We Sail For Celestia

Manehattan Harbour was a grand place, home to both civilian liners, merchant ships and, on the western spur, the largest Equestrian naval base anywhere in the nation. The city it served was equally grand- if Canterlot was the jewel of Equestria, then Manehattan was its beating heart, ever thrumming with the activity of some four million ponies, Zebras, Yaks, Griffons, Diamond Dogs and a dozen other species besides. Its factories and workshops churned out an endless array of manufactured goods for the population of the whole world, to say nothing of vast quantities of weapons, ammunition and materiel for the Equestrian war machine. The naval yard in Hooflyn, one of the city boroughs, was the largest of its kind, and many of the largest ships in the fleet, including the Celestial Spirit and the navy's flagship, the Chevaline, had been built there.

Now it lay at anchor out in the roadstead, off to the side of the harbour, away from the shipping lanes in and out through the narrows that fed the great bay with the cool waters of the Great Western Sea. The Chevaline was a sea-monster, a great, ponderous behemoth of a ship by anypony's standards. Some five hundred feet long, if the Chevaline were stood on its end it would have been the second tallest thing in Manehattan, behind the Pony-Life Insurance Building. Her nine twelve-inch guns in three triple turrets made her a deadly danger to any ship afloat, while her secondary batteries, consisting of six eight-inch guns, and a collection of six-inch and four-inch guns that made up the tertiary batteries, could pepper a target with a hailstorm of smaller shells. Her other selling point was her armour; thicker, stronger and mounted across the ship, not just in key locations, the Chevaline could take a pounding as well as dishing it out. Anything less than a ten-inch gun would have almost no chance of penetrating her armour, and even heavier shells could simply bounce off or fail to penetrate. Most other battleships lacked this complete coverage, but the Chevaline was the flagship not just of the Home Fleet, but the entire navy, and had been designed accordingly.

She was Admiral-Prince Blueblood's pride and joy, and with good reason, for not only did she have the biggest guns and thickest armour, she also had the best crew. Blueblood had made sure that the cream of the fleet's offerings made their way to his ship. The hardest workers, the most patriotic ponies, the best gunners and finest stokers and most accurate navigators; all were siphoned off to feed the Chevaline's enormous crew of over a thousand. That made her a formidable warship, but it also had the unfortunate side effect of reducing the number of well-trained and experienced officers, petty officers and crewponies to supply the rest of the fleet.

That was one of the reasons why, though the Home Fleet was the largest of Equestria's naval assets, it was widely considered to be one of the weakest, too. Since the Equatorial Fleet was the one which tended to see the most action, mostly against pirates, many of the best-trained seaponies were to be found there, down in the tropical heat. That was where one gained experience of combat. It was said that a good seapony would experience life in each of the four fleets to complete their training as a true sailor; the Equatorial Fleet to learn how to fight, the Northern Fleet to learn true sailing and the weather, the Overseas Fleet to learn diplomacy with the locals, and the Home Fleet to learn how to drink.

Admiral-Prince Blueblood had spent the past few days engrossed in documents and papers, poring over every detail of the fleet's logistics and readiness. It was not something he was accustomed to, having a large personal staff to sort through what he considered routine paperwork and take care of it themselves, leaving him to answer the most important correspondence- such as invitations to the theatre or a cocktail party, for instance.

Nevertheless, the fleet needed his attentions if it was to complete its monumental journey to reinforce the Northern Fleet. It was a long, long trip- over ten thousand miles by sea. There were two possible routes the Home Fleet could take- around the southern tip of the continent, or through the northern passage. Blueblood's choice, however, was made for him by the season, for winter was spreading its chill grip across the land, and the northern passage was completely blocked by ice, and would be for at least three or four months. That meant a journey south, instead, through the stultifying tropics and then up the entire eastern coastline. After examining all the relevant documents, Blueblood was aghast to find that it would require his ships to stop for coal at least four times on the way- far from the swift and decisive move he had promised the Princess.

