We Sail For Celestia

Dear brother,

I do not know if you shall ever receive this letter. I do not know where you are; short of saying that most of the army has gone north, they will not tell me any more. I pray to the Sun and the Moon both that you are alive and well. I am still in Harmony Bay. The fleet is still hemmed in by the enemy and we cannot sail for fear of being overwhelmed. They have the numbers on us, and, I believe, the firepower also (the censors will no doubt delete that entire sentence). I fear it may be some time before we are able to leave. Wherever you are, I hope you are not too cold. I did receive the letter you sent while you were on your journey here; I do have that greatcoat, and it is serving me well, though it is a devil to dry once it gets wet, which is often. The climate here is barely worthy of the name. They have a quaint and oft-repeated saying. 'If you can't see the headland, it's raining; if you can see the headland, it's about to rain.' They are, however, forecasting a break from such tedium- snow is expected in the coming days. Perhaps you have already experienced some snowfall.

If you are able to reliably send letters home, and you receive this one, please pass on my love and best wishes to father and to Uncle Green Haze. I imagine it will be rather easier for you to get through than I. It will be a rather circuitous route this letter has taken if it ever does find its way to you- our post is having to be carried out by blockade runner. I do not pity the crews their task. Some are civilian fast freighters, but some are destroyers and I fear it may be our turn soon. The Kirin ships are everywhere. Some of the ships we send out do not make it back. I would not like to end up as missing on one of our daily casualty reports, though it is of course always a possibility with the sea being what she is.

I can hear the guns every day now- not their navy, but their army. They are pushing through our outer lines and trying to bring their artillery within range of the city itself. They are pounding the forts day and night. Sometimes I cannot sleep for the noise, though it comes from miles away. It carries itself on the breeze like a terrible birdsong. They want more guns in the fortresses. I also fear I may find myself posted there. I do not know what would be worse- running the blockade or facing their shells.

Whatever happens, remember that I love you, brother.

Greenwood

Another letter written, another letter to be cancelled from existence for the most part by the censors. Greenwood leaned back in his creaking chair. His pen was almost out of ink; he would need to fill it before he could write again. The deck beneath him swayed gently as the Defiant rode at anchor. A fair swell was picking up out at sea, and a squall was expected imminently. Snow was already falling, he could see, looking through the porthole. Despite the weather, the Kirin had not stopped. He could hear their distant guns. They were in control of the western half of the peninsula. Harmony Bay was well and truly cut off, and the weather just added to the misery of the local inhabitants and the sailors marooned there. Writing letters home was something most serviceponies- those who could write, at least- indulged in, for it was one of the few things that linked them with their families. The other was the dispatch of care packages and parcels with letters, photographs, notes from home and things that were hard to come by on active service- razor blades, cigarettes, home-made cakes, jam, a favourite brand of tea or coffee, hand-knitted socks, scarves or gloves.

Ah, gloves.

Greenwood missed a good, solid, high-quality pair of gloves. The navy issue ones he possessed were not exactly ideal for such frigid conditions as Harmony Bay was likely to experience in the close-at-hand winter. The snow flurries he could see already looked bitter, and he was sitting in a relatively warm ship's cabin. He dreaded to think what it would feel like with the wind coming in off of the sea.

"Hey, we're up."

Junior Lieutenant Tracer stood in the open cabin doorway. "Oakheart says we're to report to the pier in thirty minutes with one bag apiece."

"We're definitely going, then?" Greenwood asked slowly.

"It looks like it," Tracer nodded. Greenwood rose from his chair. He would drop the letter in at the military post office on the way, with hopes that it would wing its way to his brother.

"Alright then. Make sure you pack all your warm clothing. It can get pretty damn cold inside all of that concrete."

The ring of forts that surrounded the city were strong and well-fortified, but the garrison was understrength. They were especially short of heavy guns, and it had been agreed between General Wild Willow and Admiral Strongbow that some secondary batteries from the fleet's damaged destroyers could be removed and transported to the forts to reinforce them. It had been a long and strenuous process, with the guns having to be first stripped from the ships, broken down into parts and loaded into boats and barges to be transported to shore, then shipped laboriously over land by cart and motor-tractor out to the forts, where they could be reassembled. Though the forts themselves had less guns than would be ideal, they had plentiful supplies of eight and ten-inch ammunition for the guns they did possess, which could be used in the dismounted naval weapons, which shared the same calibres. Those naval guns would be most efficiently operated by sailors and their officers, which was why some were being siphoned off from the immobile fleet to go and support the fortresses.

