Chapters View Online
--Snapshot - Patton, Monty, and Rainbow Dash
This photograph – taken in Sicily in 1943 – became notable for several reasons. The men shaking hands are among the greatest Allied generals of the war, Patton and Montgomery. It was also one of the earliest photos of Equestrians alongside human soldiers. The pegasus pictured is Rainbow Dash, a pony whose time of fame would come later in the war. Newspapers across the globe showcased it as a symbol of Allied confidence, unity, and mutual respect.
Equestria had joined the Allied Powers scant months before, aligning itself closely with the American and British efforts. At the time of the photo they had yet to prove themselves in ground combat. Radio shows and newspapers on both sides treated their participation like a joke, and human soldiers saw them more as mascots than comrades.
Despite the mockery, the alliance with Equestria had already paid off for the Allies. American and British bombers could crush German positions, but bad weather frequently left them useless. Within weeks of their entry to the war, Equestria dispatched several teams of pegasi to clear clouds and manipulate storms in Italy. Their success was undeniable – Allied planes were immediately able to fly more missions with a higher success rate. As pegasi adapted to their role as soldiers, they began acting as artillery spotters, scouts, and rescue teams for downed airmen.
The “Cloud Kickers,” as they came to be called, developed a strong rapport with the pilots they served with. It was quickly noted that their captain Spitfire shared a name with a British fighter, and art of her on such planes became a common sight.
Patton, once vocal about his contempt for the Equestrians, later mentioned that he would “come to have more faith in the ponies than the Limeys [the British].” A remarkable concession from a stubborn man, but also a none-to-subtle dig at his other allies. The relationship between the two pictured generals would sour dramatically over the course of the war. Patton privately called Montgomery a “stink of a Limey fart.” The British officer was hardly more polite, calling Patton “a war-loving barbarian” and noting that “even Princess Celestia had difficulty remaining civil with him.”
The Princess, for her part, would do nothing but praise the skill of both men while remaining silent on what she thought of them personally.
Egos aside, the two generals were impressed by the Cloud Kickers. D-Day would see the pegasi doing their part as an established and respected part of the Allied war effort.
Chapter 1: The Longest Day
"The tide has turned! The free men and ponies of the world are marching together to victory! I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full victory."
-Letter from General Dwight Eisenhower to the Allied troops, circulated prior to the D-Day Landings
June 6, 1944
"God, I hope I know what I'm doing."
-Eisenhower, after giving the order to commence the landings.
Corporal Jonathan "Jackie" Flynn's unit had the easy job. Their boats were in the second line that would fall on the beach. The first wave will have cleared the landing zone of hostile forces and established a perimeter. Those boys would call a halt before going too far ahead: Driving to Berlin could come later. What was important here was to land and supply enough men to make that drive. That's where Jackie's platoon and a hundred others would make their own contribution. A horde of "dragon teeth," massive caltrops, and other tank traps sat in the sand, preventing ships and tanks from arriving in force. They would work like the dickens to get the obstacles clear, paving the way for the rest of the army.
The rest of the army…when he boarded the landing craft, it was almost a surreal experience. Jackie looked down the harbor, and saw hundreds, thousands of them lined up, each to be crammed with red-blooded soldiers eager to get the job done. In his (brief and failed) time at college, Jackie read the Illiad. The exact wording escaped him, but he recalled the vivid imagery of the endless Greek boats, blotting out the sea below them as they surged towards the decadent city of Troy.
That's us, He thought. He tried to picture what the landings might look like from above, the poetic imagination that brought him to college still alive. An unstoppable tide. A pegasus could look down and see the English Channel painted black with all the ships we send.
Thought of the Equestrians made him frown a little, distracted. Along with his wave were dozens of earth ponies. Supposedly they were great diggers and engineers, and had strength far surpassing a human – perfect for helping to clear the beach. Jackie had never seen them in action, but he had his doubts. They were no taller than the unintelligent ponies he rode as a toddler, and certainly no stronger-looking.
Jackie shrugged. If the ponies lived up to expectations, great. If not, it was just more work for him. He didn't mind work. At least no one would be shooting at him.
"Thirty seconds!" Sergeant Solomon "Manny" Phearson growled. "Thirty seconds to landfall!"
Those thirty seconds were enough time for Jackie to realize it might not work out so neatly. The steel sides of the landing craft rose high around him, blocking out whatever sights awaited. But even above the roar of the ship's engine, the sounds were there. Gunfire. Explosions. Screaming. Above him, a few wild bullets flickered, fired from the shore.
No, they weren't wild. A black pegasus glided above in the rising wind. She was ignoring the scattered bullets with professional aloofness, speaking into a radio tied to one hoof. The rest of the bulky transmitter was in a saddlebag, and she had to flap her left wing extra to compensate for the lopsided weight.
The ship's engine ceased abruptly, inertia easing it forward to what would hopefully be a gentle landing. The decrease in volume and her sudden shouting let Jackie catch a snippet of the pegasus' words.
"Look, I don't care!" She said in a loud, squealing voice. "Keep the tanks afloat with magic if you have to, just get them here! This is going to be a bucking massacre if we don't get some armor down there!"
A bullet snapped the wire of the radio, rendering it useless. Her irate look turned to one of fear and she veered out of sight, dropping the radio in the ocean.
The landing craft ground to a stop. The wheel that would lower the ramp began spinning, almost as fast as Jackie's head. Amphibious tanks were supposed to have accompanied the first attack...but the waves were choppy, and he wouldn't have bet on their sea-worthiness. What did the pony say, "bucking?" A "bucking massacre" without them.
The ramp slammed to the sand, and in the next three seconds half the platoon died.
The German machine gunner was doing his job, and doing it well. A long burst scythed through the first few rows of men, but the rest would have the bodies of their comrades as cover. So many soldiers were swarming ashore that he had to move quickly from target to target. He sighted on a flamethrower team creeping forward and forgot all about the platoon.
It was all so quick. A *thump* *thump* *thump*, a few spurts of blood, and the bodies collapsed. Jackie wanted to look away, but he willed himself to take it all in. His head felt like he was swimming, and he embraced the feeling: Anything to make this feel more distant. He numbly stumbled over men he spent months training with.
I didn't like them anyway, his mind raced through fevered defenses. Nobody likes Manny, but at least they respect him. I'm the corporal. The troops keep their distance because I'm above them, the sergeant keeps his distance because I'm below him, and no one gives me any damn respect because I'm skinny and 19.
God help me, I'm only 19.
"Shift yourself, Jackie," the sergeant grumbled, but he was moving a little slowly too. Slipping on water and other things, the two were the last to stumble out. Most of the first wave was dead on the beaches, in singles or in clumps, whole bodies and half-bodies. Whoever thought they would be enough to clear the beach was badly mistaken, and a lot of people were paying for it. Some survivors had advanced as far as the beachwall – most were pinned behind dragon teeth and any other cover they could find.
Beyond the beachwall were several hills and raised positions, each one fortified in concrete. Yellow bursts flashed from windows as the Germans rained fire down at their hapless foes.
The nearest of the tank traps already had too many troops crouching behind its meager protection, none of whom were inclined to let the officers take their place. The pair hustled to the next one forward. A bullet made a body near Jackie's feet spasm, but nothing else came at them.
There were two people and two bodies behind the cover. The bodies didn't matter. One of the not-corpses-yet was a man from their platoon. An excessively tall fellow who was the only one of them from Texas. Hence his nickname, 'Tex.' Jackie thought that was completely unoriginal, but no one ever asked his opinion. Tex apparently enjoyed the call sign enough to ham it up, even going so far as to wear a Stetson instead of a helmet. The idiot was even wearing it now.
Idiot or not, he was brave. Tex was periodically popping up and shooting, trying to pick off enemies he had no chance of hitting. But at least he was trying. He seemed to be the only one shooting back.
Jackie almost collided with the rear of the other one. It was an earth 'pony,' but one easily the size of the horses back on the farm. It was red with an orange mane, crouched as low to the ground as it could. An eye shifted back to glance at Jackie before it returned its gaze forward. With panic and confusion raging around it, somehow this pony was silent and calm.
It was the closest Jackie had ever been to a pony – one of the weird ponies, anyway – but now wasn't the time for curiosity. He fell on shaking knees next to the stallion and set a hand on its side to steady himself. If that annoyed the big red fellow, he didn't show it.
Tex was smiling, the strained smile that could turn into a scream at any second. "Hey, Sarge! When we gonna start clearing these tank traps?"
Dear Lord, the idiot could still joke.
Sergeant Manny wasn't paying him any attention. The officer was looking around behind them, trying to see how many had made it out and where they were. Maybe he was looking for someone with a higher rank to give them orders. Either way, it was hopeless. Only a few men crouching in the sand behind them were familiar, and there was no way they'd hear his commands. Smoke, debris, and fear made the situation more than a few meters away unreadable. A form slouched in cover could be a colonel or a corpse. There might be ten thousand still alive, or less than a hundred.