Even with the fleet colliers accompanying them, they could only carry so much of the vital, dirty fuel each capital ship required. Blueblood's battleships and heavy cruisers were hungry beasts, needing teams of pony stokers constantly at work to keep the fires burning in the boilers and the turbines spinning. That was part of the reason why the Royal Equestrian Navy had spread its reach so widely across the lands of the world, for a network of coaling stations and overseas bases had been vitally important since the invention of the steam turbine. No longer reliant on the wind, an infinite, though extremely unreliable, source of power, the navy needed coal and oil to keep its ships moving. A battleship had a maximum unrefuelled range entirely dependent on how much coal it could carry on board, which was never enough, and certainly not for a massive journey such as the one being planned for the Home Fleet. Colliers and oilers could accompany the fleet on its voyage to top up the tanks and bunkers of the other ships, but once their own supplies were exhausted the fleet would still have to dock somewhere to take on more. That limited their effective operational range, and made Blueblood's planning a headache.

To make matters worse, not every coaling station on the route was even under Equestrian ownership. At least one was Griffon-controlled, and depending on the stance the Griffon's leaders took with regards to the war, they might not be allowed to stop there at all. If the Griffons decided to remain studiously neutral in the Kirin-Equestrian conflict, then, at least in theory, no military vessels of either combatant nation would be allowed to dock at any Griffon-owned port or fuelling station. That left a large gap in the route, meaning the fleet might have to take on extra coal at the previous waystation- not just filling their bunkers, but literally loading the decks with it to make sure they had enough range to reach the next Equestrian coaling spot.

After days of tearing his hair out over the proposals and nervous drinking while worrying he had promised something his fleet might not be able to deliver, Blueblood and his advisors finally had a definite route mapped out. All that remained now was to provision the fleet, assemble the crews, and leave. A simple proposition- at least in theory.

Taking a launch out to inspect the fleet, Blueblood had been appalled to discover from his lowly vantage point skimming the water that many of the cruisers and battleships showed signs of rusting and fouling around the waterline. That was meant to happen after weeks at sea, not when sat in port, where the crews, in theory, were meant to keep the vessels ship-shape and well painted to avoid such maladies. It was not a professional look- the fleet was meant to represent the power and strength of the Princesses, and rusty ships with peeling paint and barnacles encrusting the keels did not exactly do a good job of that. More practically, it was a problem because the accumulation of rust corrosion and unwanted marine life had a deleterious effect upon the ship's speed and fuel efficiency, and that efficiency would be key in their long journey around the continent.

Blueblood's anger was quick to bubble to the surface at the best of times, and he had exploded at the hapless crew of the little launch he was sailing on, haranguing them about the lack of preparation and the poor maintenance of the fleet, all the while forgetting, or deliberately side-lining, the fact that ultimately, as Admiral, it was his responsibility to see that his ships were kept ready for duty and in good condition. The launch crew were not even from one of the ships, but rather from the shore installation at Manehattan's naval base, a part of the fleet but certainly not responsible for the cleanliness and good order of its ships.

Upon his return to the dockside, Blueblood had immediately drafted and issued an order for all ships to be painted and properly cleaned of any fouling, debris and rust. It was an important order, but it would add at least a few days to their preparation time- paint had to be sourced and purchased, or requisitioned from the fleet stores; divers had to go down and use magic, welding torches or scraping tools to clear everything away as best they could. It was difficult, tedious work, and could only accomplish so much- to truly cleanse the ships' hulls and keels would require a spell in dry dock, where specialists could get easy access to them without having to don a diving suit or deploy an oxygenation bubble-spell. More to the point, it was an order that should never have needed to be given. The ships' crews were supposed to keep their ships ready for war, even when they were in harbour. A basic level of readiness should have been maintained at all times, but evidently, many of the officers in charge had not bothered to keep up with such tasks.

So what else might be in dire need of improvement before departure? Morale, it was widely held, was the poorest in the Home Fleet, and the best in the Equatorial Fleet. The reason for that was simple; the Equatorial Fleet actually fought and sailed, bringing a taste of Equestrian justice to the pirates of the archipelago. The Home Fleet had done very little of note in recent years, and most of her crewponies spent their time gambling, drinking and whoring- and so did the officers. While that was a common thread across all four fleets, the Home Fleet both had the greatest opportunity to indulge, and tended to suffer the least recriminations for doing so, for Blueblood, despite his bluster, was mostly an absent commander, having a joint role as Admiral of the Home Fleet, but also Admiral of the Navy, the highest ranking officer of the service, member of the advisory chiefs, and responsible directly to Princess Celestia. In practice that meant he spent as much of his time as possible schmoozing, attending grand parties and balls and banquets, and sleeping with aristocratic ladies and noblemares, instead of attending to his fleet and his crews.

