Author's Note

I can’t write battles very well, sorry.

A New Age of War

May 3rd, 2028 Earth Date
June 17th, 1902 New World Date
0900 Hours

Rally Point 1

The rotating blades of the chopper roared with a deafening, thunderous drone as it flew low over New Whynot. The chopper was a fairly barebones machine, an exposed engine mounted above the glass ball that was its simple cockpit, the framework tail stretched out far, a small rotor at the end facing to the side. Sitting in the cockpit were two men, one bore the gray jumpsuit of a chopper pilot, a confederate crossed flag upon his shoulder inverted with a red cross and blue field, and below that was the traditional blue cross and red field flag patch.

Upon his right were a stars and bars flag, showing three bars, two red and one white with a blue canton depicting twenty-four flags in a circle, below that was a simple white flag with a blank red cross, represent Alabama. On his right breast was a tag that read Cpt P. H. Williams, beneath it, one read Confederate Air Defense and Attack Corps. His face sat largely concealed beneath a gray pilot's helmet and black visor, his hands beneath black leather gloves. Next to this man was one who dressed like a commander, he wore a suit that matched the pilots in color.

It consisted of a white dress shirt and black tie hidden beneath a matte gray jacket with four pockets on its face.
They were shut by gold buttons, the same as the buttons that held the jacket together, small and round, a plain leather holster sat on the left side at his waist, holding a large pistol. His shoulders were decorated by patches of numerous flags. Upon his right were three flags, at the top was the crossed flag with its navy blue cross and red field, depicting thirteen stars and representing the Confederate Army.

Beneath was a patch that matched the pilot's first patch, the crossed flag with colors inverted to represent the CADAC. Beneath that was a patch looking the same as the first, only its blue was a lighter shade, it represented the Confederate Navy. On his right, there was the Stars and Bars patch for the CSA, but beneath it was a flag which showed a beautiful magnolia tree at the center of its field, its blue canton portrayed a single white star, a red bar sat at the forward edge of its field, this flag was for the state of Mississippi.

Upon his left-right breast was a black tag that read Mil Gov, A. L. Thatcher. His pants were nothing special, dress pants in the same matte gray with black leather boots going up to his calf. His face was not concealed, however, his face was aged, lines and wrinkles crisscrossed it, crow's feet sat on the edges of his green eyes, and droopy bags hung beneath them concealed by Aviator sunglasses. His square chin was hidden beneath a thick beard that was mostly gray bits of black intermingling within and his head was shaved completely bald.

On his head was a small headset for communication with the pilot, a simple metal headset colored silver, a long black wire going from its side up into the roof. Thatcher looked down out of the open cockpit door and over the columns of mechanical monsters that made up the brunt of the Confederate Invasion Force. From massive CMT2005-2 Megalodon Mega Tanks with their four guns to the small half-ton Marion Saddler pickup trucks mounted with a single machine gun on their lift kits and thick offroad tires.

"LAND RIGHT HERE!" Thatcher shouted into the headset, his voice deep and booming, hard as stone. The pilot hovered the chopper over an opening where a line of equipment sat, three Megalodons in a long column, their turrets facing forward and level, their big main gun hanging over their faces. The only thing making them stand out was the names painted on their side. Pride of Davis, Batter Batter, and The Big Daddy. The pilot lowered the chopper behind the one closest to them, the Pride of Davis.

He landed the chopper near a large diesel tank wagon, barely touching the long metal skids to the ground. The tanker sat behind the steel monster that was the CMT2005-2 Megalodon. A long black tube ran from the bottom and to a small hatch on the tank's rear. Hooked to the wagon was an LTT70 Ladybug, a small tracked vehicle, looking like a very small tank with its roof cut off, its exhaust sticking out from the front near the driver's seat. A long bed sat behind the driver's seat which could hold around thirteen soldiers.

Thatcher removed his headset, letting it hang loose, and gave the pilot a thumbs-up before he dropped down into the cloud of gray dust kicked up by the chopper. The chopper quickly lifted off, leaving Thatcher behind. He then made his way past the wagon where the entire crew, donning gray army pants and white t-shirts, stood in salute, he paused and gave off a quick salute before saying in his firm, commanding voice:

"At ease soldiers" the crew completed their salutes and went back to work, which was mostly standing around waiting for the tank's massive six-thousand-gallon fuel tank to fill up. Thatcher walked over to the left side, his long legs making quick strides. On this side sat another Ladybug, pulling three wagons loaded down with artillery shells, crewmates loaded them into a thick hatch that ran along with one of the 76mm gun sponsons.