"Comin' in!"
An orange blur sprinted across the beach and skidded behind their caltrop, slamming into Jackie. He gave an "oof" and stumbled into Big and Red, but the pony didn't budge.
The culprit was an orange mare, hat on head, panting and blackened with smoke. She too was an earth pony, though normal sized.
"Applejack," Big and Red said, the first sign he gave that he was paying attention to his surroundings.
"Big Macintosh," the mare responded in short acknowledgement. Jackie frowned. 'Big and Red' was easier to remember.
"Hey boys," Applejack said. She and Tex exchanged a second glance, realizing they were wearing almost the exact same hat. They both shrugged and Applejack returned to business. "Jes' passing the word. We're gonna make a big rush in 'bout ten minutes. There'll be a signal."
"You're joking!" Jackie exclaimed before remembering he was supposed to be an officer.
"She's gotta be joking," Tex added, the first thing he had ever said in Jackie's defense.
Applejack was apparently used to the response, and offered no riposte. She instead crouched low and glanced around, looking for the next place to dash to that hopefully wouldn't get her shot.
"Oh, finally!" Manny roared, grinning for the first time since Jackie met him. There were a lot of firsts today.
He pointed back to the ocean, where a hulking form was emerging. Like a sea monster, one of the amphibious tanks advanced with only the turret visible. A pair of unicorns stood atop it, straining in concentration. The glow around their horns matched the glow around their charge, keeping the swamped vehicle from sinking completely.
With a grind that somehow sounded relieved, the tank found purchase on the sand and rose up from the water. Its turret traversed, dripping water, aiming towards one of the machine gun bunkers. The tank edged forward.
And exploded.
The three humans roared in frustration as a plane swept forward and dropped another bomb, Iron Cross on its wings. It was the first German plane they’d seen all day, appearing at the worst place and time.
Tex snorted, grinning wildly as tears came down his face. "Hey Applejack, was that the signal?"
Her retort was lost as a shell burst nearby, annihilating the neighboring caltrop and the men behind it. None of the others caught it, but Jackie noticed something else. Everyone flinched when the explosion sounded, but quickly returned to their observant crouch. Everyone but the big pony, who flinched and was still flinching.
"H-hey," Jackie started, not really sure how to talk to a pony. "You okay, big guy?"
"Eeyup." The pony responded, but he seemed out of breath.
The orange one glared at him, catching the hesitation. "Big Macintosh," she barked, not needing to say the rest.
"Just a graze," he commented, averting his eyes.
Even though it exposed him a tiny bit more, Jackie leaned behind Big and Red and looked at his far side. A few bits of shrapnel had lodged in his side, thick muscle causing the offending metal to stick out. The pony's position to the far right of the huddle meant he was closest to the explosion, and his size shielded the rest of them.
These didn't look too bad. They'd rip up the muscle if he moved a lot, but if he held still until they were out it'd be nothing more than a flesh wound. It would've been a much different story if it was Jackie, especially if one found an eye or stomach.
He shuddered and pulled back into position, with Applejack looking steadily at him for an analysis. "Er, not bad. Not great, but not bad. Just don't move, big guy. Uh, Big Mac."
The pony gave a "hm," turning his eyes back forward. "Might not have a choice."
"We're just getting picked off," the sergeant grumbled. As if to emphasize his point, a man behind a dragon tooth twenty feet away jerked and fell, his cover not quite good enough. None of the cover was good enough. Everyone was just hoping the Germans were all looking at someone else.
Tex squatted, fitting a new clip into his rifle. "Yeah? Well we run up there, we're gonna get a Hell of a lot more than 'picked off.'"
Jackie had to agree. At best, rushing the machine guns were going to get a whole heap of them killed. At worst, it was going to get the rest of them killed, too.
Still…
"Well, we can't stay here," Jackie said grimly, clutching his rifle in both hands. He gestured with it behind them, where more boats were coming forwards. "There isn't enough cover already. The next wave will just get slaughtered in the open, and we'll still be where we are now."
"Sure." Tex accepted the logic with an indifferent shrug. "We won't get twenty feet, but what the Hell, right?"
Applejack had turned her attention back to Big Macintosh. "Now when the signal goes up, you stay put. I ain't gonna tell Applebloom you went and bled to death without any good reason."
"Eeyup."
"Consarn it, I mean it, Mac!"
"Ah hear yuh, Sis."
Manny winced as a bullet bounced off their caltrop. "Hey 'Jack, what's the signal?"
Jackie gave him a quizzical look. "How should I know?"
"I mean the horse! Pony! Whatever! Uh, Applejack! What's the signal?"
"I dunno." The pony shook her head, then looked up. As she did so, her eyes widened. "But I reckon it might be that."
Multicolored streaks flew across the sky, coming towards the land. It was a wave of pegasi, approaching high, then dropping as they reached the beaches. There were many colors, but in the center flew a dozen with blue…coats or uniforms, it was hard to tell from the ground. With skill and precision, they set upon the array of bunkers and redoubts blocking the attack. They tumbled through windows and doorways, dropping directly from above when there wasn't a roof.
Jackie felt a knot in his stomach as he watched one dive for a window only for a flash to emerge. The pony jerked and fell, disappearing to the ground. Once engaged, it would be metal-shod hooves and wingblades against guns and knives. Every such fight would be desperate for both sides, and some would undoubtedly end with a dead pegasus and a German returning to his post.
But the fire abated as the machine gun crews were forced into melee. Even the Allied soldiers who hadn't gotten the message knew it was now or never. A few gave an exhilarated roar as they stood up and sprinted to the Nazi lines. Most – like Jackie, Manny, Tex, and Applejack – just ran in grim silence. Sporadic fire cut down a few charging soldiers, but it wouldn't be enough.
Jackie glanced behind him and sighed in relief. Big and Red was staying put.
Applejack didn't stay with them long. She had them load a wounded soldier on her back and carried him into cover. They lost track of her after that. What followed would be work for guns and flamethrowers. The Americans were finally amongst their foes. Bunkers were being flanked, machine gun nests overrun. Jackie finally saw the German soldiers. Some were fleeing, others fighting back. Not all the firefights went well for the Allies, but a third wave of soldiers emerged from the boats, then a fourth and fifth.
About half of “Spitfire’s Charge” were casualties: dead, wounded, or lost. Its captain, Spitfire, was reported as missing in action.
By the next day, the beaches were clear and Allied forces were pressing inland.
Author's Note
In choppy weather and with nerves running high, Allied leaders ordered the invasion to commence on June 6, 1944. The attack was originally scheduled for June 5, but was pushed back due to bad weather. The assistance of Pegasus “Cloud Kickers” was refused. The Germans believed the Allies would make the landing further East than Normandy, and no effort was spared in maintaining the deception. Pegasi spent June 5 clearing the skies above the distant Pas De Calais, helping convince the Axis Command the Normandy landings were a feint.
With so much hinging on luck and bluff, it was a very real possibility that disaster awaited them. The night before, Winston Churchill commented to his wife that, “Tomorrow we may wake up to see 20,000 killed and the war lost.” Eisenhower took to carrying a letter in his pocket, to be delivered in the event of defeat:
“Our landings in the Cherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based on the best information available. The troops, the [air force] and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone.
-D. Eisenhower”
With deception a greater concern than the weather, Eisenhower ordered the Cloud Kickers to refrain from clearing the skies. Their captain, Spitfire, proved unwilling to sit back on her hooves. When the assault at Omaha Beach became pinned with their backs to the sea, she ordered the pegasi to assault the bunkers and artillery. They were drilled for this possibility, but were inexperienced and poorly-armed compared to the German defenders. Casualties – including Spitfire, listed as ‘MIA’ – were heavy, but their purpose was accomplished. German positions were distracted long enough for several companies to break holes in the fortified lines, holes that were quickly widened by waves of reinforcements. Victory was achieved, and Eisenhower never delivered his letter.
"I had always believed that Good was strong. But that day in Caen I learned the horrible power that Evil holds. I came to the cold realization that Evil was the stronger, for it would destroy the world rather than meet defeat."
-Private Robert Mueller, British 2nd Army
July 18, 1944
The pitiful remnant of a stone wall was the only thing keeping Rarity alive. She swallowed and tried to shrink into the ground as bullets stitched across it, shaking dust and pebbles onto her cringing form.
I shouldn't be here, she thought, tears springing to her eyes. She wasn't cut out to be a soldier and she knew it. She enlisted along with her friends, filled with righteous fury over the crimes the Germans had committed against helpless ponies. Their training had been slapdash and simple – Equestria was ill-prepared for war, and even Rarity's instructor looked nervous and unsure. As simple as it was, she still barely was accepted.
They all thought it was a grand adventure back then, ‘camping out’ in their barracks, sightseeing in England and meeting their first humans. Most ponies shied away from the bipeds, but Rarity reveled in their attention. Fresh from their farms, American troops would gawk at her, scrambling over themselves to hold open doors and carry her bags. She dined with British officers, graciously accepting many a refined toast. "To Rarity," they said. "A unicorn, and a true lady!"
