I was sitting near the front lines the other day, it'd been awhile since we'd seen any action. Jim was cleaning the mortar tube and Chuck was pulling security, he was always jumpy. I was just writing to my sweetheart back home in Appleloosa. We were with a bunch of other mortar ponies, too. I didn't know them, first time seeing them was when we got here. They weren't really talkative either, we all just minded to our own teams.

I noticed a Captain approaching the cluster, a stern look on his face. He cleared his throat, and everyone went silent, giving him their full attention. "Gentlecolts, as of right now, the war effort no longer needs your assistance." Everyone roared with excitement.

"Sir, so we're finally going home!?" echoed from the back of the crowd.

I heard the boom of artillery in the distance that must be why they didn't need us anymore, they brought in the big guns. AND, we were finally going home. "No, gentlemen. You're all going to die." The Captain was engulfed in the fireball of an exploding 155mm shell. Then they rained down on all of us unrelentlessly. We didn't even have time to scream

The last thing I remember hearing was the voice of an eighteen-year old, much like myself, saying, "Can you guys kill my mortars so I can call in tanks?"

Author's Note

The tale of tragedy begins