Watching them work was a short man dressed in a similar officer's uniform, an exact copy of Thatcher's. The only real difference was that he only had the Confederate Army Flag on his right shoulder and a white flag with blue cross below it, and nine six pointed stars in the cross. The Mississippi and National flags were on his left. Thatcher approached the man, tapping him on his shoulder. The man turned to face Thatcher, his now visible name tag reading LTC J.R. CLemson.

He was a much older man than Thatcher at more than eighty, his face was old and wrinkled, much akin to old leather, much of this was hid behind a thick white beard in his face, short hair stuck out from under his cap. Roberson was also far shorter, what must have been at close to a foot difference, his frame was far thinner compared to the bulky frame of Thatcher.

"Lieutenant Colonel Clemson," said Thatcher, holding his hand in salute, his voicing now transitioning into a more casual voice, smooth as honey, a normal Mississippi accent.

"Military Governor Thatcher," responded Clemson, holding his hand in salute as. His voice was deep, a raspy worn voice, one like an old worn-out car. "We're nearly ready sir, once we're done fueling ole Davis here'll be ready to move out," He hit the side with his fist, making it emit a loud banging sound.

"Do we have an update on the CADAC?" Aaron asked, reaching into one of his chest pockets, he produced a silver cigar case, engraved with the name Private Aaron L. Thatcher, it was rusty and worn.

"Not a damn thing, radio boys say they can't establish contact without a more 'permanent base' or something of that sort," responded Clemson in a harsh, annoyed tone. The old governor leaned his back against the cold steel hull of the monstrous machine behind him. He responded to Clemson with some humor:

"Well old-timer, I don't believe you have quite the understanding of logistics you claim to," he flashed a very rare smile, barely showing the slightly yellow hue of his tobacco-stained teeth. Clemson turned and glared at his younger commanding officer, a scowl marked his face. His scowl soon faded, however, and he began to laugh in an ancient cackle like an angered cat. This fit of laughter continued on for a solid minute, Thatcher staring at him with concern on his face.

The fit ended with hoarse coughing and wheezing like the old man he was. He doubled over and, resting his wrinkled hand on the beast next to him. The fit of hacking coughs soon subsided and he lifted himself up to face the rather concerned man before him. With a smile on his old face he said to him:

"You always had a big head for a young man" he chuckled "I fought three wars and commanded logistical operations for more than sixty years boy. You wish you had my experience," he pointed a crooked finger at the younger governor.
Thatcher simply reached into his coat and pulled out a silver cigar case and popped it open, pulling out a homegrown cigar and a long cedar match. He began to wet the end of the already cut cigar with his mouth, all the while responding to Clemson:

"Well sir, a lot's changed since your time in the Congo and Brazil," he placed the case back in his coat and struck his match against the heel of his calf-high boots "A helluva lot has changed since I first joined," He held the match to the cigar, taking puffs from the brown tube of rolled tobacco, sending out gray smoke clouds. The cigar was finally lit, and with a good puff, he sent smoke rings high into the gray sky.

"Nowadays they got 'satellites' and all sorts o' shit I don't understand," He puffed the cigar yet again "I remember my first Issue Rifle, a Model1976, the 'Ole Mule' they called it," He chuckled lightly "Back then we didn't have them fancy recoil springs the youngins get,"

"just a trigger and bunch o' wood eh?" responded Clemson Back in ma' day we had them damn Model1948s. The only thing separating them from the Light Machine Guns was they were only semi-automatic," he chuckled lightly, reminiscing on his younger days as a new soldier "I remember getting bruises on my shoulder when they put that thing in my hands,"

"Shit!" responded The young veteran with a laugh "Those Mules kicked ya so bad that most of us couldn't fire it in full auto standing," he blew another smoke ring

"'Cept for you of course," responded Roberson jokingly "I remember hearin' about ya when you were trainin', said everyone else had their shots all over the range, but you stood firm and still like you were shooting a toy,"

"That was a real gun," Responded Thatcher, cigar in his teeth "The guns they give our boys these days are toys, they don't even kick anymore. Today's soldiers won't ever know what it's like to handle what many would call a glorified hunting rifle," The two men began to laugh like the old friends they were. The two old soldiers continued until they were interrupted by a young soldier:

"SIR!" he cried out to the man, though which one of them they did not know. Thatcher regained his rock-solid demeanor, responding in his cold, demanding officer's voice. Cigar in hand he asked the soldier:

"What is it, soldier?" Clemson also regained composure, watching from behind the tall man. The soldier, trembling at the rather large man before him just barely stammered out:

"T-THE TANK IS REFUELED SIRS!"