And now she was pressing herself into the dirt that once gave her so much dismay, eyes clenched closed, wishing with every fiber of her being she was back at Carousel Boutique. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Caen was to have been taken a month ago. They were supposed to be on the easy highway to Berlin and home in time for Winter Wrap Up. Rarity was supposed to have already dined in the finest cafes of Paris, chatting up the local elite. They would fawn over her, and she would raise funds for the Displaced Ponies Program, to help care for the ponies imprisoned by the Reich.
Her eyes snapped open. Those ponies...those pictures…
When the newspapers had published photos of the ponies in ghettoes and work camps, she had bought copies from every single newsstand. She had spent a day and a night just staring at the pictures, trying to comprehend it all. Hours were spent locking eyes with one photo of a unicorn colt peering sadly out from behind bars, a stub where his horn should be. He was no older than Sweetie Belle, and had the same huge eyes…
He's waiting for me. Rarity hurriedly wiped her tears, ignoring the grime streaking her face. They're all waiting for me. For us to come save them.
Still trembling slightly, she raised her head slowly and looked around. About ten meters back crouched Stern Glare, a royal guard assigned to her protection. He was hiding precariously behind a bench, the flimsy wood offering little protection. Stern's face was worried as he looked back at his charge, but crossing the open ground between them would have been suicide.
Despite her newfound resolve, Rarity flinched and flattened again as an engine gunned very close by. A German halftrack – the source of the gunfire – rumbled forward. Its machinegun chattered again, this time aiming for something to the left of Rarity's position. It kept moving as it fired, passing into sight next to her wall. The gunner's head was turned away, continuing to shoot elsewhere.
Rarity held her breath, illogically believing the enemy would hear her breathing over the chatter of his gun. If she held still, maybe they would keep their attention far from her and pass on by…
No. They're waiting for me.
Rarity hadn't actually fought in a battle like this before, and neither had her instructors. Unicorn training basically amounted to "do whatever magic you're best at and put it to military use." Her love of sewing and fashion would hardly impress the Germans, but it did give her an uncanny eye for detail. After a few seconds of studying the halftrack, she swallowed and channeled magic into her horn.
The gunner barely saw the blue glow around his piece before it snapped at the base and jerked out of his hands, bouncing once on the hood of the vehicle before falling to the ground. He looked in the direction it had landed and saw his left wheel and an axle from the tread fly out of their sockets. The halftrack lurched and stopped. Without the sounds of the gun or engine, a strange silence took hold of the area.
The respite barely lasted a second. Guns sounded again, this time friendly soldiers shooting at the damaged vehicle. Encouraged by her success, Rarity braced and tried to flip over the halftrack in one mighty heave of magic. The burst of telekinetic power rocked it, but shifting that much weight was well beyond her ability. After a second of intense straining, she gasped, letting the magic fail.
With a clang, the back hatch opened. German grenadiers hustled out of their crippled vehicle. A few caught her gaze as they crouched around it and leveled rifles at her. Rarity yelped in fear and her horn glowed. The hasty magic did nothing but send a clumsy shockwave at the enemy, but it was enough to throw off their aim and make a few lose their feet. It bought time for Rarity to scramble around to the other side of the wall.
She was sweating and shaking uncontrollably now, and felt like she was going to throw up. Rarity had finally locked eyes with a German soldier and saw nothing but a grim, professional desire to kill her. Her panicked imagination fancied they knew her name and were running up to end her life.
The Germans soon had more pressing issues. A few sprinted away from their halftrack, but were cut down as an odd rat-tat-tat sounded . British machineguns made a different noise than German ones, but killed and terrorized all the same. Most of the grenadiers crouched around their vehicle and tried to return fire, but were outmatched without their own heavy weapon. Rarity peered out and saw tan-uniformed soldiers advancing cautiously towards the pinned Germans, covered by their machinegun. When they got close enough, three of them simultaneously threw grenades into and around the halftrack. A few fearful grenadiers stayed put and were killed by the blast. Most tried to run and were cut down by the reaping heavy weapon.
Both Rarity and the British stayed crouched in cover, but no more signs of the enemy were seen. Explosions and gunfire echoed in the distance, a background music that had been going on ever since they entered the city.
"Nice work, Miss Rarity."
Rarity turned towards the deep voice, seeing Stern Gaze clop towards her. He seemed unfazed. She, on the other hoof, felt like a wreck. Bile was rising in her throat, tears were coming down her eyes again, and she just wouldn't stop shaking. Rarity looked down, ashamed. She was ashamed of her fear, ashamed that she was too weak to actually kill any of the enemy, and ashamed that she was happy she didn't.
She had no way of knowing that Stern was ashamed too. While Rarity had turned the tables on the Germans at great risk to herself, he had remained still, cowering. He was just better at hiding his feelings.
"You probably need to recharge your magic. Let's find someplace to lay low for a moment." They both knew Stern Gaze was just offering an excuse – a few telekinetic bursts would hardly exhaust a unicorn's magic. But he had seen a few fights in the past month. Ponies could snap from the stress of combat, and Rarity looked like she was on the edge. This was her first battle, and she wasn't taking it well.
"I'm fine," she gave the token response. "I just need a moment to catch my breath."
Stern Gaze was about to point out that she didn't look anywhere close to 'fine,' but a cough attracted both of their attentions. One of the tan-dressed soldiers had approached them, smiling a touch.
"Private Mueller," he introduced himself, tapping his helmet. Neither pony was particularly familiar with humans, but he looked young and short, with a chubby face and boyish eyes dulled by battle. "Nice trick back there. Orders are to keep pushing up. Can we expect you to accompany us?"
Stern drew a sharp breath, about to give a resounding "neigh," but Rarity nodded. "Yes, of course. 'Everyone together' and all that."
'Everyone together.' Stern couldn't resist a snort at the words. It was supposed to be a rallying call – all the Allied armies attacking at the same time, knowing the Germans were bound to break somewhere. After a month of failing to get more than a few miles from the beaches, human leaders were losing patience. That meant a lot of frontal attacks right where the Germans expected them. That was going to mean a lot of dead bodies, and Stern had no intention of him or his charge joining that number. He wanted to tell the human to just buck off.
A glance at Rarity stopped him. Her shaking had ceased, and she looked a lot calmer. She was looking steadily at him, showing him that she was ready. He snorted again, smiling despite himself. Of course the Element of Generosity would do her share. How could he have thought otherwise?
"They're waiting for us," Rarity said. Mueller thought she was talking about his platoon, but Stern knew better.
"Aye. That they are."
Mueller signaled his men, and the patchwork band crept deeper into the city. Rarity was in the lead, which meant so was Stern – always a half-step between her and the likeliest threat. The presence of others seemed to bring out the best in his charge. She freely swapped brief comments with the humans, accepting survival tips and figuring out which street led where. Most of these exchanges were initiated by Rarity. The unicorn seemed entirely comfortable in the presence of humans. Stern, on the other hand, kept glancing at Mueller, who kept glancing back.
Most humans looked the same to Stern, but experience was starting to let him pick out details. Despite the baby fat on his face, Mueller had an athletic frame and carried himself upright and proud. His weapon was a submachine gun, one of the British-built Stens. It required two hands to use – one to hold in the sideways ammo clip – but it was no less effective for it. Most of the other soldiers held slow-firing rifles. Despite his youth, Mueller had apparently been judged reliable enough to be trusted with the advanced weapon.
Maybe it's like with the Royal Guard , Stern mused. Rather than the common bronze armor, his barding was silver. It was far heavier too, and held every protective enchantment the unicorns could squeeze on. Not just any pony was entrusted with protecting the Elements of Harmony. Those that were got the best equipment Equestria could offer. Maybe this human youth was just the same: proving himself worthy of greater responsibility than his peers.
Try as he might, though, Stern couldn't picture Mueller as a pony.
Movement to their right snapped them all out of their own thoughts. Guns were raised, but the source proved friendly. Coming into view on the other side of a ruined house were a pair of timberwolves, followed by a much larger one. Atop the patriarch stood a bright green unicorn, white hair twisted with vines. He smiled and gestured with his horn, a short glow of yellow magic directing his charges onwards. A dozen more timberwolves came after their leader, loping strides quickly leaving the other group behind. Even Rarity would have had trouble keeping up.
The humans began to speak excitedly of the strange sight, but their lieutenant pointed forwards. Black smoke was coming from just up the road, and wounded British were hobbling back towards them. If that didn't get their attention, a large shell streaming overhead certainly did.
"Excuse me, Sir?" Rarity called out to one of the walking wounded. Even on a battlefield, she maintained a lady's politeness. "What's ahead?"
Despite the hole in his hand, the soldier's wits were still about him. "Tanks, one of ours and one of theirs, both blasting at each other's cover. Infantry too."