As well as those heavier guns, there was now a demand for lighter guns to be fitted to defend the forts against infantry assault, which was why the four-inch guns from the damaged destroyers Windraven and the Windrider had been removed and sent out to the forts. Both of those ships had taken casualties, including officers, which was why Greenwood and Tracer had been ordered to transfer themselves to the forts and take command of some of the guns to help repel the inevitable attacks that would be coming.

It was a daunting prospect for most naval officers, though one that had been carried out in the past. Naval artillery, while superficially similar to land-based artillery in use by the army, had its quirks, and would ideally be crewed by experienced operators. Some, though by no means all, of the various shore batteries Equestria had established across its coastlines were similarly crewed, but not many naval officers would be expected to command a battery in the thick of a siege. At least Greenwood had infantry experience from his previous life as a Lieutenant of Foot, to use the technical term, serving in the army before switching to the navy, something which stood him in good stead not just for commanding the guns in the fort, but also in the event of any direct combat. He knew what it was like to come under fire, to be shelled by artillery, to be shot at, and to shoot back with one's own weapon, and not the very impersonal main turrets of a ship.

Greenwood packed his bag and made his way down to the pier with Tracer. They were told to walk to the main station, where, despite the line out of the city being cut, they would board a train. The trains were still running as a supply service between the city and its forts, shuttling ammunition, food and supplies, as well as soldiers and, now, sailors, to bolster the defences. Trudging through the dull streets in the overcast, slush and snow crunching and sloshing under their feet as they tramped through the mud, they two officers made their way to the station, via the military post office so Greenwood could post his letter to his brother.

The station was as drab as the rest of the city, a run-down brick and metal structure with dimly-lit waiting areas and exposed platforms, where the bitter wind swept freely across the waiting passengers- soldiers and sailors, in this case, plus several large stacks of small arms ammunition, boxed and prepared for transport to the forts. Upturned collars, gloved hands and sullen looks could only ward off so much of the cold, and it was difficult for Greenwood to remember seeing a more miserable-looking bunch of ponies in his life, huddled together on benches or standing listlessly, leaning against pillars, smoking cigars with empty faces. They knew they were going off to fight, and they knew that some of them would be going off to die.

It was a short journey, once the Yak train crew managed to get their aged locomotive running, less than fifteen minutes out to the fortress line, where the smell of cordite and smoke hung in the air. The Kirin bombardment was unceasing, pounding the trenches that lay in front of the forts. Each fort was widely spaced from each other, thick, squat concrete structures half buried in the earth, with observation and artillery cupolas peeking from the top, machine-gun embrasures, strongpoints, blockhouses and bunkers dotting the terrain in front of them, all heavily strung with barbed wire. Numerous trenches criss-crossed the landscape, both in front of and between the forts, where more pillboxes and mortar pits could be found, guarding the vulnerable flanks of each lynchpin in the line. The forts were the key to defending the city; if they held, the Kirin would find no purchase in Harmony Bay. But if they could break through...

The fortresses were deployed in staggered ranks, with three forming an outer line and another three protecting the direct approaches to the city itself. It was to the outer forts that the troops were being directed, along with the heavy guns, whenever there was a lull in the enemy bombardment. If the Kirin could isolate even one of the forts from its fellows, they could surround it and pummel it into submission, leaving the way open for their troops to pour through the line. They did not need to take every fort to gain access to the city, but merely to clear enough of a path for themselves. That was why the spaces in between the forts had been heavily fortified with trenches, wire and minefields.

The three forts in the front line, named simply Fort U, Fort V and Fort W, geographically arrayed from north to south across the peninsula, were already suffering from heavy artillery bombardments, and only when the firing died down could troops and equipment be safely moved up from the rear line, where Fort X, Fort Y and Fort Z were acting as a staging area. The railway line seemed to be spared from the efforts of the Kirin gunners, presumably because they could not see that it was still being used to shuttle ponies and supplies from the city, though they soon would, as two small, strategic hills, Hill 101 and Hill 124, had fallen to their assault outside of the line and pony observers had been forced back, meaning that it was now the Equestrian artillery that was firing blind.

