Author's Note

Some formatting might look a little different here, call it character development for myself.

Back at Home

April 18th
New Richmond, Federal Republic of Dixie

Thatcher stepped through the door of his personal chamber and into the now clean and organized room that made up his office. He donned a freshly pressed suit of gray and his usual officer's cap and finely polished boots. He straightened his black tie, dusted off his shoulders, and stepped out of his office into the small attic officer's lounge. The old and worn-out attic floor had been decorated with well-crafted furniture and framed paintings of great Confederate generals like Lee and Jackson, and scenes from past conflicts.

The most notable was a wide painting of Bertram's Charge during the Second US-Confederate War. As Thatcher exited his office all of the four men sitting in the lounge stood in unison, holding salutes. Thatcher clicked his heels and gave a hard salute.

"At ease," He belted out, the officers ending their salutes in response. Thatcher crossed the wide and surprisingly empty room to the old wood-burning stove that was being used for a pseudo coffee maker. The crooked pipe of the stove extended up through the low roof of the attic. Its exterior was rusted and bolts held it to the floor, a stack of wood was piled neatly next to it. Thatcher grabbed a white coffee cup from the shelf nearby and poured a cup of steaming black coffee from the silver coffee pot atop the lit oven. "So gentlemen," Thatcher began before taking a sip from the coffee in his hand. "What's the good word?"

"Well, Governor, if you haven't heard. Our men are pushing towards the Traat River in the west," Lieutenant Colonel Hammond answered. "Though, from what Marshal Clemson has radioed in, it appears their progress has been hampered by storms in the area. The roads are turning to rivers of mud according to reports,"

"It's like the push into Russia again," Thatcher stated with disdain. "Damned weather," He let out a low sigh. "It is good, however, to hear that the men are actually advancing," Thatcher took a long draw of the coffee. "And what of the east?"

"Well sir, that is a much more disappointing subject," Hammond stated disappointedly. "According to Marshal Clemson, yet again, they've stopped completely, the advance has dug in at a spot they call 'Last Horse',"

"Damnit," Thatcher harshly stated. "I'll need a map," Thatcher turned to an officer who was standing idle near Hammond. "Johnson!" Thatcher called, and the officer snapped to attention.

"Sir?!"

"Get me that map!" Thatcher commanded.

"Sir yes sir!" Johnson dashed down the stairs at the center of the lounge and out of sight. "

"Any news from anywhere else?" Thatcher asked, moving away from military matters for the moment.

"Ole Miss won against Alabama, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Roberts, a thin bare-faced black man, who was similar in age to Hammond, announced. A smile broke out on Thatcher's bearded face.

"Hell yeah, I'm sure The Rebs gave 'em a run for their money. I reckon that calls for a celebratory cigar," Thatcher sipped from his coffee. "That can wait, at least until I get some more matters out of the way,” Thatcher said as if remembering something he had forgotten to do. Pardon me for a moment," Thatcher sat his coffee down on a table near the pot and left the lounge, returning to his office and going to the yellow phone hanging on the wall next to his personal chamber.

He grabbed the handset and pressed one of the three buttons below it marked Grand Admiral. The phone rang for a moment before Grand Admiral Matthew Hartly answered "Grand Admiral," Thatcher greeted.

"Military Governor," Hartly responded in his harsh and raspy voice.

"I hope your mornin' is treatin' you well, Grand Admiral," Thatcher drew in a deep breath and harshened his tone. "I reckon you know why I'm callin' you,"

"I know," Hartly responded, his voice low, he truly knew exactly what Thatcher was calling about. The two had always been at odds with one another. From the moment Thatcher had been appointed as Military Governor of the Confederacy Hartly had seen him as brash and reckless. Hartly was a navy man who saw the importance that cruisers and carriers played in the military machine. Thatcher, on the other hand, was an army man.

His only experience with the sea had been the one time he landed on the beaches of Cuba. The two had been at each other's throats for years now, but they both stopped their bickering at the mention of one thing. "Unfortunately, none of the fleets have reported anything. It appears the Bethlehem is still lost," Heartly's disappointment carried well over the phone line. Thatcher sighed deeply.

"Damnit," He murmured. The CSHS Bethlehem had been a cause for great distress within the military. Their first attempts to create a portal to Equestria in Appalachia had somehow resulted in the disappearance of a hospital ship in the Black Sea some five years ago now. The Air Corps had been the first to start a search, when the portal was finally stable enough to send more than a single human through they sent an Mk23 stealth bomber through to observe the planet from a high altitude.