The lieutenant ordered them to go straight into the fight. Maybe there was a better way, but he was no more skilled than the soldiers he led, and neither pony had a better idea.
Both tanks were stuck in piles of rubble, but were shielded from the foe by their own trap. The ground in between them was once a magnificent town square, offering not a scrap of precious cover. The result was stalemate: corpses of both sides dotted the ground where foolhardy infantry had tried to rush forwards. In nearby buildings and behind barricades, soldiers peered and sniped nervously out of cover.
Mueller and his men fanned out, taking their own positions and giving ineffectual fire.
Rarity peered towards the enemy, then ducked behind the Allied tank. "Too far away for me to attack with my magic…but I can clear the rubble. Maybe freeing this one will help."
"Don't," Stern warned.
"Why not?"
The guard tapped the side of the tank with his hoof, shouting to be heard above the crackling gunfire. "I learned a few things about human war machines. This is a sherman. The one the Germans are using is called a tiger. A tiger's kind of like a sherman, only it's better in every way that counts. The sherman can shoot at the tiger all day long, but if it's not in the flank, nothing's going to happen. A tiger hits a sherman once and it goes boom. The debris the sherman's stuck in is the only thing keeping the ponies…people inside alive."
The power of German tanks was another lesson not covered in training, but Rarity accepted his words with a nod. She opened her mouth, but the question was drowned out by a dozen throats howling in unison. The timberwolf pack exploded out of one of the side alleys, barreling directly towards the German line. The unicorn atop the largest was howling along with his charges, horn glowing a fierce yellow as he lent them speed.
There wasn't nearly enough time for the tiger tank to bring its gun to bear. The surprised Germans opened fire, but the bullets just smacked into the wooden creatures with a thump and nothing else. Not even one wolf fell as they leapt the rubble and were amongst the infantry. Sharp mouths grabbed bodies and flung them, screaming, into the air. Timberwolves smashed into buildings and bounded up stairs towards the trapped soldiers above.
"Get ready to rush!" An officer shouted. If robbed of its own infantry, even the mighty Tiger would be prey for simple soldiers with grenades. Rarity and Stern exchanged a glance and steeled themselves, ready to do their part.
Another howl went up, this one pained and cut short. Crackling like a sparkler filled the air, though loud enough to make hearts leap in their chests. Rarity felt her jaw drop as a timberwolf sailed back over the barricade. It hit the ground and shattered into splinters before another followed. Two more yelped and whined as they sprinted back, their coats ablaze with purple-red fire that didn't go out until they were charred corpses.
The vicious howls had turned to pathetic yipes. The largest of the timberwolves was raised upwards as if plucked by some giant hand. It cried in pain and Rarity watched in horror as its form began shifting. The beast fought the transformation, but the magic was too strong. It was jammed into the form of a giant spear and hurled towards the allied lines, crashing through a building.
A man stepped around the German barricades. He didn't look magical, or even evil. He wore the mottled-brown uniform of the SS, the face above it drawn and tired. A canteen clanked against his side and his helmet was gone, showing thin, grimy hair.
But in his right hand, he clutched the mane of an unconscious green unicorn. His left hand scooped something from a pouch at his side and he pressed his nose into it, inhaling deeply and giving a violent cough immediately afterwards.
It was shimmering and multicolored, but unmistakably, it was the glow of magic that surrounded the soldier. With a grunt of exertion, he hurled the pony straight towards the British lines. The unicorn's flight crossed the hundred meters in under a second. Rarity closed her eyes tightly, not trusting herself to watch the inevitable as the living missile collided with a wall.
Most of the others had similar reactions, but when they looked again the soldier was upon them. The impromptu projectile wasn't intentional cruelty, but a practical distraction. He followed it with unnatural speed and ploughed directly through the barricades. A brackish glow surrounded him as he swept his arm wide, sending a slice of black energy through a building. Soldiers screamed as their cover collapsed with them inside, but he was already moving on. He turned to the Sherman and punched with one hand, a grey orb of telekinetic force coming out.
The soldier didn't even see Stern Glare standing in the way. The hefty earth pony braced and took the hit on his shoulder. Runes on the armor flared as the enchantments absorbed the brunt of the blow. But this wild, untamed magic was too much to block entirely. After a second of straining, Stern staggered and his shoulder pauldron disintegrated. What was left of the blow slammed him to the side of the tank, but enough force had been leached from it to save both from destruction. Stern banged his head and fell to the ground, winded and dazed.
A whip of blue energy stabbed towards the soldier. His magic aura recoiled, but absorbed the attack. Those tired eyes turned to the source of the strike. Though much shorter, Rarity raised her head high to meet his gaze. Her eyes narrowed, and his did as well. Hers were hot with anger, his cold with professionalism, but the intentions behind each were the same.
It was time to kill.
Mueller's Sten gun chattered its payload, but the bullets melted as they connected the soldier's strange aura. He stretched his hand out and a purple-red bolt of fire shot forth. With the finesse of her profession, Rarity latched onto it with her own magic, dodging and swinging it around herself to hurl back at him. The soldier grunted as the bolt impacted, thrashing his arms out: his left to deflect the blow, his right to attack again.
She could physically feel the power of his magic. Rarity couldn't match the destruction he could summon, but he was unskilled. His attacks were obvious and blunt, relying only on brute force. She parried again and again, only exerting the energy needed to deflect an attack. The soldier responded in the only way he could think of: channeling greater and greater power.
The man felt his magic wane with exertion. He reached into his pouch again, but Rarity went on the offensive. She thrusted with concentrated beams of energy. Now he was exerting his untamed power just to stay alive, his wobbly field starting to fade. He kept trying to go for the pouch, but Rarity kept forcing his hands back up to ward her attacks.
"Nein!" He shouted, resolve breaking. He channeled the last of his aura into a feeble thrust and reached for the pistol at his side, but Mueller was faster. A short burst, and blood leapt from the soldier's body. He crumpled without another sound.
Mueller didn't even acknowledge Rarity. His eyes were wide and fixed on the body, as if terrified it would rise again.
Like nothing had ever happened, the stalemate resumed. Both tanks were intact, and neither side's infantry could gain any ground.
It took an act of will, but Rarity approached the dead German. Everyone knew that humans couldn't use magic. How could he? Not only that, but how was he powerful enough to kill a dozen timberwolves and a unicorn?
She had a horrible, horrible feeling in her stomach. She needed an answer, but every instinct she held screamed at her to look away.
It had to be something about the man's pouch. She looked at it, then into his dead eyes, then back again. Rarity swallowed and nudged the body with her hoof, not even knowing why she felt so terrified. She closed her eyes, swallowed again, and upended the pouch.
Grainy dust came out. Her logical mind snapped back in control and she caught it with her magic. She levitated the pile close and peered at it, wishing she had her glasses on hoof. The jeweler's magic instinctively began sorting it, showing the dust to be a mix of several colors.
Rarity sat down and rubbed her chin with her hoof, curiosity replacing fear. This had to have been the source of his power – soldiers wouldn't carry mere dust in bags. But what could it be?
A simple spell would give the answer. Rarity's work made analysis spells a specialty of hers. In happier times, they examined the quality of silk and gemstones. Here, they would let her solve the mystery.
She closed her eyes, picturing the dust in her mind. The magic flowed into her conscience, bringing knowledge of the powder and where it came from.
Faces!
Her eyes shot back open, and the sense of horror returned tenfold. The magic winked out, letting the powder fall to the ground. Some of it splashed on her hooves, and she screamed and recoiled away.
So many faces!
"What? What!" Mueller stumbled backwards, confusion and fear rising. "What is it?"
The lieutenant glanced in their direction irately, only seeing a pony and soldier panicking over blood. "Mueller! Get in a firing position and pour it on!"
They both ignored him. Rarity made a few noises with her mouth that failed to become words. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her thoughts. Tears poured from her eyes, her chest heaving in silent sobs.
"They're…" She hiccupped, then finished. "They're unicorns."
Mueller looked at her with wide eyes. "What?"
"This dust is powdered unicorn horns."
They both shivered at the implications. Mueller paled, imagining a magically-armed Reich marching to ultimate victory. Rarity's eyes closed again, thinking of all the faces that flashed to her mind. Pieces of every one of them lay on the ground, slowly being dispersed by the wind. They were probably still alive, though that was small mercy. The Nazis would keep them breathing, harvesting the regenerating horns like apples.
She shook her head, but it did nothing to clear her thoughts. "How could they?"
The tiger traversed its turret and fired, sending a massive shell into a bakery that British soldiers were hiding in. The building crumpled, but remained standing. Screams came from inside. A furious soldier leapt to a window and shot back. Mueller's lieutenant took a bullet to the shoulder and crouched, whimpering.
"How could they?" Rarity whispered again, not even hearing herself over the din of combat. The sherman next to her belched its own payload. The well-aimed shot sailed over the tiger's cover and impacted its turret. A clang of hammer and anvil sounded, and the unshaken German tank simply fired again.
