From No Mares Land

Crackshot lie upon his back in the wet mud, staring up at the un-natural gray sky. His ears rang like a cathedral, pain shot across his body. Pain was good, it meant he was alive. Regaining his senses Crackshot looked frantically about him. As uniformed stallions charged full steam towards impossible victory, and certain death. Trembling he rose to his hooves, pulled his rifle from the mud, and levitated it steady in front of him. Without another moment's delay he joined the charge, bayonet in the lead. With every hoof-step one of his comrades fell at all sides, spraying Crackshot with  fine-misted blood. Mortars rang out, machineguns chatted, and rifles reported. Crackshot heard no whistles, no agony, and no rifles. All but running to the next trench was trivial and pointless. His goal roughly 25 yards ahead of him, the unicorn increased pace and gave a blood curdling battlecry before jumping, plunging his blade into the Germane soldier, and continuing  his assault on the trench. Before the next opponent could react a .308 bullet ripped through his throat, splashing red across the earthen trench walls. A bullet snapped just off the rim of Crackshots helmet from behind. Without so much as turning to face his foe, Crackshot fired six shots blindly with his side-arm behind him, striking the gray coat wearing soldier three times  in the chest.

Preparing for the inevitable counter offensive by the enemy to retake the trench, he turned to face charging germane soldiers on the field between trenches. After forcefully cycling another round into his rifle, Crackshot took aim. BANG and  a stallion dropped, the cycling of a bolt and BANG the next bullet shattered the lense of a gas mask, entered the cranial cavity of a stallion, and removed the better half of his head. Gray matter  left in its wake, the bullet continued on in fragments ripping the hide off of another soldiers forehoof. They were close now, too close to cycle another cartridge, this meant hoof to hoof combat. The first stallion to enter the trench was greeted by ten inches of sharp steel, the next with the steel butt-plate of Crackshots rifle, and was re-introduced to it three or four times after. A Germane soldier sprung forward to impale Crackshot on his bayonet, only to be bucked hard in the ribs by Big Macintosh. Rear hooves struck, bones broke. Big Mac's shotgun spoke fire into the kneecaps of another foe, who he finished with a kick to the skull.

Braeburn's machine gun crew arrived and took up defensive positions. Fire was exchanged across the field for two minutes more before the day went silent. It was a deathly and oppressive silence that this field, which had once been fertile farmland, was all too accustomed to. After a while small fires were struck up, for warmth and to cook what food was available in small tin potts. Little conversation was held around the dinner fire. The only topic for discussion was death, a weary subject to weary souls. Besides, there was no need to talk about death. It would only be hours before it was surrounding them again. Crackshot stared intensely at the fire, wondering if anyone back home knew what was happening here. Further he wondered if any of his old colleagues, friends,  or even his family could accept him if they knew all he had done. At the war's start he had written them all frequently, but now even if he wanted to tell them what was happening he couldn't. The toxic cloud layer that hung above them did not permit messenger  pegasi to travel high enough to not get cut down by machine guns.

His meal was eaten in sullen peace, flavorless as it was, his dinner brought him a sense of comfort. A rare luxury on the battlefield. He looked to  Mac and said the only word anyone on the battlefield had the strenght to speak "Eeyup". Big Mac responded with the same, and the gesture spread across the trench in a flurry of "Eeyup"s. After eating, rifles were cleaned, and sometimes jerry-rigged to work. Ammunition was gathered from the corpses of the fallen, cleaned of blood, and distributed. Medic Redheart came to give care to any injuries. She never seemed phased by the death around her, which simultaneously comforted and scared Crackshot. She spoke kindly

"How about you CS? Any boo boos this time?"

"Eeyup" he pointed to a long cut up his foreleg that he'd acquired in the blast that had knocked him down.

"Wow, looks like there' s still some shrapnel in there. I'm going to have to dig that out and sew a few suititures in alright?" He didn't complain, having metal jutting out of your bits and pieces was never good. With surgical precision Redheart went to  work. She was one of the few mares willing to brave war, theres a reason they called it no mares land. Within thirty minutes she was finished, the wound sealed and sterilized.

"sorry, but theres not enough morphine. A painkiller spell will have to do" a soft pink glow engulfed the stallion's foreleg and immediately the brunt of the pain was soothed. Redheart moved to give care to Mac's splintered hoof, Braeburn's burns from carrying the overheated machine gun, and a multitude of other wounds. Barbed wire was strung in the cover of night to protect from another charge, the bodies of the fallen were moved from the trenches to save from disease (that lesson had been learned the hard way), and supplies were further scavenged. A few times brief skirmishes broke out, but no one wanted to fight until morning on either side. Crackshot filled his canteen with water boiled to purify, and restocked with five new stripper clips of .308 and twenty or so loose pistol cartridges. Knowing the sun would come to filter gray light across the muddy battlefield soon, crackshot lifted his shelter half over his body and face to fall asleep leaned against the wet trench wall. He dreamt of home, of hot meals, of warm beds, of loving faces. He dreamt of his family library, which he'd spent so much time in. All of this would come to a crashing end when he awoke.