It all evolved from there until a full-scale search began as soon as the FRD was founded. "Very well," Thatcher stated in a melancholic manner, unusual for him. "Good day to you, Grand Admiral,"

"And good day to you, Military Governor," Heartly hung up the phone as did Thatcher. Thatcher, still saddened by the news or lack thereof. Went to his personal chamber and grabbed a thick cigar from his wooden humidor. After all, Ole Miss had won against Alabama. Thatcher walked out of his office, still with the same mix of anger and melancholy on his face. He sparked up the long roll of tobacco and took a hard puff, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

“I assume you were just talking to Grand Admiral Hartly,” Hammond said as Thatcher stepped into the lounge.

“Yes sir, I did,” Thatcher replied. “He says there’s still no news on the Bethlehem,”

“That’s a damned shame,” Hammond responded with indifference. Hammond was about to continue when Johnson returned with multiple rolled maps under his arm.

“Sit it on my desk,” Thatcher said to which Johnson responded by entering the office and returning empty-handed. “When Marshal Smith, Marshal Hughes, and Marshal Crawford get here you must go and find Ambassador Inkwell for me, Johnson,” Thatcher said upon Johnson’s return. “We’ll have some private matters to attend to,” Thatcher picked his coffee up from where he had left it and took a sip of the now lukewarm liquid. “So what’s cookin’ the mess this mornin’?”

“Donuts, Governor,” Hammond answered. “All kinds too, sir,”

“Well,” Thatcher began with a smile before taking a toke from the cigar. “I reckon I’ll run down there after the meeting,” While Hammond and the others nodded in agreement, a lone military policeman came up the steps.

“Governor Thatcher,” he greeted with haste, his rifle hanging from his shoulder.

“Officer,” Thatcher returned, featuring to him with his cup, taking yet another puff off the cigar.

“There’s a group of people who wish to speak to you, sir. They claim they’re medical professionals from Equestria,”

“Very well officer, go and retrieve them,” The policeman saluted and left the lounge. “And you, gentlemen, disperse and go about your day,” he gave them a salute and they returned it before leaving the lounge. Thatcher topped off his coffee and returned to his office, sitting in the cushioned wooden swivel chair behind his fine oak desk. He sat his mug down on the well-placed coaster next to the gray metal box that was his ComTech electronic computer.

He took one last puff of the cigar and placed it in a long tray sitting just below the mount for his plastic model of a GPT-98 that sat on his desk among the stacks of paper littering his desk. Then he folded his hands, resting them on his desk, and began to wait. After minutes of sitting alone and in silence a knock finally came at the door. "Come in," Thatcher called back. The same officer from earlier opened the door with a low creak and two women stepped inside.

"Good mornin', ladies," Thatcher greeted, standing up to shake their hands. "Please, have a seat," He gestured to the two leather seats before his desk. "So, what brings you to our little corner of Equus?" Thatcher asked, sitting back down in his chair. "I hear y'all are medical professionals,"

"Well, you've heard correctly, Governor," One of the two women, one with bright pink hair tied in a neat ponytail. "I am Nurse Redheart and this is my companion, Nurse Tenderheart." she gestured to the blue-haired woman sitting next to her.

"It's a pleasure meeting the two of you," Thatcher began, with a slight bit of annoyance. "Now might I ask why you're here? It seems you've arrived out of nowhere and judging by your manner of dress you came here legally," He gestured to the clean and wrinkle-free clothes they wore. Redheart cleared her throat and began:

"Well, sir, Nurse Tenderheart and I, along with our other companions would like to... Assist in... The war," Redheart seemed nervous just saying it. Thatcher raised his eyebrow curiously before responding:

"Interesting," He began. "What are your qualifications? By that I mean, what type of nursing do you do?"

"We're... Both clinical nurses,"

"And ya seem pretty nervous just sittin' here. I'd think a clinical nurse would be a bit more social, not talkin' bad or nothin', of course," Thatcher took a sip from his coffee and continued. "What's your experience with... Things of a... Messier nature? so to speak,"

"What do you mean, sir?" Redheart asked.

"What I mean is that war is... Messy, to put it lightly. As someone who served more than thirty years in the army and has been in a field hospital too many times. I can say with certainty that, war isn't something for the faint-hearted,"

"Well I can assure you that we are not faint-hearted," Redheart responded with confidence.

"Really?" Thatcher asked seriously. "What is the worst you have seen at your clinic?"

"Well..." Tenderheart was taken aback by the question and unsure of how to answer.

"We have cleaned up quite a few blood spills in our time," Tenderheart interjected in a more seasoned and posh accent.

"Blood spills," Thatcher chuckled "Let me tell ya about somethin' I encountered back when I was a Lieutenant," Thatcher's face lost all expression and his voice turned low. "It was near about twenty years ago, a corporal in my unit had his face blown off. His head looked like a container of ground beef and the bastard was still alive. It was the middle of the Goddamn winter so his face was steamin'. How would you fair in that situation?"

Redheart and Tenderheart were silent, shock running across their faces.

"I'm... U-unsure, exactly what to do there..." Redheart answered, beads of sweat rolling down her face.

