Enemy shelling didn't stop until 0500. It had continued for six days. We sat there, me and my best friend, and a couple other mates we met from training. I believe this is the last letter I'll be writing to you for a while. Tell mum I can't stop thinking of her cooking, and I can't wait to get back home after the war.
Colonel said our uniforms were made for the cold, I don't think he mentioned anything about the mud. Rain came before the shelling, and the mood of the trenches was generally poor. I wish you could have been here, we could have cheered them all up. Your jokes, my writing, and maybe home wouldn't feel so far away.
The way the shells land, like splashing rain puddles as little colts, like running after the bus in the rain and splashing mud onto those pedestrians, now looks like the edge of Tartarus. The way your body shivers, chills in the moment of excitement, are shivers of cold and fear mixed like the dirt and the rain. Don't think too hard on it, you don't understand. You couldn't until you saw it.
Three stallions, V Corps, came running back from Thunderhoof Trench, bloodied. Colonel moved us there to hold the position until Weather Waltz and his greenies from Manehattan came to fill the trench. I'll tell you this: no form of death is more terrible to witness than when a chaos shell bursts right in a trench. Generally, it's mutilation.
I'm thankful most were gone from the blasts, it made cleaning easier. Brother, if I have ever called your room a mess, I can take it back, having seen a site more gruesome. There was a pile we had to push out, my best friend and I, we moved a pile of bodies to make space to stand in. It must have been three to five young soldiers, no older than me or you.
A few in my battalion went sick. The sight of death, bodies burst from blasts of bombs. Scared too. Screaming shells like the scythe of the reaper, skimming the field for the next stallion. Rain washed the sick away, and suddenly we were shifting again.
We moved back into our position and awaited zero hour; we're still waiting. It'll happen soon, I feel it in the whispers between the officers. The shelling stopped early, and I think they may plan a surprise offensive.
I cannot fathom it, that the ponies on the other side of this wasteland are just like us. The old chaos magic left its mess, and now we have the honor of being the first wave to clean it up. I hope I won't have to kill too many.
I'll write when it is over, if I survive it. We don't know what weapons they have, only artillery has been coming from the enemy for the past six days. Some scouts say they've spotted the tips of crystals moving along the trenches. A new weapon, a few of the soldiers have been whispering. I think it sounds ridiculous, but some of our boys are losing heart already, saying there's no chance against this chaos magic.
We'll see. Fifty minutes to zero hour, they just called. The moment this letter's dropped into the army mail room, I'll be running.
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Today I have to meet with Death and tell him he is in my way,
My country I shall fight for thee, whether it be night or day.
I see the battle and smell the fire, all tension held in the air
in breath and lungs of fellow sons, in Spring showers that are fair.
Today I have to meet with Death, that SOB's-a-runnin'
across the field and to trenches. We go there to start hunting.
Today I have to meet with Death, we'll be running in a line,
and when they see us coming near, victory's his or mine.
It may be he takes my hoof and leads me down a road,
To a land unseen, a world unknown, where I leave this heavy load.
It may be I find myself, standing over bodies,
like a victor posing strong, cheering with my buddies.
I know that there's a better place, safe at home and warm,
where one hides and peeks and squeaks to wait out the bloody storm.
But today I have to meet with Death, at some awful broken town,
To save some folks with burning homes, gain a bit of renown.
And to my country, I swear to you,
I will not fail that rendezvous.
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I found that on your brother's coat. He wrote to you, didn't he? He wrote a lot, and kept spirits up in the trenches before we fought. We were ordered to attack at 0620. We formed the right vanguard, with the soldiers from the Thunderhoof Trench and Montagne River Trench forming the center offensive. I watched our troops rise from the ground the moment the whistle blew, and I swear it was like a churning sea.
The enemy, though infected by chaos magic, prepared their defenses heavily. We crawled through a hundred meters of barbed wire while volleys of magic blasts crackled from their charged crystals. Amidst the chaos, I saw you brother, crawling for his life. He was smart, kept his head low. A poor bloke stopped moving in front of him, and became a disturbing shield.
We fired on them as we took cover, crossbows flinging bolts across the field. The center line had gotten ahead of us, I saw, and pulled the enemy's attention off of our position, so we scrambled to reach their trenches at the end of the barbed wire.
In the frenzy, his uniform snagged onto a bad piece of wire. Your brother tore himself free, his coat left behind as he charged into the trenches of the enemy. Magic electrified the air, the crystals filling it with enchanted fog. He charged into the fog, a larger voice with the rest of the troops, and I lost sight of him. That was the last time I saw my friend.
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Civisme Perdu, 1071916