Greenwood and Tracer entered a strange world, a moonscape of cratered earth, shattered trenches, torn wire. The little diesel engine chugged along, dragging half a dozen cars behind it, all the elderly locomotive could manage, each one laden down with one of the naval guns, with their crews and officers crammed into a single passenger car. All around them lay the devastation that artillery could unleash upon the land. Smashed, splintered tree trunks, the last remnants of nature, were all that could be seen to remind the grim-faced ponies that they were still in Equestria and not on some other planet that had been stripped of life. Fort V, their destination, lay ahead, almost on the rail line which it had been built to protect. The concrete structure was mostly buried in the earth, but some thirty feet of thick wall rose from the ground, studded with firing ports for cannons like the ones being brought up by rail. Smoke drifted across the trenches that lay in front of the fort, which looked mostly abandoned, but upon closer inspection would reveal ponies peering warily over the parapets, looking through trench periscopes and crouching over machine guns and mortars. Any lull in the firing could precede an attack by Kirin infantry, and they had to be ready. During the heaviest phase of the bombardments, most of the ponies would retreat into the fort itself, or find shelter in deep dugouts and sunken bunkers within the trench system itself, emerging rapidly once the firing died down to take up defensive positions.

A small branch of the rail line led into a siding at the rear of Fort V, where some of the garrison helped to rapidly unload the cargo of the little train onto hand-carts, which they hastily removed into the interior of the fort. The sailors, Greenwood and Tracer among them, followed their guide, a grizzled mare Lieutenant, who ushered them inside, out of the snow and, more importantly, out of the open air, for shells could start falling again at any moment.

The interior of the fortress had a rail system, where the diminutive hand-carts could be pushed or moved with a tiny electric locomotive, the size one might find at a foal's amusement park taking rides. Shells for the guns were thus shifted from the deep magazines to the batteries for use against the enemy. The four-inch guns from the navy were moved by the same method, into empty chambers located at the front of the fort, which had once mounted army weapons, until budget cuts had led to their removal as surplus to requirements. The irony was not lost on Greenwood or his fellow officers that it was the diversion of funds to the Northern Fleet which had necessitated the guns' removal in the first place; now it was naval artillery that was replacing them in the time of dire need.

Before the guns could be readied and reassembled, the Kirin shelling began anew, heralded by a message broadcast over the internal loudspeaker system of the fort, followed moments later by the muffled thuds of the first rounds landing. A rush of ponies suddenly appeared from a hallway that led to the frontline, their khaki uniforms stained with mud and melted snow as they made their way inside the fort for protection, passing through the gun chamber on their way to their standby positions inside the tunnels and galleries of Fort V.

Greenwood watched them pass by. They looked weary, though they had not yet actively fought the Kirin. The shelling, which had been going on for days, had clearly taken its toll on them. How it would affect the sailors, who were used to a different kind of impact from shelling, would remain to be seen. Psychologically, both soldier and sailor feared the shot that hit them, but apart from that, anything other than a very near miss at sea would have little to no impact upon the crew of a ship, especially those below decks who might not even know it had happened. A miss, as they said, was as good as a mile when it came to naval gunfire. Here, on land, there was no cushioning effect from millions of gallons of seawater to carry away the shock and concussion of heavy shelling. Nor, as Greenwood could hear, did the shelling come in nice, piecemeal, manageable bouts as the ship that was firing unleashed each of its guns in turn. This was continuous, a roar and thrum, even from inside the fort and its thick walls. This was different. This was a land war, with all of the physical and psychological stresses and baggage that came with it. This, Greenwood knew from experience, was hell.

"Incoming!"