"That's all I need to hear," Thatcher said. "Now begone, I have a meeting to attend with my cabinet," Thatcher stood up and extended his hand outward.

"Wait a minute now, Governor," Tenderheart began as she too, stood up. "Just because we do not know what to do does not mean we cannot learn. Plus, your medical units surely need assistance," Tenderheart's words got Thatcher thinking. He rubbed his bearded chin in thought for some time.

"Well," He began, nodding as if agreeing with somebody. "I figure the Golden Cross has it handled, but," He continued to think. "And you won't be in a combat zone, in fact, my example was a bit out of place in this discussion. Alright, I'll call up Marshal Clemson and we'll see about that," He went across the room to his phone, grabbed it, and pressed the operator button below the handset. "Operator, get me Field Marshal Clemson on the phone,"

He stood for a moment, waiting for Clemson to answer. "Hello, Marshal Clemson. I have some folks here lookin' to assist in the war effort... Yes, they're nurses, they wanna help the Golden Cross... Alright, I'll let 'em know," Thatcher hung up the phone. "You're in luck, ladies. There's a M.A.S.H unit in North Zebrica with your name on it," Thatcher guided the women out of his office, commanding the policeman outside to tell the men at the strip to ready a transport for the group.

Sometime later, Thatcher found himself in the conference room on the second floor, his cabinet consisting of Marshal Crawford, Marshal Smith, and Marshal Hughes gathered with him. Unrolled maps of several North Zebrican locations lay before them on the table. They were waiting for Ambassador Inkwell to arrive, apparently she had been held up at her new home some distance from the office by traffic. The group sat in rather uncomfortable silence for quite a while before Inkwell finally arrived.

They all breathed a sigh of relief as a policeman opened the curtain and gestured for the young woman to enter. Thatcher stood up and shook the hand of the smiling young woman.

"Ambassador Inkwell, it's good to have you here," Thatcher greeted. "I just need ya for a quick question then you can go about your work,"

"I'm glad to be here too," She responded in a chipper young voice. "So whaddya need?"

"I need to know...If y'all keep tabs on Communists in your country," Thatcher said in a low voice.

"What exactly do you... Mean by that, s-sir?" Red asked confusion on her young face.

"Like, do you have information on party leaders and the like?"

"Um, yes sir, as a matter of fact, we do keep that stuff. But it's mostly provincial stuff but... I think I can get some of that info,"

"Good deal, Ms. Inkwell, I'll need that info as soon as possible, thank you, ma'am," Thatcher said, gesturing for her to leave.

"You're welcome, sir," She responded, giving the man a salute. Thatcher returned one out of kindness, he could not help but admire the new ambassador's tenacity. Thatcher took his seat at the table and began. "Gentlemen, I reckon you know why you've been called here today. We're makin' slow progress but it's progress nonetheless," He pointed to a specific spot in the east of North Zebrica. "Right now we're entrenched here, but to the west, we're still movin', so we won't be diggin' in there by the looks of it,"

"The problem is when we get to the river," Hughes began. "The river's flooded and from what I hear the rain's still comin' down out there, the river's gonna be impassable,"

"Therein lies the issue, perhaps this is when the air cav'll be most useful," Thatcher paused and thought for a moment. "But what about the armor?"

"We could use a Quick Bridge," Crawford answered. He was referring to the quickly assembled bridges the Engineer's Corps used to assist in river crossings.

"That could work, but observation flights have reported that the river's basically a giant lake at this point, and the river was already wider than the Mississippi. That and with the water being as bad as it is the trucks would get stuck tryin' to get to the river,"

"We could send engineer boats in, but that'll take forever," Hughes said.

"Yes, and the manpower required would be tremendous, we're already slowed down enough as is," Then there's the east, what are we gonna do there? It seems the situation is simply the same as the Great War. There's so much shit going on that they had to dig in,"

"We could simply bomb them into submission," Smith, who had been quiet, said.

"That sounds good, but our mediums are stuck in the west... Unless," Thatcher rubbed his bearded chin in thought. "We use the heavies," A grin crossed Thatcher's face.

"We haven't used heavies in mass troop bombardments like that since the Oil Wars," Hughes began. "And there's the accuracy issue-" Hughes was cut off by Thatcher who held his hand up.

"Hughes, Hughes, I reckon you haven't heard anything about the current bombardier sights we've got on our heavies that make them more accurate than the Mk7s," Thatcher lowered his hand. "Though I will not hold it against you, you're an army guy, not an air corps guy. But that's an easy fix, we still need to deal with the river, lord knows how long it can take for it to go down,"

"We could try fording," Crawford stated.

"That looks good on paper, but that only works so well and you've gotta seal the tanks, sadly our tanks aren't sealed. It feels like our best option is just gonna be engineer boats or some sort of motorized bridge," Thatcher pondered for a moment. "This is gonna take a while, let's start some coffee," Is what he finally said.