Rarity wobbled. The world was spinning around her. It all felt so distant now, all the sounds melding together into a quiet roar. She swayed and fell, losing all feeling.
They're waiting for me.
Her hoof snapped out, catching her just before she hit the ground. Rarity's eyes opened, her senses returning with crystal clarity. Every sound found a place in her conscience, every sight was noticed. Around her, tan-clad humans were fighting and dying. And on the other side…
"How could they." She whispered it again, but it was a chilled statement rather than a mewling question.
"Miss…" Mueller began to say something, reaching a hand for her. Rarity smacked it aside with her horn and sprinted forwards, leaping the barricades in one jump.
He stood and turned after her, but the pony speeding towards the enemy was no longer the polite, nervous unicorn he had come to know. Orange fire had erupted from her hooves and mane, and her eyes glowed red. The flames blazed high both upwards and behind her, making her seem twice as large. Her coat had brightened to a white so hot that sunspots flashed across Mueller's eyes.
Rarity was sprinting, but her hooves weren't touching the ground. Bullets came at her, but they fizzed and disintegrated as they came near. She stopped right in front of the tiger. Without the usual glow, a magic beam sprang from her horn. It struck the tiger, and lifted the tank into the sky with ease. Rarity flicked her horn and the once-insurmountable behemoth sailed into a stable the Germans were fighting from. It ploughed through the building entirely before coming to a stop, wrong-side up.
"HOW COULD YOU?!!" She screamed, and no one answered.
The rubble pile in which the tiger once sat lifted up and erupted around Rarity. Like a massive shotgun, thousands of bits of brick and stone hammered the nearby buildings. Such was the force behind the magic that German soldiers shying from windows were slain by ricochet hits. Walls were perforated, and two of the buildings collapsed under the strain.
Shouts and screams filled the air. Guns poked out from a three-story boardinghouse and fired at her to no effect. A middle-aged soldier leaned out a window, trying to take aim at Rarity with a panzerfaust anti-tank weapon. While he fumbled with the clumsy missile, she drew a sharp line in the air with her horn. A diagonal slash appeared in the building along the exact same angle, bisecting it. The top half slid off to shatter on the ground, taking the soldier with it. He gave a cry, eyes wide with terror, and was lost to sight.
Fire sounded out from behind Rarity. Seeing their enemies being overwhelmed, the British were surging forwards. No fire came back at them – the remaining Germans were shocked at the utter destruction. A few threw down their arms and surrendered, eyes wide and terrified. Some were hiding in fear, others fleeing.
She wanted to run after them. For one of them, just one of them to have the courage to answer her question. But when she took the first step, it felt like a hammer hit her head. She flinched, stumbled, and fell, once more just a purple-maned mare named Rarity. The unrestrained magic of an enraged unicorn left her drained, magically, emotionally, and physically. Like a lead weight was tied to her neck, she collapsed to her side and lay still.
A familiar presence stepped beside her. She opened an eye and saw Stern Gaze standing over her, battered and sad. A trickle of blood leaked down his mane and dripped from the end of his nose. But only concern for his charge showed on his face as he quietly sat down next to her.
"How could they?" She asked in a whisper before sinking to unconsciousness.
It was only a few minutes later, after she was well beyond hearing, that Stern responded.
"I don't know. I just don't know." And he nuzzled her mane as a sherman rolled past them.
Author's Note
A month after the D-Day Landings, the Allied advance had only claimed a thin strip of ground around the beaches. Caen - a vital city to have been taken on the first day - remained in enemy hands. Breakout attempts had been repeatedly foiled by the skilled, well-equipped German army. But the battles had taken their toll on the outnumbered Germans, and on July 18, 1944, General Bernard Montgomery (then commanding all the Allied ground forces) ordered a major offensive. The Commonwealth forces were to attack around Caen, the Americans were to strike South to St. Lo. Titled Operations Goodwood and Cobra respectively, it was believed the battered Germans could only respond to one of these. This proved correct - British and Canadian troops seized Caen after bloody battle, but were stalemated shortly afterwards by German reinforcements. Meanwhile, the Americans overran the exhausted defenders of St. Lo and advanced in all directions. Undeniably thanks to both armies, the coveted breakout had been achieved. Within a month, most of France had been liberated. The German Western Army was shattered and thrown across the Rhine.
--Snapshot - Unforgiven: Trixie's Story
June, 1940 – Hitler poses before the Eiffel Tower with noted Equestrian performer Trixie. German atrocities against Equestrians and other minorities were well-concealed at the time, and famed individuals like Trixie could continue touring cities much as they always had. “The Great and Powerful Trixie” enjoyed superb stage success during the first half of the war. Important politicians and officers attended her magic shows, and she was well paid to give private performances and demonstrations.
For some of the attendees, the purpose was not entertainment, but study. While many feared it, some Nazi officials wondered if the strange force known as “magic” could be turned to military use. In Trixie, they found a willing dupe. She happily explained some of the finer points of magic, and (with a bit of financial incentive) gave lectures on the nature of the unicorn horn. Testimonies at the Nuremburg Trials later revealed that her lectures and demonstrations significantly advanced Nazi research into magic. By grinding unicorn horns to powder and sifting out natural limiters and impurities, a chalky substance would remain that could temporarily grant humans a massive surge of magic power. In 1943, “Warlock” soldiers were tested to great effect in the Eastern Front. By 1944, the Reich was able to deploy them regularly.
From her perspective, Trixie just believed her career was moving forward. Blinded by the praise and wealth showered upon her, she eagerly accepted the lucrative contracts arranged by her German stage manager. At the time, Trixie saw the above photo as just another chance to be seen alongside important figures. She spoke very briefly with Hitler, though it was just a celebrity photo-op and was over within 15 minutes. Her naivety is revealed in her diary, the day’s entry describing Hitler as a “Friendly little man. Despite his victory [over France], he seems humble. He’s a lower-class sort with a lower-class outlook: just get the war done and the rebuilding begun. Good for him!”
By 1943, though, Trixie was gradually realizing she had been used. Other ponies had disappeared from the streets of France and Germany. She stopped receiving mail from Equestria, and when she sent messages she received no reply. After an argument with her manager, she woke up the next morning to find Nazi Party thugs assigned as “bodyguards.” She overheard two officers gossiping about “Warlocks,” the pair unaware that the pawn had become aware of the game. While certainly a flawed pony, the kind heart of the Equestrian race still beat within her: Trixie suspected what was happening, and felt the pull to take action.
She took to slipping out at night to do some digging on her own. Without a soul she could trust, it took months of lonely work to finally find one of the concentration camps in Northern Germany. She didn’t return that night, instead spending another month plotting a breakout.
Trixie was a powerful magician, but one unicorn could only do so much. Although her attempted rescue initially freed hundreds, all but a fraction were quickly rounded up. Trixie led the remnant in a harrowing month-long journey to Sweden. Exhausted, starving, and dogged by the Nazis, they finally crossed the narrows to the neutral country.
With no desire to enrage the Reich, the Swedes discreetly transported Trixie to Britain. Officially, there she was congratulated for her heroism and welcomed to safety. Outside the halls of power, though, she found herself a pariah. The above photo had been printed in Times magazine, forever associating her with the despised Hitler. Humans and ponies alike saw her as a selfish turncoat, selling out her kin and “switching sides” just to save herself.
Craving redemption, Trixie tried to enlist but was roundly rejected by the Equestrian army. She loitered in Britain for a while before falling in with the USO. The entertainment organization saw in her an excellent showpony and wasted no time in booking her to perform before the troops. Although she was often booed off the stage, other times soldiers cheered her magical antics.
While touring with the USO, she befriended two men by the names of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. These contacts helped her salvage her acting career after the war, though it would remain a shadow of those heady days in Germany, before she realized what an innocent photo would cost her.
Chapter 3: The Shattering
Following the breakout at St. Lo, the Germans had two sensible options: Retreat south to defend Paris, or east to shorten the line. Under Hitler’s orders, neither was done. Instead, an entirely insensible attack was made right into the teeth of the advancing Americans. It was an utter disaster. Exhausted, outnumbered, and ground down by Allied air supremacy, the German forces lodged themselves in the enemy lines and were swiftly cut off. While COBRA-GOODWOOD had taken territory, the “Falaise Pocket” achieved something even more crucial: The destruction of a German army and the total route of the Axis from France.
August 21, 1944 South of Falaise, France
Three of them approached Applejack from the woodline– two grenadiers and a Hiter Youth soldier. She ducked out of reflex, but there were no weapons in their hands.
“Wir ergebe,” one of the soldiers called out. Even the shout caused him to pause and gasp for breath. The three were exhausted, arms hanging limply at their sides.
Applejack didn’t speak German, but she had heard the phrase enough times in the last few days to infer its meaning. It didn’t hurt to be safe – she crouched low in the tall grass and called out. “Leslie! Another three over here!”