That was all well and good when in port for most of the year, but now that the Home Fleet was being called upon to spring into action, it did not bode well, for when Blueblood actually drove himself to something, he forced those around him to work as hard as they damn well could to achieve his goals. A lazy fleet with ill-trained ponies and a missing commander, that was suddenly transformed into a warfighting machine with a tyrant at its head?

That could very well spell trouble on the road ahead, and it was a very, very long road to Harmony Bay.

The mountains were cold. As cold as anywhere Greenshield could remember, and it was only the first week or so of winter. Wind whistled down the Yakfrost Pass, cooled by the altitude as well as the season, driving down the glacial valley as a howling gale, like vengeful spirits in the night that tore at the canvas of their tents. The pass had seemed pleasant enough when the 45th Regiment, now reunited as a single unit, had arrived, marching steadily up the slopes, a thin layer of dying grass under their feet whenever they strayed from the dirt road. Exposed granite walls, bare, weathered rock, rose vertiginously on both sides, framing the pass below, where uneven bulges of earth and rock from ancient landslips now created an effect rather like a lumpy blanket across the landscape, bunched up toward the eastern side of the pass, leaving the western side much smoother and flatter, though still in a gradual incline. The track, a road only in name, cut through this flattish area, tunnelling through the first of the mini-peaks before the valley opened out slightly and the road ran straight to the north, where the valley's head had two exits, one to the northwest, and one to the northeast, which headed to Yakyakistan.

The Yakfrost Pass had always been well-defended ever since Equestria had conquered the land and made it a subjugated state. Its strategic importance had never troubled the ancient Yaks, for they were nomadic, and until the Equestrian Conquests none had ever dared to try and invade the Yak homeland. A castle had been built by the ponies at the northern end of the pass, and now that had been replaced by a mighty, modern fortress, all concrete and steel and long-barrelled guns, tucked in below the enormous pyramidal peak of granite and snow that formed the northern edge of the glacial complex. That was the point of no return; lose the fort, and lose the entire pass, leaving the way open for the Kirin to advance on Yakyakistan.

To prevent that, several strongpoints had been created in the pass, occupying the high ground atop the ancient landslides, which had long since settled into hills and ridges. Bunkers had been constructed here, two in total, each with a revolving, domed turret housing two heavy-caliber artillery guns which could dominate the pass below. Other connecting galleries and pillboxes offered observation points and machine gun coverage over the slopes and the track below. Any enemy forces pushing along the lower western side of the valley would find themselves subjected to plunging fire from mortars and mountain howitzers, as well as the emplaced turrets, the equivalent of a main battery aboard a heavy cruiser.

As well as these permanent fortifications, a network of trenches and wire had been dug by the 45th Regiment and the other units now stationed there to defend Yakfrost. Field guns had been dug in behind sandbags and earthen ramparts to protect the tunnel, which was rigged with explosives ready to be collapsed if necessary. Land mines had been planted on the flat ground, the approaches to the hills and their steep slopes being well-seeded with the hidden devils. The Chapel of the Royal Sisters, a local temple complete with handsome spire, all built from the local stone, had been ringed with trenches and protected positions and was expected to be the first line of defence when the Kirin came.

Greenshield and the rest of the 1st Battalion were stationed on the ridge between the tunnel and the high ground above it. They had been kept busy digging, hard work in the tough rock. When entrenching tools had been inadequate, explosives had been used to blast the rock. Where that failed, magic was concentrated into an intense cone by several unicorns and used like a welding torch to melt through the granite and limestone. The trenches were lined with timber logs for protection, and topped with earth-filled sandbags. The barren region did not offer too much in the way of supplies for either resource, and the valley, left to grow and be as fertile as it could be in times of peace, had been almost entirely stripped of what few trees there were. More timber had been ferried up from the rare boreal forests that lay to the north of Yakyakistan, around a huge lake where the ancient Yaks had once hunted down rival tribes.

It was cold on the mountain. That, Greenshield told himself, would be his one abiding memory of this place, if he survived. It was bloody cold. He enjoyed hikes in the hills, and playing in the snow as a foal, but this was something different. The snow had only fallen lightly since they had arrived, but it was enough. If it snowed no more, he would be a happy stallion. The crisp coating crunched underfoot as ponies stomped about, trying to keep warm as they lugged sandbags and boxes of ammunition from strongpoint to strongpoint. The trenches the 1st Battalion occupied were far from cosy. Duckboards for a floor and rough logs covering the walls, with the bare rock beneath. It was no simple task to dig fortifications under such conditions, and it had cost the Equestrians a lot of money to build the bunkers and fortress. That had been accomplished over the years and mercifully had been given enough attention to keep the guns functional and the fortifications in good condition.