"Very well soldier," replied Thatcher holding his hand up in a salute "Tell your crew to report to your commander for further orders," he ended his salute. The thin soldier made a quick salute and responded:

"SIR YES SIR" the soldier ran back to his crew, which had already rolled up the fuel hose and started their Ladybug. Thatcher turned to his old commander and said:

"Guess you're off sir," reverting back to his casual manner of speaking. He held a salute to his old commander who returned it. The old man climbed up a ladder mounted on the rear of the tank's side gun with the speed of a young man before climbing the back of the turret next to the gun charge magazine and into the turret itself. Thatcher wasted no time, hitching a ride on the Ladybug carrying ammo wagons that was just leaving.

June 17th, 1902
Rockville, Southwestern Equestria

Mayor Stone slowly rotated his remaining eye over the newly built defenses, standing in his position in the backline of trenches. Militiamen marched and filled their positions in the wood and stone-lined ditches. The men in their gray military fatigues and red caps stood in lines with bolt action rifle shouldered. Dispersed along the line were the fairly new Bridleburg Arms Co. water-cooled auto guns. The massive beasts with their long belts of 8mm shot chilled the old mayor.

His time in the Equestrian Colonial Force gave him experience with the terrible rotary gun. He was an old man, he remembers when muskets were the soldier's gun of choice. He remembers the day he first saw a rotary gun and how it cut down scores of Zebrican warriors like a sickle to hay. He rubbed his thick gray beard with his three-fingered left hand and placed it back on his saber's hilt.

"It seems I'll never catch a break from war," he muttered in his gravelly voice "Even as far from Canterlot as ah can be It always finds me," A soldier tapped on his shoulder, knocking him from his trance. He was a bugle boy with hair gray as his, the boy's eyes glinting and young, reminded Stone of the young soldier he once was with his pride and hunger for glory. "What is it, soldier?" he asked aloud with an overbearing seriousness to his voice.

"The cannons are in position, sir. The crews have their sights on Sediment Hill," responded the bugle boy in haste

"Very well," replied the one-eyed veteran "Tell them-" Mayor Stone was cut short by a dull rumbling to their west. Stone turned his single eye to Sediment Hill where the sound grew ever louder. "FORM RANK!" cried out Stone to which the bugle boy responded with a blowing of his bugle. The militiamen unshouldered their rifles, tucking them into their shoulders with sights lifted up.

The rumbling drew to just behind the tall hill. Guns were aimed, cannons and auto guns were adjusted to just over the hill. Silence befell the men in anticipation. And anticipation turned to horror as Stone and his men expected one of the sluggish steel crawlers the refugees from the west had told about. But, no, instead they were met with flying machines, many, many flying machines. Fat bellied machines with spinning wings on their rooves carrying soldiers inside.

"FIRE!" cried out Stone, the bugle boy sounded his trumpet again. A storm of lead was shot towards the approaching beasts that stood near unfazed. The gray machines hovered on their skids just above the ground, letting their gray-clad and armored human cargo out onto the gray dirt. Bullets were slung towards them in a storm of led shot. Many of the men fell but others continued unharmed. They charged the lines with fixed bayonet and opened fire in quick bursts of three.

A cannon managed to strike one of the craft as it lifted up. The terrible machine lit ablaze and spun around in a ring of fiery death before crashing down onto a group of invaders. This unfazed other soldiers as they continued on. The first line began to falter under the overwhelming firepower. It helped none that as the machines would leave they would pass over the trenches and rain down fire from the beasts' mounted guns.

Stone drew his auto-pistol and began firing on the invaders, who were now crossing into the second trench line. Over the roar of guns, he cried out hurriedly:

"FIX BAYONET!" The young bugle boy who had stood at his side began to sound his trumpet. His call was never completed, ending with a sour note as a stray bullet ripped through his throat and splattered blood all over him and Stone. The boy collapsed, choking on the crimson fluid pouring from his neck. Stone looked down at him, and then ahead before holstering his pistol and drawing his saber: "FIX BAYONET! FIX BAYONET!" he cried again.