An American soldier raised his head above a well he had crouched behind. The tall southerner seemed to unfold himself as he stood up. He approached with easy strides, though still held his rifle warily.
“Dag nabbit, Applejack, for the last time, call me ‘Tex!’” He gave a curt gesture with his rifle and the three soldiers began stumbling forward. “Holy Moley, Manny’s gonna blow a gasket. That’s 150 of ‘em today alone. We gotta find someone to pass these guys off too.”
They let the prisoners pass them, then turned to follow at a slow walk. The plod was as fast as the German soldiers could manage. Applejack still had trouble distinguishing humans, but these men and thousands like them had obvious features to them. What surprised her was that there wasn’t a scrap of defiance, anger, or even sadness to be seen. The prisoners just looked tired. Dull, empty eyes stared out above slack jaws. They stumbled and swayed as if sleepwalking. Physically and emotionally, they had been pushed to their limits and shoved rudely over the edge.
At the edge of their camp, they met Corporal “Jackie,” as he came out to meet them. When Tex finally swapped his Stetson for a helmet, Applejack had the darndest of times telling the two humans apart. They were both lanky, dark haired, and lacked any sort of facial fur. And of course, they both wore the drab green of the American soldier.
Tex, she learned to see, had a higher nose and a habit of thrusting his shoulders forward. Jackie was quiet and tended to shrink into his uniform when spoken to. The humans didn’t think much of him, but Applejack liked him just fine. He was the kind of person who’d reach down into a snake pit to pull you out. Maybe not the best officer, but a good pony. Man. Whatever.
“Three for ya, Corporal, Sir.” Tex pointed to the prisoners, then to the camp. They staggered towards it without a backwards glance.
“About 250 today,” Jackie responded, nodding to the two of them.
“Two-fifty?” Tex asked.
The corporal shrugged. “Yep. Miller and Dandy Lion went on a bread run near Argentan. They walked out of the bakery to see a hundred Krauts mobbed up, asking to be taken prisoner. Scared the willies out of the two.”
Tex was less amused. “Scares the willies out of me! We’re guarding, what, 800 of these assholes total? All thirty of us? Plus the ponies, but still!”
“We’ve contacted Division, they’ll help us move ‘em out in a few days. Of all the problems to have, too many prisoners isn’t so bad.” Jackie was calm, but was sending a few telltale glances to Applejack for support.
“’Isn’t so bad,’ my foot! Jackie, how are we gonna sleep? We don’t got enough bullets if these guys riot!”
Jackie opened his mouth to respond, but stopped and stared past them. “Well then. I don’t reckon a few more’s gonna make much difference.”
The other two tuned, and saw the wood line painted with an ungainly blotch of grey. What had to be at least five hundred German soldiers were shambling towards them. No weapons were seen – the only thing they held were bandages to wounds or injured companions. As they came closer, a peaked hat became visible. An officer with a polished iron cross strode before his men. It was taking effort, but he still walked upright.
“Ergebe!” He called out periodically through cracked lips, raising his hands high. “Kapitulate.”
The few Americans raised their rifles, and the swarm came to a halt. The officer stepped forward to the small knot of Allies. “We surrender.”
“Right,” Jackie said a bit too hastily, nervous and wondering just when Division would send the backup. “Uh, we’ve got no more room in the campgrounds, so bed down here for now. Cut wood for shelter, or something. We’ll get you food when we can, but there might be a bit of a hangup. I’ll call this in.”
“We’ve gone hungry for three days,” the officer said with a wry smile. “We can go a little longer. Thank you.”
He started to turn back to his men, but Applejack shouted. “Hey! I wanna ask you somethin’!”
The officer obediently turned back. He was old, Applejack realized. His face was cracked and sagging. Tired eyes looked at her through thick glasses, and he smiled politely. “Ja, Fraulein?”
Beaten though he might be, Applejack still glared at him warily. “What do you know about them camps? The ones where they send ponies and other folks the Nazis decide they don’t like?”
The smile vanished from his face, and he looked down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Applejack’s eyes narrowed and she crouched, trying to match his gaze again. “Why don’t you look at me and say that?”
“Drop it, ‘Jack,” Tex warned, glancing fearfully at the mass of men and clutching his rifle.
The officer raised his arms placatingly, just as desperate to end the conversation. “I never saw any of that.”
“That’s enough, Applejack.” Jackie didn’t give her orders very often, but was dead serious when he did.
”You don’t know anything, or you just didn’t SEE anything? Which is it, you lying bastard?”
Applejack wanted to say it, but ground her teeth together instead. Jackie patted her back cautiously. “I’ll go call Division HQ. Applejack, come with me. Tex, watch this lot.”
“Oh, sure, no problem.” Tex gave a nervous laugh and pointedly backed off several long steps from the throng of prisoners.
Applejack smoldered silently as they entered the platoon’s campsite. Jackie opened his mouth a few times, but closed it.
Finally, he came out with the right words. “Soon, he’s not gonna be able to deny it. None of them are.”
The Allies love their air power, but even that can be used to our advantage. Watch for the pegasi – that's where they'll hit us next.
-Field Marshal Walter Model
September 12, 1944
The pavilion was alight with cheerful chatter. As he stepped in, Soarin let himself imagine he wasn't in Europe. A host of pegasi stood inside, laughing, talking, and taking snacks. They might have been gossiping after a race, or before a Wonderbolts trial. Faces were light, and eyes were shining.
The familiar innocence made him happy. The "Cloudkickers" had directly fought the Germans on D-Day and paid a steep price for it. But time was healing the wounds. In the months that followed, they stuck with what they were best at: clearing clouds. It was important work and it came easily to them. There was vague sadness on some faces as they recalled a fallen sibling or friend, but it was a distant loss that they've had plenty of time to mourn. "Spitfire's Charge," as the Americans called it, was over, and ponies were moving on.
Expect for me, he thought with a twinge of grief and shame.
No. On second thought, it wasn't like home at all. There were two humans here: a British major nibbled politely on a hay sandwich, and a Pole studiously stripped his weapon on a table in the back. The papers tacked on billboards had maps and weather forecasts instead of racing charts and statistics. And no matter how hard Soarin looked, there was no sign of a tussled gold and orange mane to be seen.
Not like home at all.
He coughed loudly and began striding to the front of the room. Most ponies fell silent, though a few side conversations carried on. Flitter giggled and whispered something to her sister, who laughed and called out to him. "What's with the cough? You've got a popcorn kernel in there?"
A ripple of laughter flowed through the room, though both humans scowled. Soarin had quickly learned that human officers expected stiff respect from their subordinates. He had no idea why – cringing underlings would desert when things got rough, but friends would stay by you no matter what. He wasn't happy being an officer, so he might as well be liked.
"No popcorn," he flashed a grin at the sisters. "Just a briefing I really gotta hack up."
That drew more laughter, but it quickly subsided along with the rest of the chatter. They were informal, not stupid. The pony in the know was about to tell them something, and they'd better listen.
Soarin stepped onto the small stage and stamped his foot once. A pony in the back clicked on the projector at the signal, displaying a map of the Franco-German border behind him.
The talking part came easily – he wouldn't get anypony killed doing a briefing. "Okay, ponies, here we go. I'm pleased to confirm what many of you already know: the German army in France is defeated. Parts of Belgium and Holland have been liberated as well, putting us in a position to invade Germany directly. The greatest challenge remaining to this and total victory is the Rhine River. It's the last major obstacle before Berlin, but it's a doozy: over a mile wide at some points."
"The place…" he tapped his hoof on the ground again. With an audible *click,* the projector switched to the next picture, a more narrow one of Holland. "…Will be here. The enemy doubtless expects us to lunge directly for Germany. Instead the blow will fall in Holland, on their extreme northern flank. In five days, paratroopers from America, Britain, and Poland will begin landing here, here…"
Soarin flapped his wings, floating up to the northernmost objective. "And here. The Rhine is broken up into smaller rivers in this area, making six bridges in total that they will have to secure. We expect them to be engaged by German garrison troops and some remnants from France. They will be relieved by ground forces coming up…here, on this highway. The name of the game will be speed. The paratroopers will be there to prevent the Germans from blowing the bridges, and the main army will relieve them and exploit the opening."
So far, so good. He rapped his hoof on the wall, signaling the next slide to show: a town, dominated by a massive bridge. "The crux of the matter will be here, at Arnhem. It will be the furthest from the ground attack, and it'll be the last chance for the Germans to stop us on this side of the Rhine. The whole thing will be 'Operation Market-Garden,' 'Market' being the airborne part. That's us – the Cloudkickers will be doing our usual jobs: clearing skies, shifting clouds, and acting as runners for the various segments. The most important part will be making sure the landing zones are clear for the paratroopers, which means round-the clock flights over the battlefield. Particularly at Arnhem."