Greenshield ducked down again, burying his face in the stony dirt at the bottom of the trench as the first shells landed. The Kirin were having another go at pounding the defences. The Equestrian observers on the mountainside had already spotted large troop formations assembling down in the lower valley. Soon they would be assaulting the ridge once more. Around him, the ponies of the 45th hunkered down to wait out the incessant noise and shock, praying to the Sun and Moon not to be in the unlucky trench section that took a direct hit. After the first attack had been repelled, Greenshield had taken a walk through the trenches to check on the rest of the company, and felt his guts turn and heave when he came across just such a sight. The trench walls had collapsed, and the infantry section which had been occupying it had been turned into scraps of bloody meat and ghastly red smears spread like butter across the stone and earth. If not for the remains of their uniforms, one would never even have known they used to be soldiers.

The thought that it could have been him and not them who had been torn to shreds by the shelling had sent a sharp chill down Greenshield's spine, and now that the Kirin were firing again, that feeling had returned. It still could be him, or any member of his section, his company, his regiment. It was indiscriminate, unfeeling. It did not matter how much you prayed or begged or sobbed. That would not be enough to protect you if the shell had your name on it. Only the thick rock and earth could do that- and no rock was thick enough to keep anypony absolutely safe. The trenches were cover, but they were not a shield against the shelling. A direct hit, as Greenshield as seen for himself, would still annihilate entire infantry sections or wipe out a mortar battery or gun crew entirely. There was little chance of actual shields saving you, either- they were rarely used in combat because only particularly powerful unicorns could cast shields large enough to protect more than just themselves, and even then they could not be held up for more than a few moments because of the great drain of mental and physical strength and will that they exerted upon the caster. The alternative option was to gather numerous unicorns together and have them all contribute their strength to a sturdier shield, but even that had its limits, and had the other downside of concentrating unicorns- who were often officers thanks to their ancient noble bloodlines- in one spot and pulling them away from their units, to say nothing of the fact that a single strike powerful enough to pierce the shield could see them all killed in one fell swoop. That was why they were only used very sparingly in land and naval combat, in emergency situations, for example to protect a badly damaged vessel as it retreated, or to press home a faltering attack.

They could not protect the entire line from shelling, and nor could magic shields protect them from what else was following on behind the bombardment. As the shelling lifted and the constant barrage of sound and fury died down, a new noise rose to fill its place, a heavy droning, like a billion wasps. Curious and nervous heads peeked over the parapets to be met by the sight of something entirely unexpected.

"The hell is that?" somepony shouted. Greenshield shook the shock and dust from his ears and peeked over to take a look for himself. There, hanging in the distant sky over the lower valley, was a flying cigar.

"Airborne contact!" somepony else shouted. "Enemy airship above!"

"Shit..." Greenshield spat. Now the Kirin were in the air, too? That was all they needed. One of the advantages of this war- and they were few- was that the Kirin lacked airborne troops, as they had no Pegasi or other winged members of their species. Evidently they had chosen to find their own way around that shortcoming.

The airship was massive, the length of a battleship, a silver giant of the skies, driving itself forward with a dozen propellers. That was what was causing the insect-like hum. Its powerful engines pushed its bulk through the air with surprising speed and grace. Hanging beneath the enormous gasbag were two large gondolas, plus a smaller cabin slightly to one side that contained the cockpit and control room. Each gondola bristled with guns; repeating cannons and machine guns, a total of six of each, plus two more machine guns topside above the gasbag to protect against air troops. As it drew closer, hovering high above, they began to fire, raking the ridgeline with bullets and explosive shells. Having approached under cover of the shelling, the airship was now too close and too high to be engaged by the Equestrian field guns.

"Shit...hit that thing with everything you've got!" Major Blitz shouted. "Get some of those machine guns on your high-angle mounts! It's coming in fast!" Captain Fine Feather ran along the line, directing each alternate machine gun to switch to their anti-air mountings, tripods that allowed them to swivel the gun to almost vertical and fire up at airborne troops or, in this case, airships. Greenshield and his crew were directed to remain focused on the ridge ahead, because the Kirin were almost guaranteed to be launching an attack at any moment in conjunction with their newly-arrived air support.

"Nopony told us that thing was coming, sarge!" Acorn Hope complained as he sighed in the gun and racked it, ready to fire, a fresh belt of ammunition loaded.

"I don't think anypony knew," Greenshield replied. He, for one, certainly had been unaware that the Kirin possessed the technology to create airships- only Equestria and the Griffons had been previously known to utilise air power, using their airships both as patrol craft and assault ships, deploying airborne cavalry to descend upon an enemy position from on high. The Kirin, lacking wings, could not do the same, but they could certainly use their airship as a mobile bombardment platform.

