers- she nodded to Flash Sentry, who'd returned from the hospital last week, his throat having finally healed- only to take a crank gun round to the shoulder. Poor bastard.

Sentry nodded back, rubbing idly at his shattered shoulder, dressed up in a cast, before going back to his drink.

The docs weren’t sure he'd be able to lift heavy loads with it, even after it healed.

Frowning slightly, the Sergeant Major waved down the barkeep for a drink, placing a couple Equestrian coins on the table- spending money reservists got each week, like they were foals again. Fucking ridiculous. Downing the thick liquor as soon as she received it, grimacing as the burning alcohol flowed down her throat, the mare held back a cough, grunting slightly, as her eyes watered, before contenting herself to light a cigarette.

Relaxing, as she let her elbows rest on the counter, smoke wafting out the end of her cigarette, Evenings just took some time to relax, left mostly to her own devices, as ponies- both Equestrian and Prench, uniformed and civilian- bustled in and out of the hole in the wall bar.

The troop train clattered down the line, chugging gamely as the weary soldiers within chatted amicably, smoked to calm their nerves, or just played cards as they relaxed amongst close friends.

Evenings sighed, softly, as she watched the Equestrian landscape fly by, Canterlot visible in the distance, atop Mount Canterhorn.

“It's weird bein’ home, huh, Sarge?” Applejack questioned, sitting across from the mare, Autumn off to Serene’s left and Fluttershy next to Applejack.

“I'm not sure how I feel, Applejack. On the one end, we’re home. On the other…”

“Yer not sure whether y’ wanna be home?” Applejack supplied, trying to read her Sergeant’s expression.

“I suppose.” Evenings pondered, as Autumn turned over in her sleep, the squad Sergeant having been exhausted by the Airship ride across the Equestrian Sound, from Prance. “I just don't know what I'll do with myself, now. What, with the armistice and all.”

“Oh, uh, well. You could always keep a career in the military, ma’am.” Fluttershy chimed in, softly, tapping her fingers idly across her lap, looking out the window itself.

“A thought, but no. I’d… rather not write any more letters.”

“Th’ war’s over though.”

“For how long?” Evenings shot back, to which Applejack just shrugged. “All they did was sign a cease-fire, not a peace treaty.”

“To be fair, ah heard summat say tha’ they're sendin’ diplowhatsits over.” Applejack replied. “Not sure if’n that’ll amount ta nuffin’, but it's better’n nothin’.”

“It is, it is.. I'm just not sure how much of all of it I buy into. We shall see, though.”

“I uh. Hope they uh.. sign a peace treaty… I don't like shooting griffons very much.”

“Us’n either, ‘Shy. Us’n either.”

The locomotive eventually came to a halt at Ponyville Junction Station, hissing as it slid to a halt, steam rolling off the funnel and into the air, cars lurching to a halt, as the military personnel making up the engine began to gather their rucksacks and any personal belongings.

Stepping off the engine into groups and bunches of friends, Evenings looked about the woefully small company with a pained eye, spotting gaps in certain groups where a pony was dead, or still in a military hospital.

“Alright!” Captain Armor barked, jarring Serene from her thoughts. “We’ve been assigned as Princess Twilight Sparkle’s personal Guard Detachment, since we’re swapping off rotation. Some of you probably think that being the Royal Guard of the Princess of Friendship is a cushy job, but between weekly monster attacks and natural accidents that seem to plague this city, not to mention crime, I can assure you it will be anything but. So, on your best behavior, troopers. You've got some time to familiarize yourself with town, just be back at the Castle for unit assignments at Eighteen Hundred. Dismissed.”

“Well, that was inspiring.” Autumn Snarked, still rubbing sleep from her eyes, once Captain Armor was out of earshot.

“If’n ya want inspiration, Sarge, read a Poem.” Applejack chuckled. “He ain’t wrong, though. Ponyville’s butted up against Everfree Forest since it was just a lil’ farming community. We get all sorts of weird out here.”

“That right?”

“Oh, yes.” Fluttershy nodded, enthusiastically. “We get all sorts of interesting things out here. Hydras, Dragons, oh, my, there was even a cockatrice at one point… I wonder if it's still around.”

“Huh. Well, paint me pink and call me a pretty princess, you two live in a weird town.”

“That's puttin’ it mildly. Ah know a good bar, you wanna get a drink?”

“What the hell, it's been a long ride.”

The bar itself was a little hole in the wall run by one Berry Punch, one of Ponyville’s better brewers, according to Applejack. The four ponies sat at a table in the corner, mostly ignored by the couple of patrons still in the bar, though Fluttershy and Applejack did get a couple muted hellos and welcome backs.