His brave militiamen drew their long, razor-sharp bayonets that were far longer than their adversary's. They fixed them to their rifles and readied for the certain charge they would make. Stone stood atop the trench and aimed his saber over the expanse of no man's land between them and the assaulting invaders.

"CHAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGEEEEEE!" He yelled as he began to run as fast as his old bones would allow him. They crossed the gray expanse. The invaders began a charge as well, jumping from the second line and running to meet them. The helmeted soldiers charged, letting out awful hooting and hollering, like animals they shouted. It was like hitting a brick wall when the two forces met. A mix of shot and blade cut down scores of men from either side.

The warriors fought with guns like they were spears. Stone cut down every man who charged him, finding their chests protected from his blade. With every slash of his saber, he would cut their throat and send them down in heaps of dead meat. Even so, the men attackers still cut down his men in droves. Thinking fast he called his men to retreat, once retreated they reformed into a line to face down the attackers in a massive volley.

"AIM FOR THEIR HEADS!" he shouted, standing to the side of his men. The red-capped men unleashed a torrent of fire from their rifles, cutting down scores of charging invaders. The helmeted soldiers were quick to duck down to prone positions and continue firing at Stone's men. Cannons began to fire on the now stuck soldiers, killing many at once with their 3-inch shells. Still, they fought on even with dwindling numbers. When it seemed certain that Stone would win, a massive crawling beast topped over the hill, slamming down in a cloud of dust. Through the thunder of battle, the beast's approach had been concealed.

What was worse is that to the north of them were coming more flying machines, firing on the line of militiamen. The crawler fired its forward-mounted gun towards the line as well. it took out far too many to count and broke the lines in two. The forces of stone were now scattered into small engagements with newly arriving invaders who brought them down quickly with overwhelming firepower. Soon, Stone and ten others were the only remaining soldiers, fighting back to back with the advancing invaders.

The gray armored men were now right in their faces with their rifles, still, Stone's men fought on. By the end, only Stone and two others remained drenched in blood, and out of munitions in their rifles and pistols, they finally surrendered to their near-invincible enemy.

May 3rd, 2028 Earth Date
June 17th, 1902 New World Date
1203 Hours

Clemson stood just outside the town hall of his forces' newly conquered home. Behind him stood a great numbered of newly widowed women and their children with three blood-soaked militiamen and five Confederate soldiers standing before them. Clemson has his hand up in a salute as he watches his commanding officer approach. In the convoy of six-ton trucks passing before the group. Within this convoy was a loan Tucker Escort, a gray car with a strange three headlight design and four doors.

It exits the convoy and comes to a halt before them. One soldier donning only a helmet and fatigues steps out of the passenger side and opens the right suicide back door on the car. Out steps Thatcher like a giant unfurling from inside a cave, a cigar in his mouth and an ornate cane in hand. He walks over to Clemson, giving him a salute and asking:

"Who's the commander?" Clemson points to a tall, one-eyed, and bearded man donning gray fatigues and an upturned slouch hat. Thatcher strode over to the man who stood right at eye level with Thatcher. He glared at Thatcher with his sky blue eyes, scorn marked his aged face. "Might I ask your name?" questioned Thatcher in his more casual Mississippi accent.

"I am Mayor Obsidian Stone of Rocksville, I am the commander of the Rocksville Militia," he responded in anger

"Well... My name is Aaron Lee. Thatcher and I am Military Governor of the Confederate States of America" Thatcher reached into his coat and pulled out a silver cigar case and popped it open offering Stone a cigar.

"I don't want your tobacco," said Stone with anger to this offer.

"Very well," replied the beast of a man "But, I would like to compliment your militia, and your skills as a commander. You fought to the last man and slew scores of our men," He puffed his cigar "But, I believe you didn't accept my subordinate's offer of surrender, so I think you might need some convincing," He looked at all the people behind Stone "You give us this village, then we'll let you and your citizens leave alive,"

"Go to Tartarus," responded Stone. Thatcher grabbed the eight-shot revolver hanging at his hip and stuck it to Stone's head.

"Do you not accept these terms?" asked Thatcher almost tauntingly with cigar hanging at his lip. Stone simply turned east and gestured his men and citizens to follow him. Thatcher holstered his revolver and simply said: "He fought like hell, the rest'll fight harder,"