"Heads down, watch out! That thing isn't discriminating between ponies who knew it was coming and those who didn't!" Captain Fine Feather warned as she returned down the line. "Keep watch, they're sure to be attacking any second."

"Yes ma'am!" Greenshield replied with a firm nod. They may not have been ready for the airship's arrival, but at least some of the defences had been, for machine-gun fire was rattling away from the high ridge, and several of the artillery guns located to the rear were trying their best to hurl shells at it. They were not having much effect; even when a hit was scored, the gondolas were heavily armoured and not easy targets, and the gasbag, the most vulnerable part of the craft, seemed to be well protected as well, much of the underside of its fabric outer layer covered with solid metal plates. Even the engines had metal grille-like boxes fitted around them, to allow the air to continue to flow into their intakes but deflect incoming projectiles.

The few dedicated anti-air guns in the defensive line began to blast out their 40mm shells, explosive rounds that acted like grenades when detonating among a squad of airborne soldiers. The airship was high overhead, and small arms fire was of limited use, but these shells had a much greater chance of penetrating the craft's armour. However, the telltale puffs of smoke and the flashes of high-angle muzzles gave away the positions of the defensive guns to the airship's gunners, who, in turn, swung their rapid-fire machine-cannons onto target and began picking off the anti-air guns one by one.

As the airship droned into position overhead, a second roar rose from the crest of the ridge as the Kirin began their charge. They advanced at a run, machine guns laying down suppressing fire on the trenches. The Equestrians began to fire, but the airship had them all in its sights. From on high, the gunners in their armoured gondolas could see every trench, every foxhole, every machine gun and every movement everypony made. They raked the trenches with machine-gun fire and strings of cannon shells that tore ponies open. Under fire from in front and above, the pony defences faltered. Though dozens of Kirin fell crossing the open slopes, hundreds more swept on under cover of the blanket of fire from the airship. As the giant, lumbering craft reached the airspace directly above the lines, strings of bombs detached themselves from racks beneath the main gondola, whistling as they fell and adding to the carnage and chaos below. One of them struck the turret of the bunker guns, not enough to penetrate the armour, but damaging both barrels and putting it out of action.

Acorn Hope worked the gun across the oncoming ranks of Kirin, their khaki uniforms standing out against the backdrop of snow-covered hills behind them. They threw grenades as they advanced, and reached the trenches to the left of their gun, leaping down and engaging in furious combat with the defenders for control of each small segment of sandbagged line. The wooden duckboards beneath their feet ran red with blood as they slaughtered their way through the ponies, until, time and again, they were met by a counter-charge from another trench section that pushed them back and massacred them in turn. The gunfire from the airship helped to pin down the Equestrian soldiers who were occupying rear trenches and hoping to move forward to support their fellows, for any movement would bring down the wrath of the machine-cannons that swung from target to target as machine gun fire rattled ineffectually from the armoured gondolas. Kirin artillery, careful not to aim too high for fear of hitting their own airship, lobbed shells onto the rear lines while their infantry charged forward.

Acorn Hope cut down half a dozen Kirin soldiers with his first belt of ammunition, and Easy Peeler set about loading another, the cloth-linked rounds, a hundred in total, providing serious firepower against any ground attack, or, when fixed to the pintle mount, against an aerial attack, as some of their fellow guns were doing, spewing lead at the airship and taking fire in return. Several gunners went down, being replaced by their backup ponies, but the Kirin infantry were sweeping up as well, and rapidly captured several parts of the trench network, despite heavy fire being thrown at them. The support of the airship, which was dividing the aim of the defenders and halving the number of machine guns available to slow down their infantry, was having the desired effect so far as the Kirin were concerned.

"Shit...they're pushing hard on the left flank!" Greenshield shouted over the din of the gun, tapping Acorn on the shoulder and directing his aim with a quick diagonal jab of an extended hand. "Over there!" Acorn swung the gun and it bucked and shook in his grip as he expended the last of his second belt of ammunition, catching a few Kirin stragglers and mowing them down as they tried to reach the safety of the captured trenches.