Sitting on an upturned ration crate, Greenshield tried, with trembling, gloved hands, to write a letter. Other soldiers passed him by, moving their way down the narrow trench, stepping over the legs of slumbering ponies and squeezing through gaps where groups of squadmates had stopped to chat. It was, he soon decided, too cold to write, and in any case he had already written Dear Brother before crossing it out and writing Dear Father instead, which is what he had meant to write in the first place.

He tucked the paper and pencil away and stood, making his way along the trench. Somepony was playing a familiar folk tune on an accordion, and the smell of fresh bread was wafting in from somewhere on the breeze. If he didn't know any better, he could have almost been lulled into believing it was a pleasant place to be- but only for a moment. Then two ponies pushed past him, carrying a machine gun and its tripod, followed by a slender mare with two metal boxes of ammunition in her hands, and he was quickly and rather brutally reminded of the reality.

He continued on. Here, there was a dugout, where Major Opal Blitz sat poring over a map of the area, half a dozen extinguished cigarettes adorning his empty tin mug of coffee. There, he could see a pony peering over the parapet of the trenches with a periscope, an odd arrangement at first but one which made good practical sense, for it allowed her to observe the valley below without exposing her head to a sniper's sight. Farther on, he passed the latrines, dug in a setback beside the main trench, where two mares squatted side by side, casually chatting while shitting into the deep, buried buckets that would be doused liberally with quicklime during the occupation and eventually burned once the position was evacuated.

Farther down the line, Greenshield came to his machine-gun section, set up with a good field of fire for their weapon, aimed downhill toward the track. The chapel could be seen in the distance, at the bottom of the valley, its spire standing tall and proud, the Equestrian flag flying from its tip. Spotters occupied the spire, ready with a field telephone to relay calls for artillery fire to the positions upon the high ground. There were more guns farther back, at the fortress, and they were big ones, while other pack-howitzers and mountain guns occupied key positions in the defensive line. Mortar platoons were dug in to sandbagged emplacements, ready to lend a helping hand once the Kirin got into range.

"How are you doing?" Greenshield asked Easy Peeler, the orange unicorn who had been wounded at Calico Bridge.

"I've felt better, Sarge," he replied with a grunt. "This damn cold is playing havoc with my wound."

Greenshield nodded. Easy Peeler had been hit in the side by a bullet, and treated at the regimental casualty clearing station once the 1st Battalion had linked up with the rest of the unit. His side was bandaged, cauterised with magic and dusted with antiseptic sulfa powder, and though he had been offered the choice to be evacuated to Yakyakistan for rest, he had volunteered instead to return directly to his unit. A brave, or foolish, move, it was certainly showing the kind of spirit which was greatly appreciated by the commanders, earning him a Personal Citation, the lowest form of commendation it was possible to receive, but a commendation nonetheless. It would bode well for his future military career, if the enemy were kind enough to let him survive this campaign.

"Good lad," Greenshield found himself adding rather condescendingly, because it seemed like the sort of thing a Senior Sergeant should say, even though he was only a year older than Easy Peeler. It was the nature of war, and in the Equestrian Army and Navy, it had been the way of peace, too. Those barely older than the ponies they commanded were to be given respect not because of their age, but because of their rank- regardless, in some cases, of whether or not they had earned any of that respect through their actions.

"Any chance of a cup of tea to warm us up, Sarge?" one of the other troopers called.

"I think there's one on the way," Greenshield replied with a nod, though in truth he had no idea. Best to tell small lies, sometimes, if it would help keep morale up. That was one of the rules he had been taught.

"Alright boys and girls! Stand to!" Opal Blitz suddenly roared, emerging from his dugout. "Stand to! Scouts report hostile forces moving toward the valley. Looks like they're heading our way, so get ready. Contact is expected within the hour."

"You heard the Major..." Greenshield grunted. "Stand to!"

The trenches suddenly burst into life. The two mares who had been using the latrines suddenly scurried out from the side trench where they were located, hastily fastening their belts. Other soldiers began to ring well-placed bells along the line to spread the alert. Machine guns were loaded and checked, rifles unslung, helmets placed squarely upon nervous heads. The enemy was on their way, and the 10th Corps would be waiting for them.