"Hey, where will the landing zone be at Arnhem?" A white pegasus called out, raising her hoof as an afterthought.
"It's…" Soarin hesitated, and his eyes slid to the humans. The British man looked stiff and uncomfortable. The Pole had his eyes closed and was pinching the bridge of his nose. Both men knew the answer, and weren't happy with it.
"On this map," Soarin continued, and immediately regretted the choice of words. "Well, there are no suitable landing sites in and around the city. It's about seven miles to the north of this map."
None of the other ponies seemed share the humans' discomfort. To pegasi, seven miles was the work of a moment. A little extra distance for a little extra safety seemed the most logical thing in the world. They nodded at his explanation, and the briefing concluded on an even higher note.
"If this is successful, it will be the last campaign." Soarin's voice grew more solid, and for the first time he had everyone's undivided attention. "We will be in the German heartland, and there will be nothing between us and their factories, people, and leaders. The war will end at minimal cost in life, and we will be home for Hearts' Warming. Along with all the friends we free from the Nazis."
The reminder of the camps dampened the mood, but it helped to remind them of the stakes. Ponies scattered, talking with each other in low voices, eyeing weather charts, and doing their part ensure this would indeed be the last battle.
Soarin breathed a sigh of relief as their attention left him. He held his head up as he walked off the stage, though couldn't shake the niggling doubts at the back of his mind. Some of them were new, some had been with him ever since Spitfire went MIA.
As he trod out of the pavilion, a gravely, accented voice called after him. "You need to look confident when you're leaving, too. The performance you give to your soldiers begins the moment they see you, and only ends when you're alone."
It was the Pole, walking quickly to catch up. He was past middle aged, though retained an athletic frame and salty black moustache. He looked at Soarin like he was reading his mind, and didn't approve of what he saw.
Soarin gave a sharp exhale that may have been a laugh, and shook his head. "That obvious, huh?"
"You're lucky they didn't pay any attention after you dismissed them. Veteran soldiers would keep watching, gauging how much faith they should put in you. Come – let's walk further away."
They walked into the surrounding fields. Soarin let his head droop low. "They don't have any reason to have faith in me. Spitfire knew how to be a leader. I don't."
"She didn't know shit," the man grumbled, drawing an angry glare from Soarin until he continued. "None of us do. Leadership is all about convincing your men you know exactly what you're doing, then taking a guess. Who can say whether a choice will prove brilliant or stupid? Have confidence, or at least learn to fake it. The rest sorts itself out one way or another."
Soarin looked at him a long moment and proffered a hoof. Humans knew a lot more about commanding soldiers, and hearing one treat it as just a matter of attitude was heartening. "I'll try."
The man gripped the hoof readily and pumped it once. "That's all anyone can do." Then almost as an afterthought: "General Stanislaw Sosabowski, Polish 1st Parachute Brigade. At your service."
"Captain Soarin," Soarin returned. His mind tumbled over the Polish name for a moment before giving up. Simple or common human names he could follow, but not something like this. Why do humans make up nonsense words to call themselves?
"Why the doubts now, Captain?" The gruff general wasn't shy about digging into others' feelings. "She died in June. You've had time to settle in as leader."
"She went MISSING," Soarin corrected him defensively.
Sosabowski rolled his eyes, but made no move to argue. The pegasus sighed and continued. "That was the last really hard thing we did. My job's been easy since. Officer X calls me and says they need clear skies in Sectors Y and Z, I send ponies out, and they all come back when it's done. The spotter and medic pegasi manage themselves. But this 'Market-Garden' thing is big. We'll be doing all our usual work plus keeping skies clear above an ongoing battle, running between isolated positions and the main column, doing recon, relaying orders…it's enough to make my head spin. The success of this could depend on me. ME! And I've never done anything like this before!"
"It depends on all of us," the general said. "If you excel and the rest of us fail, it will still be a disaster. If we all perform admirably…"
He hesitated a second too long before continuing. "It may succeed."
The Pole didn't sound convinced at all. Soarin shuffled his hooves as the conversation faded to silence. Sosabowski lit a cigarette and offered the pack to the pegasus, who shook his head.
"Can't stand those," Soarin said.
The general shrugged, pocketed the pack, and spoke again. "You ponies…I can tell this 'war' business doesn't come naturally to you. You all get this terrified look on your faces when you hear a Limey refer to it as 'the game,' or an Ami brag about how many Germans he killed. You should've stayed in Equestria. Stayed in your own world, and left war to us."
"We can't do that."
Sosabowski just looked amused at Soarin's response. The pegasus felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment and anger, and continued without the slightest doubt. "No, we couldn't stay home, knowing what the Nazis were doing to the ponies of Europe. Especially knowing what we know now, what they're doing to the unicorns. But even ignoring the magic, what about the camps? The prisons?"
He stomped a hoof into the ground and stared at the dirt, tears starting to come down. "The graves? THE OVENS?! We couldn't turn our back on it all. You're right, we don't like going to war. We're bad at it. We couldn't do anything without you humans helping us. But we have to be here, to do what we can. We just have to, I, I can't explain it better than that. If there's one, if there's even one earth pony, or pegasus, or human I can save by being here, I'll do it. Now that I know about this murder, I can't just go about my life like nothing's wrong."
The amused look had vanished from Sosabowski's face. The human puffed on his cigarette silently, and they quietly watched the bustle of a populated campsite. A nearby exchange between two pegasi caught their gaze, owing to the volume of the first speaker.
"Derpy?!!"
"Here's your mail, Rainbow Dash!"
"What in Celestia's name are you doing here? I thought they said you couldn't enlist!"
"I couldn't! But I did join the Overseas Equestrian Mail Service! I take care of distribution here."
The blue pegasus groaned and barrel-rolled lazily in mid air. "Great, even here I can't get away from you."
Derpy grinned. "We go together, like apple pie!"
"WE ARE NOT LIKE APPLE PIE!"
The ridiculousness of the lines weren't lost on the officers: Soarin and even Sosabowski snorted at the same time and doubled over with a burst of quiet humor.
"You ponies are so strange." Sosabowski shook his head, face returning to its natural frown. "I've heard a few say that humans and you are the same inside, but I don't believe it for a second."
"Yeah, me neither." It was true – despite fighting above them for a year, humans still remained a mystery to Soarin. Many of them were like ponies, but no equivalent to the Nazis had ever risen in Equestria. There were a few bad apples among them, but to slaughter the defenseless, or greedily lunge for all around them? Ponies wouldn't think of it. They couldn't even understand it, and Soarin thought that was for the best.
Yet it was some humans' propensity for evil that brought out the best in others. During the sweep through France, he had spoken with ponies that had hidden from the Nazis. Some had spent nearly four years in a single cellar. Others had been sequestered in a convent, or guarded in a forest stronghold by resistance fighters. In each and every case, humans had put their lives on the line to protect these strangers. Soarin loved those stories. They kept him from hating the humans, even a little bit.
"Good intentions," the general mused, his own thoughts returning to the conversation. "Now that you know, you can't pretend nothing's wrong, hm? That'll get you killed, but ah, what a better world it would be if we all had such hearts!"
He smiled sadly, casting an inward glance at his own motivations: bitterness for Poland lost, and hatred for those that killed it. No, the world needed more like Soarin, and fewer like him.
Well, if nothing else, maybe he could stop the world from losing one like Soarin too soon. Sosabowski leaned in conspiratorially, growling lowly into the pony's ear. "You watch yourself going into this. There are a lot of things wrong with this 'Market-Garden,' and come Hell or high water we'll be in the thick of it. My men will be stuck, but your pegasi? Scramble if things look bad. Don't let the Germans catch you on the ground. If some prick American or Limey tells you to do something stupid, you tell him to shove it."
The cynical advice took Soarin aback. "Are you THAT certain things will go badly?"
"I'd say the same if we were going on a picnic," Sosabowski's growl maintained its low pitch. "There are a lot of proud men in this army, men who'd rather see us all dead than sully their pristine 'honor.' Do your duty, but keep both eyes open. You staying alive is more important than some fool's…"
He caught himself and shook his head. Soarin looked at him oddly. The old Pole was done with the tirade: his cracked lips had pressed together, and he was glaring off into the distance.
Another silence descended, and he spoke one last time. "I've seen too many good men die. Don't be one of them."
And he strode off, into the setting sun. Soarin stood alone in the field a long while longer, musing on his own fears and the human's words. When Luna's moon rose, he trod slowly back to his tent. He didn't feel like sleeping, but he needed his rest. There was an offensive to plan.
September 16, 1944
Arnhem, Holland
Field Marshal Model was a hard man, made harder by years of bitter war. But he smiled all the same at the spectacle above him. It was hard not to smile at pegasi at work. They were graceful and colorful, like woodland birds given sentience.
It was an open, genuine smile on his face. He could admire beauty in all its forms. The simple prettiness of a flower. The majesty of a great wave. The awesome power of a thunderstorm.