"Look out!" a stallion shouted. "Airship's got a bead on you!" Greenshield glanced up with a sinking feeling. One of the machine-cannons on the front gondola seemed to be aiming right at them, leaving them almost no time to react.

"Down, down!" he shouted, hurling himself to the ground as the gun began to fire. Bodies hit the bottom of the trench all around him as the rest of the crew tried to shelter themselves from the hurricane that suddenly blew up around them. A flurry of 20mm shells from the machine-cannon smashed into the ground, bursting sandbags, tearing through wooden planks and logs and kicking up dust, dirt and snow. Sharp pain cut through Greenshield's flesh as shrapnel ripped through his uniform and skin, making him cry out. Each shell struck the ground with a thud, the cacophony of a full barrage striking so close around them being as loud as hail on the roof of a greenhouse or an old tin shed, rattling his mind as efficiently as the much heavier rounds from the Kirin artillery had done.

In a few seconds it was over, the Kirin gunner moving on to another target, having knocked the machine gun out of action, at least temporarily. Greenshield scrambled to his feet, gripping his rifle, wincing at the stinging cuts on his back. The trench was in disarray. Two ponies from another company lay dead, sprawled out like discarded playthings, while another rolled around in agony, clutching the stump of her ruined arm.

"Medics! Medics!" Greenshield called, looking around for further casualties. His gun crew were all alive and picking themselves up. The same could not be said of their weapon. The machine gun had been smashed, its barrel bent and burst, the gun itself knocked from its mountings.

"Gun's fucked!" Acorn Hope growled.

"Then we use our rifles," Greenshield replied, giving his own weapon a quick once-over to make sure it was undamaged and ready for war. "Fix bayonets if you haven't already. Let's drive these bastards out."

The gun crew complied, readying their weapons as two stretcher bearers from the rear came up to remove the moaning mare to receive medical aid. Gunfire was still rippling from neighbouring trench sections and the Kirin were making good progress toward the high peak where the heavy turreted gun, unable to raise its barrels high enough to engage the airship, was picking off knots of infantry as they tried to storm the rocky plateau and gain access to the bunkers buried within it. Breaking through the pony lines there would give the Kirin a commanding position overlooking not only the rest of the line, but also the rear defences that covered the approach to the great fortress at the head of the valley, the final redoubt before Yakyakistan.

The airship was helping them force their way through, its brutal and accurate gunfire undeterred by sniper fire and machine guns. Even where a pony gunner found a clear shot on the craft's gasbag, it had no effect. A tiny pinprick from a bullet would cause a leak of the precious lifting gas, but only in minuscule quantities, the reverse effect of trying to sink a ship by filling it with water using a syringe. To add to the difficulties, the large sacs that held the gas in individual cells inside the airship were self-sealing thanks to an inner rubber liner. Something was needed to either tear a huge, gaping hole in the airship, or to ignite the gas inside. Regular bullets and even the high-explosive shells from the anti-air guns alone were not enough.

As Greenshield and his section took aim with their rifles and began engaging the advancing Kirin infantry, a brave group of Pegasi took to the air from the high ridge, braving enemy fire as they flew up toward the airship as fast as their wings could carry them. Snipers picked off a few, but most made it up, to be engaged by the machine guns on top of the airship, which had been installed for just such a possibility. Up they went, only to be mown down by accurate fire, which they countered with their own submachine guns. It took them numerous casualties, but they managed to land atop the airship, and set about their work.

Kirin soldiers emerged from a hatch at the other end of the airship, by the other machine gun position, and a game of cat and mouse began. There was nowhere to hide atop the smooth canvas gasbag. Pegasi and Kirin lay flat, partly for protection from bullets and partly for protection from the icy winter wind which streamed over the top of the giant craft as it moved. The Kirin had rifles, more accurate than the Pegasi's submachine guns, but difficult to use effectively in the slipstream, as the wind knocked their aim and gave the advantage to the ponies, who could use their wings to stabilise themselves and advance in great leaps instead of crawling along. Several unfortunate Kirin who were hit lost their grip on the craft and plunged like meteors over the side, falling to a screaming death on the sharp rocks below. As the battle below raged, so too did this second theatre of war on high, a struggle for control of the airship. The ponies had orders to capture the craft if possible, but if that was proving too difficult, destroying it would be just as useful. With dogged resistance from the Kirin, the lieutenant in command of the raiding party decided the latter was the way to go.

