Back home, you lay down your head, you’re going to sleep.
Out here, you lay down your head, you’re either dropping from exhaustion, or dropping because you’re dead.
Whenever a pony flops down out here without saying something first, we always scramble for our rifles and scan the treeline. Even here, way back from the front, enemy could be lurking in the bushes, ready to start picking us off one by one. Artillery batteries are juicy targets, after all. Maybe your buddy dropped because he hasn’t slept in three days. Maybe he dropped because they’re right on top of us and you didn’t hear the shot because you ain’t slept either, and you didn’t see the movement because you don’t see the enemy; not out here; not unless they want you to, or until it’s too late to do anything about it.
I find a patch of jungle in the shadow of the 105mm cannon’s front armor plate and say that I’m going to sleep. Or maybe I just mumble it. Either way I flop down. Most ponies don’t react, but one or two do, and grab their rifles to scan the jungle that surrounds us. Not sure why they bother. If they hit us now there’d be nothing we could do. Most of the battery is already asleep, and there’s no darkness like the darkness of the jungle. Even our perimeter lights, turned down low to prevent aerial reconnaissance from spotting our position, don’t do much to cut the darkness.
The darkness gets more intense as I slide my helmet down over my eyes, taking care to leave the hoof-sized radio propped on my face. I can’t sleep without it there; be easier to sleep out in the rain instead of under the camouflage netting that covers the cannon.
The darkness would have made it easier to sleep, if sleep was possible in the jungle. Out here, we don’t sleep. We just fall unconscious for a few hours or minutes or seconds and pray that the nightmares aren’t so bad that they wake us up before we get some precious rest. Then we pray the rats don’t get us.
When I first got out here, I saw some of the old timers roasting a rat. Almost puked at the sight. Cooked meat ain’t exactly something you smell a lot in Equestria. Asked ‘em why they did it, and Sergeant Coal said it was because the rats had eaten a guy’s face while he slept, because he was too exhausted to wake up. Me and the other rookies thought he was kidding. Then rats ate PFC Pine’s face.
After that we started looking for rats.
I can still smell the ones from yesterday smoldering. Buckers ate Red’s face. We doused ‘em in lamp oil and lit ‘em on fire, then shot ‘em while they squirmed.
Smell oughta make it harder to sleep, I know. It doesn’t. You get used to a lot out here. Like charred meat, not all of it rat. That and seeing guys without faces.
One of the benefits of the radio on my face; harder for the rats to get to it.
Back home, I ran a farm. Unusual for a unicorn, but I married into the family. We used to see rats all the time in the barn; we’d shoo them out gently or get some pony better at handling animals to convince them to vacate the premises. Sometimes we wouldn’t even bother. As long as they didn’t get into the hay or the produce, no harm done.
I wonder how my wife will react when she sees what I do to the next rat I catch in our barn. I don’t want her to see. I don’t want my boy to see. And I really don’t want to my little girls to see. But it will happen, all the same. Every rat I see for the rest of my life will end up like the one cooking a few yards away. Just the way it is. I didn’t know it was possible to hate anything that much.
I don’t even hate the enemy. Fear, yes. I fear the enemy. I fear ‘em because they can get right on top of you without you seeing jack. Fear ‘em because there ain’t anywhere they can’t get. Even ten miles from the front, they’d get to you.
I’ve seen ‘em up close a few times now, ambushing us when we’d be setting up the battery or, more often, just finding bodies lost in the jungle. Most of ‘em are young, some not much older than my boy. Lot of ‘em just looked scared. I can’t bring myself to hate somepony that’s scared.
But rats…
Rats I hate.
It gets hard to tell if I’m waking or sleeping sometimes. At one point I feel like a rats gnawing on my face, but that can’t be, because it’s sitting where the radio is, and the radio is there.
The radio is always there.
And because the radio has to be there, I know that the rats aren’t eating my face tonight.
That leaves plenty of room for the other nightmares, though. I open my eyes to see a mare, thinking it’s my wife. But my wife wouldn’t wear a ghillie suit, and she certainly wouldn’t put a combat knife in my throat while the rest of her assassins creep into camp and gut my unit.
That one actually wakes me up for a bit, and I adjust the radio to make sure it didn’t fall off when I startled awake.
Sometimes it feels like the mechanism of the gun is moving next to me, and I hear the roar of 105mm shells spitting heavenward like the breath of some iron dragon. Other times I hear the whine of an enemy mortar shell as it drops on our heads. Or, worse yet, I don’t hear it. If you don’t hear it that means it hit you. Sometimes you wake up dead.
That’s how Coal bought it.
Real shame, too. He’s got a daughter about my boy’s age.
Sometimes it’s a sniper that gets me. I rear up screaming as I smack my hooves against my chest piece, feeling for the bullet hole. But it’s intact, even if the dark green paint has started to come off. The armor will stop most rounds. Sometimes the enemy snipers have special bullets though. The armor doesn’t stop those. Baker found that out the hard way. At least he’ll get an open casket funeral when they ship him home. Red couldn’t say that much. Infection got him not long after the rats did.
Sorry, Carrot. We’ll just have to make sure that nice mare from up the road never finds out what your husband is doing to the rats. Maybe after the first one word will get around. Or maybe she can just make sure the rats stay away from our barn. That’s probably best.
Maybe I could ask her to come over and keep the rats away. I could call her over on the radio. I’ll get they start putting these in homes when we get back. Anypony can use them, so long as a unicorn recharges the magical battery inside from time to time. Out here, it just makes the most sense to keep the radio operators unicorns whenever possible. The radio pack is heavy, but other ponies carry most of my gear. It used to be that the only way you could communicate long distance was mail and telegraphs. Now we can talk in real time. It’s a pretty neat device, all things considered.
