Pony Tankers

A terrific explosion shattered any shred of rest Turnip might have been having. She blindly scrambled to her hooves, trying to determine the source, only for another explosion to strike nearby. Then, she became aware of the sound of an aerial engine, more of them, in the sky, and the telltale whistling noise of impending death.

She threw herself against the side of the trench and curled into a ball; the bomb struck not three meters away, but on the ground above, and she was sheltered from the blast and the shrapnel of the bursting case. Even so, she felt the force of it through her side as an unbelievably heavy thump being transmitted through the soil. The unbraced side of the trench caved and buried her under a small avalanche of soil.

Spitting and struggling free of the loose dirt, she fished around the former floor of the trench and came up with a rifle. Who’s rifle? Hers? It didn’t matter, and she quickly slung it over her neck and hurried to the front trench, which was deeper and should offer better protection. The gun swung heavily into her legs and she tripped twice, bombs falling seemingly at random on positions along the hasty defensive line they had only some hours ago had a hoof in making.

Then, just as soon as she had gained the forward trench and found a spot in the line in between two ponies much larger than her, the bombs stopped falling. The drone of aerial engines seemed to be fading, not that she was a good judge of that, when she could hardly hear anything. Then she was aware of more bombs going off far behind her.

The headquarters! She turned to look up and saw a formation of low-flying twin-engined flying machines roar over. Doors in their bellies opened and dropped bundles of deadly parcels on the tent city, ripping through canvas like cobwebs. Turnip watched helplessly.

The infantrypony next to her shot her rifle. Turnip felt the percussion of the report, more than the sound, and turned to see what the soldier had shot at.

Sparkling ponies in tan uniforms were beginning to advance across the open ground before them, emerging from the forest. Not quite a tide; they dashed between folds in the ground, some staying behind to provide covering fire while their comrades moved. Bullets began whistling over Turnip’s position and striking the ground before the trench, kicking up little sprays of dirt.

She got her rifle swung around from her neck – unfortunately, it was the long one, not her carbine – and got it set on the edge of the trench. She aimed left-hoofedly down the notch-and-post sights with her uncovered eye at a group of crystal ponies and pulled the bar-shaped trigger into the stock.

The heavy gun kicked her in the shoulder, but not near as hard as her carbine would. Not knowing if she actually hit one of the darting three-hundred-meter specks of color, she slapped her right forehoof up at the projecting bolt-handle, then jerked it backward, ignoring the casing that flew over her head. Then, she pushed the bolt-handle forward and slapped it down and sought another target.

The ponies beside her shot too, picking their targets. A few days of training didn’t guide their motions; experience did, and that made them faster shots and more accurate, too. On Turnip’s fourth shot, she saw the pony she was aiming at, nearer now than before, fall an instant before she felt her comrade’s rifle report.

She fired her last shot and dropped back out of the line of fire to reload. She popped open the first pouch on her bandolier, the one that was issued to her when she was first outfitted, the one that fit her, and pawed out the end of the sheet metal strip with the tip of her hoof, then she held up the belt and grasped the metal in her teeth and pulled it completely free of the pouch. The strip of metal was followed by five bullets held in a neat row. She maneuvered the clip up to place it in the guide set in the receiver of the rifle, and belatedly realized the bolt needed to be open. Unlocking it and sliding it to the rear of its travel, she pushed the line of bullets into the magazine and flicked the clip into the dirt. She closed the bolt and was ready for killing again.

Popping up to the firing position again, the enemy was closer now than they had been, and easier to hit. She centered her sights on a pony, fired, and was disappointed to see him buckle and fall seconds too late, from a different direction.

She didn’t hear the chatter of the machinegun, but she saw the bright muzzle flash and saw the bullet impacts on the ground before her just in time to duck down. She felt the sonic crack in the air as a swarm of deadly lead hornets whipped by inches over her head. The soldier to her right pushed his rifle up and blind-fired it, then pulled it down to cycle the action.

She popped up; she was smaller, and maybe she could deal with this so that her comrades didn’t have to. She took aim at the machinegunner. He squeezed off another burst in her direction.

She didn’t even have time to pull the trigger before something fetched a terrific blow to her head and yanked it backward. She was already unconscious before she hit the bottom of the trench.