With knives and bayonets, the ponies tore a hole in the gasbag and descended into the innards of the airship, a great confusion of concertinaed metal struts, walkways, and the huge sacks, airtight, that held in the vital lifting gas, a mixture of hydrogen and helium, that kept the airship flying. Here too there were Kirin, who had rapidly descended from the top of the airship back through the hatch when they realised what the ponies were doing. A mad melee ensued at close range, where the rifles of the Kirin, superior at range when firing along the top of the airship, were suddenly cumbersome and unwieldy in the close confines of the interior. The ponies with their submachine guns and short, stiletto-like bayonets had the upper hand, and the Kirin were kept at bay while the ordinarily self-sealing sacks of gas were slit wide open with knives and fuses set. As soon as they were lit, the ponies scrambled back out through the gash they had cut in the outer skin of the airship and took to the wing, swooping clear and back down toward friendly lines.

As the fuse-cord burned, it came, naturally, into contact with the gas, which was steadily flowing from the punctured sacks and toward the gash in the outer cover which was acting as a kind of flue, drawing the gas naturally toward the open air beyond. Coming into direct contact with naked flame was enough to ignite the gas, and before the Kirin crew in the cabin below were even aware of what was happening, the interior of the gigantic gas envelope above their heads was already wreathed in flame. When the fire warning lights began to illuminate on their control panels, it was already too late to save the craft. Panicked alarm stations were sounded and firefighting parties dispatched, but the flames were already burning through the outer cover, licking at the open air, hungry for more oxygen to fuel their insatiable lust. Observers on the ground and the surviving anti-air crews gave a wild cheer as they noticed the first flickers of light, like sailors spotting the first streaks of blue sky after weathering a horrid storm.

The disaster befalling the airship came at just the right moment. The left flank of the defences, on the high ridge, had been breached, and the Kirin were pouring through, under heavy support from the airship's guns as they stormed the bunkers and trenches. The airship's captain ordered all engines stopped, to help prevent the further spread of flame by virtue of the slipstream fanning the flames, but it was no use. The fire spread like a summer blaze through bone-dry brush, and soon the front half of the airship was a flaming torch in the sky, slowly slipping backward, away from the ridge and into the valley, as it lost buoyancy and altitude. The desperate crew faced a hellish choice; ride their craft down and roast to death, but with a tiny slim hope of being able to scuttle free from the wreckage when it struck the ground, or jump.

Most opted for the former, for any hope was better than none, but the prospect of being crushed under tonnes of flaming debris was too much for many. A lucky few in the gunnery stations had access to parachutes, simple canvas devices, crude and not particularly reliable, but many of the crew were cut off from their chutes by the rapidly spreading flames. Those who could leaped to safety, their parachutes billowing above them like mushrooms after a spring rain. Others hesitated in the doorways or hatches of the gondolas, paralysed by fear. Above them, the gasbag was burning, great globs of molten canvas and metal dripping down, igniting fires on top of the cabins and idling engines. It took less than a minute for the entire length of the airship to be ablaze, and the airship descended like a comet into the lower valley, sending Kirin reinforcements scrambling desperately to get out of its path as it fell, stern first, crumpling up like an accordion as it hit the ground, the screech of rending metal and crashing frames filling the air. Those who had not jumped, with or without parachutes, were crushed beneath the six hundred-foot long wreck, burned alive as they lay trapped in the twisted, shattered remains of the airship, all skeletal metal girders and struts, the canvas outer cover completely burned away.

With the airship went the momentum from the Kirin assault. They had reached the limit of their aggression, of their stamina. Without the gunfire from above, the attack stalled and stagnated, much as their first wave had done. Ground down by gunfire, worn out by the slog up the slopes, harassed by artillery and mortars, the Kirin spent the rest of the day trying desperately to hold the ground they had won, high on the ridge. Before night fell, they were on the run, driven out by Equestrian reinforcements and a heavy bombardment from the fortress guns to the rear. They would not come again, but that did not mean that the war for Yakyakistan and Northwick was over. If anything, the desperate struggle was only just beginning.