Not sure I want to see one after the war, though.
Definitely don’t want to feel one on my face.
Still, better than a knife.
Or rats.
“Please.”
Time was, if something hoof-sized was on my face at night, it belonged to my wife.
If I heard a voice whispering in the darkness, it was hers.
“Please help.”
Now it’s a radio, and it ain’t her voice.
“If you can hear me, they’re right on top of us.”
Not her voice. My boy’s? No, the voice is young like his, but it ain’t—
“They’re right on top of us! Grid 457391!”
I kick the nearest stallion awake. “Position’s overrun,” I bark, repeating the coordinates. I don’t dare respond through the radio, or the noise might get the speaker killed.
“Please, for the love of Celestia, start raining hell or we’re gonna bucking die!”
The battery scrambles to life. Shells are rammed home and cannons cranked into position.
“Move! Move!”
Pray to Heaven I got the coordinates right.
“We’re gonna bucking die!”
“Shift it!”
Pray to Heaven we don’t hit our own.
“Clear!”
“Please!”
Please!
“Fire!”
There is a roar like thunder, and shells shriek into the sky like banshees before screaming back down to earth, landing with the force of a wrathful titan.
“Fire!”
Grid 457391. K Company’s position. Right up the road from us.
“Fire!”
We reload in a frenzy, knowing that we can’t stop or else K Company will be overrun.
“Fire!”
We pump shells into guns, knowing that every shot we fire has a risk of killing our own.
“Fire!”
We keep firing, knowing that if we don’t they’re dead for sure.
“Fire!”
I load with my hooves, keeping the radio glued to my head with magic, praying I’ll hear something other than static. Praying for a reprieve. Praying—
“They’re pulling back!” crackles the voice. “Oh, sweet Celestia they’re pulling back!”
“Cease fire! Cease fire!”
The cannon fire grinds to a halt. The sudden stillness continues to echo the furious roar for a few moments longer, and then only one sound can be heard through the clearing.
The radio.
“They’re pulling back! They’re pulling back! Thank Celestia, Luna, and all the Stars above!” The voice is hysterical. Sobbing. I can’t blame him. “You heroes! You bucking heroes!” he weeps. “You saved us! You beautiful sons of mules, I can’t believe you did it!”
We exchange glances. The pony on the other end is too giddy at surviving to look around him, probably. Odds are at least one of our shells hit our own guys. Wouldn’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last.
As the whooping and hollering continues to echo through the radio, an officer takes stock of the ammunition we expended. A staff sergeant sits down to write an after action report on the off chance that somepony cares. The rest of us just stumble back to whatever patch of earth we’d come from and flop back down. No one even bothers to reach for their rifles.
I curl up in the shadow of the cannon as the hot metal ticks and hisses as rain dies on the barrel. I prop the radio on my face and shut my eyes, trying to ignore the voice, but careful not to tune it out in case the enemy comes back.
We saved lives, tonight. I keep telling myself that. I know we’re doing a good thing.
All the same…
All the same, when this war is over, I look forward to going back to farming. I want to make things grow again.
The shouting in the radio starts to get quieter. He’s not really talking anymore; just jabbering incoherently. I doubt he even knows he still has the transceiver on.
Coal’s daughter will need tending to. It’s not right for a filly to grow up without her father.
The voice in my ear has stopped trying to speak through his sobs. Now he’s just sobbing.
We should see if we can convince Coal’s wife to move out to the farm. She and her daughter would be more than welcome. From what he told me, his wife and Carrot are two peas in a pod; he always said she was great with toddlers, and Carrot can always use an extra set of hooves with the littlest ones. My boy and his girl ought to get on fine.
The radio goes quiet. I guess the poor kid finally realized it was still on. I hope he’s not embarrassed. There’s no shame in a stallion crying. I hope he knows that. I hope his father told him.
I told my boy, before I left. He was standing there, trying so hard to be strong for the family. But crying ain’t weakness. It’s compassion. Compassion is strength. If I see K Company’s radio operator after tonight, I’ll make sure he knows that.
My boy’s gonna see me cry when I get home. I’m gonna cry because I am home, because I’ll be surrounded by life, not death. Because a shy mare will make sure I never have to see rats again. And I’m gonna kiss my wife and hug my children and grow carrots and spend the rest of my born days just trying to make everypony’s lives a little brighter.
I doubt it’ll ever get rid of the nightmares. Not really. My memory’s too good for that.
But maybe one day I’ll forget what if feels like to sleep with a radio on my face.
Author's Note
This story is in particular dedicated to the artillerymen who inspired the narrator. The recollection of sleeping with the radio on, as well as their reasons for doing so, are based upon the recollections of a number of veterans of the Vietnam War and found voice in the narrator's introspection.
Many veterans I have heard the stories of have a story much like this: He was a father to all he met, including many young people suffering from abusive parents. He always took time from his day to try to bring others into a place where they could feel the love of others and of God. He made this his mission despite the intense trauma that he struggled with for decades. When he passed away, he left behind a loving family and many good friends.
Such stories I have heard many times from veterans and their families and friends, and they never fail to move me to tears.
For those of you who are believers, please pray for this man and for all who have a story like him and for those they leave behind, and for all veterans and veterans' families. For those of you who are not believers, please keep these brave people in your thoughts. Thank you.
To any veterans who are in need of assistance, we are here to help you as you helped us.
Mighty Oaks Foundation for Veterans
Veterans Crisis Line