After a good half hour of nursing weak liquor- they were supposed to be back at the castle in a few hours, after all, showing up piss-faced drunk wouldn't do them any favor- the door to the bar swung open.

A cyan blue mare walked in, her chromatic mane bushing out into a floppy mess of a short cut around her flight goggles, and a crimson red overcoat covering a more tightly fitting flight suit, reaching all the way down to a rugged pair of Wellington knee-highs. Upon spotting Applejack and Fluttershy in the corner table, with Serene and Autumn, a grin crossed the mare’s face, as she jogged over, snagging a light liquor from Berry as she went.

A couple seconds later, she plopped down next to Applejack and Fluttershy, pulling the two into a hug. “Hey gals! Princess Egghead said you'd be back today! Who’s your friends?”

“Ack- howdy, Rainbow.” Applejack grunted, bemusedly. “Good ta’ see you too, Dashie. This’ns Sergeant Autumn Yearling, one of our Squad leads, an’ this’ns Sergeant Major Serene Evenings, mah Platoon Sergeant.”

“Pleased to meet your acquaintance, Miss Rainbow.” Evenings nodded, a small, amused smile on her face. “Applejack and Fluttershy have had nothing but kind words.”

“Yeah, nice t’meet you too, Miss Dash. Autumn Yearling, at your service.”

“Aw, heck, Rainbow will do fine. Any friends of AJ and Shy’s are friends of mine.” The young, brash mare chuckled, releasing her friends. “Staying here for good?”

“Possibly.” Serene nodded. “We’ve been assigned to Twilight Sparkle’s royal guard. Granted, Autumn and I’s enlistments are up next week, but… I do like the countryside here. Nice and quiet.”

“Ponyville? Quiet? Where’d you come from, the moon? But yeah. It sure beats all those Canterlot factories. Ruddy ugly things, they are.”

Serene pursed her lips momentarily, before shrugging, and retrieving a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Nah, Sarge. Ah don't mind none.”

“Only if you let me bum a strike off ya, Seri.”

“Har-har, Autumn.” Serene grumped, passing a cigarette from the pack over to Yearling, before lighting her own, then Autumn’s.

“What's up with soldiers and cigarettes?” Rainbow questioned, cocking her head to one side. “You're the fifth group I've seen today.”

“Calms the nerves, Sugarcube.” Applejack shrugs. “Fluttershy pr’fers whisky though, last I checked.”

“O-oh, and uhm, Brandy, especially.” Fluttershy nodded, adding as an afterthought, “I don't like the smell of cigarettes…”

“Huh. Didn’t know you drank, ‘shy.” Rainbow blinked.

“It’s either smoking, drinking, or chocolate.” Evenings shrugged, in reply. “And chocolate’s hardest to come by, followed by beer, and cigarettes.” Autumn and Applejack nodded affirmative.

“Sho’nuff.” Applejack chuckled, dryly. “We git cigarettes with our rations. ‘S good fer stress relief, ya ken?”

“Uh. Sure.. Applejack.” Rainbow hummed, scratching the side of her head. The four could see that she didn’t really understand, but said nothing. Civilians, after all.

“Anyways,” Serene began again, filling the rapidly-becoming-awkward silence, “It’s nice to be back in Equestria. How’s it been on the homefront, Miss Dash?”

The prismatic maned mare shrugged, scratching the side of her head in thought. “Well… we’re all a bit… sick of it, I guess. Just waiting for it to be over. And all that. It’s… tense, but not scary or anything. Not like the war’s here, after all.”

“Mhm. Even Mareis acts like there's no war on. ‘S kinda weird, if you ask me.” Evenings nodded in reply, as Autumn took a long drag on her cigarette.

“Almost like they wanna pretend it's not happening, I guess. Can't say I blame ‘em.”

“Yeah. Ah cain’t neither.”

“Applejack, I’m not even going to *try* to correct that grammar.”

“Oh hush, you stuck-up limey.”

“Right back at ya, you ruddy Yank.”

The five ponies broke out into chuckles, and eventually laughter, at the two’s antics, as they passed the day away amongst friends.

For once, they were away from combat; away from death, and the constant fighting of the front. Away from all the shooting, of the guns and cannon. Away from the rumblings of tanks. Away from the stench of field hospitals; the pains of dying ponies.

Just away from it all.

And it was perfect.

“The Soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.”
-Douglas MacArthur

Act One

Front Line

The Minstrel Boy To The War Has Gone,
In the Ranks Of Death You'll Find Him

His Father's Sword He Hath Girded On,
And His Wild Harp Slung Behind Him

"Land Of Song," Cried The Warrior Bard,
"Tho' All The World Betrays Thee,
One Sword, At Least, Thy Rights Shall Guard,
One Faithful Harp Shall Praise Thee!"