…And the pegasi as they clear the skies for the bombers of our enemies. Model thought wryly, and he slowly put his hat on.
With one last glance up, he turned and strode inside. His footsteps were quick and purposeful. The moment of sentimentality had passed, and he was a soldier again.
"Send a message to the general staff," he barked as he entered the radio room. "I want every flak cannon we've got deployed and pointed upwards. I want all formations to prep for air assault. Tell the officers to hold every bridge and town in force."
"What should we tell Berlin?" One of the operators asked.
Model took a deep breath and shook his head. "Nothing yet."
Nothing to tell. Is this preparation for a bomber raid? Air support for a ground attack? A paradrop? A bluff?
The orders given, he found himself without a thing to do but wait for the Allies to make their move. Model strode back to the balcony and placed both hands on the railing. He glared up at the pegasi now, ignoring the sun shining down into his eyes.
"Come on," he called out, though they were certainly too high to hear him. "Come at me! This war has not yet ended. Germany is holy land, and shall not be lost so long as one among us draws breath!"
As 1944 neared its end, total victory seemed within grasp. The German army was in disarray, and its best units were locked in desperate battle against the Soviets. With cautious optimism, Eisenhower asked his generals to submit plans to cross the Rhine and end the war by Christmas.
Three plans rose from this request. Patton proposed a direct assault into Germany - a move certain to suffer heavy losses, but also to deal them to the exhausted Wermacht. Bradley and Celestia co-authored a more complicated plan to strike through Southern Germany instead. Such would have bypassed major defenses, but would emerge nowhere near crucial industrial and political centers. Montgomery's idea was even more audacious: a combined airborne and armored assault to cross the Rhine in Holland.
There were major complications with each of the hasty plans. Montgomery's was perhaps the most dubious, but it also had the greatest potential for the least risk. Eisenhower gave it the nod, and scant months later Operation Market-Garden commenced.
Leading the opposition was possibly the best man for the job: Walter Model, nicknamed "The Fuhrer's Fireman" for his ability to contain disasters. Transferred to the West after the Falaise Offensive, he had worked tirelessly to rally the crippled Wermacht. When the attack began, the paratroopers found not the terrified conscripts they expected, but a skilled, bitter army determined to defend their Fatherland to the end.
Chapter 5: No Sign of Victory
"When one man says to another, ‘I know what let's do today, let's play the war game.’... everybody dies."
-General Stanislaw Sosabowski
September 17, 1944
Field Marshal Model was everywhere at once – the man raced about the command center, cursing, shouting orders, and trying to make sense of the madness. Knowing the hammer would fall at the bridges, he had moved his headquarters several miles from Arnhem. The next day, his lunch was interrupted by the sight of Allied paratroopers descending all around his new base. He and his aides raced out of town, leaving much of their radio equipment and paperwork. It wasn't a good start to the battle.
The impromptu headquarters was far from ideal, but he'd just have to make do. That was hours ago, and there were still planes passing overhead, disgorging tiny white parachutes to the ground below. Worse, panicked reports further west indicated a similar scene was being played out in at least two other areas. Front-line forces were being brushed aside as British armor surged down the highway. There was no longer any doubt: Model was facing the next great Allied offensive, and he was already on the back foot.
"I knew this was coming, too." He grumbled, stepping outside to look once more to the sky. The sheer scale of the operation had caught him off guard. What had started as another overcast day cleared quickly as pegasi did their damnable work. And now the sky was darkened instead with clouds of planes, polka-dotted white by thousands of parachutes.
Here and there, flashes of other bright colors could be seen. The winged Equestrians were still at work, guiding gliders and controlling the air traffic.
Model smiled, but today it was a grim, warrior's smile. Black explosions were erupting among the attackers, downing planes and crumpling parachutes. At least his efforts to get the flak cannons in place yesterday were paying dividends. A few of the pegasi specks went down too, even when some distance from an explosion.
No plane hulls to protect them, he mused. And they're very light to begin with. The shockwaves from the explosions knock them about like a sparrow in a hurricane. So much the better.
As his attention shifted closer to home, he frowned, brow furrowed in thought. Fire had slackened badly from the battery closest to Arnhem.
Worry gripped his mind as he strode quickly to the radio room. Have the enemy seized that position? How could they be that close already?
Model tapped the desk impatiently as the operator hailed the battery commander. He dimly recalled the man as dough-faced and shock-bald: hardly the kind of face to inspire martial zeal.
He didn't have time to be nice when the colonel picked up the receiver. "Derek, where are your damn guns?!"
"Uh, here," the voice on the line said nervously. Model felt his face twist into a sneer. Probably some Luftwaffe reject, terrified at the idea of actually seeing battle. "We'll have them back to full rate of fire briefly, Sir."
"What's the hold up?!" Model was snarling now, though still glanced at his papers for the exactly location. The guns were near Driel – a town on the wrong side of the river, but crucial nonetheless.
"Uh, pegasi, Sir."
That gave Model pause. Were the Equestrians rushing the guns? He didn't think they could contend with the armed crews, but maybe if there were enough of them…
Colonel Derek continued, dispelling the thought. "A number of them were lightly injured by cannon blasts and forced to land. We're rounding them up, but there are over a hundred now, and some of my gunners are having to watch them."
The sheer idiocy of it caused Model to hesitate a moment, mind reeling. If men this incompetent were colonels, it was no wonder they were losing the war. His temper flared back hotter than ever as the man continued his rambling excuse.
"With pegasi, you know, we have to stop them from flying. Standard policy is to pinion them or break their wings, and I have a few men on that but we're getting two prisoners for every one they-"
"STOP! Stop, just stop!" Model roared, incredulous and enraged. He didn't have time for this. GERMANY didn't have time for this. If he survived the battle, Derek wouldn't be a colonel for long.
"Don't bother with prisoners, get those guns firing!" He had a million other things to do, and couldn't waste any more time with this idiot.
True to form, Derek completely missed the point. "What, do I just let them fly away?"
Embittered though they were by war, the staff hustling about the radio room gave pause at the damning words that followed.
"Shoot them, you idiot!" He was screaming now, red in the face and spittle flying from his mouth.
"Sir?"
No stomach for real war. "Shoot them or you'll explain it to the firing squad!"
"Y-yesir."
Model slammed down the receiver and stormed out. A stronger, better man would've refused him. Weak men like Derek would just carry it out, telling themselves that orders were orders. But Model didn't spare it another thought. There was a battle to fight.
A rumbling shook the floor. He glanced outside and smiled darkly, graced by the sight of several dozen SS panzers beginning to stream towards Arnhem. The British paratroopers might take the city, but they wouldn’t hold it for long.
Well. Maybe it isn't all bad. And Model was on the move once more.
September 18, 1944
"Sunoffa…ga…fu…"
Tex finished his stammering with a heartfelt "Dammit!" and kicked the side of the wrecked Sherman.
He wasn’t on the firing line, sure. But this entire attack was turning into a SNAFU and he was frustrated as Hell. The "highway" the ground forces were attacking down had turned out to be a two-lane strip of dirt. Traffic was backed up as far as he could see behind them, and before them stood God-knows how many Krauts.
Probably not that many, actually. A few hundred at a time had tried to make stands, but had been quickly swept aside by the mass of tanks. The last batch, though, had brought a few flak cannons to the party. The 88mm guns were even better at killing tanks then they were planes, resulting in several leading Shermans being knocked out. One of them right in the middle of the so-called “highway.”
Tex kicked the damn tank again.
Other vehicles were moving around it as best as they could, though the traffic jam sure wasn't getting smaller. Sergeant Phearson's detachment had been sent to clear the debris, but it was a friggin' tank! Nothing for them to do but call a tow truck and wait.
A lot of the Limey soldiers were shooting him dirty looks as they passed by. Any caught his eye, Tex flipped them the bird. YOU try clearing a thirty-ton wreck by yourselves, jerks.
One of the unicorns had at least tried to help: a white-coated dame accompanying a Limey company. Tex didn't think it was going to work – if unicorns could toss around tanks, this war would've been over by now. And he was right. She strained for a few minutes with her telekinesis, but only managed to shake the wreck and clog up the traffic even more. The officer with her company coughed meaningfully, and she was off after him with an apologetic shrug.
Voices on the other side of the wreck grabbed his attention. Tex stepped around to see two guys from their platoon harnessing a pony to it.
Tex snorted. Sure, the pony was the big, red one he met on the beaches. The goddamn enormous one, who apparently thought nothing of injuries that would disembowel anyone else. But shifting a tank? Yeah, right.
Of the two humans, this stunt seemed right up Fred's alley. The skinny little kid was slow in a 'dropped on his head' kind of way. But Big Lee Paulson? Physically the man was a rock, and Tex always figured he was a rock of common sense, too. Guess he was wrong.
Laughing, Tex climbed up the tank and stood atop the turret. He looked down at them, arms akimbo. "Lee, you are gonna give that pony an aneurism!"
"He says he can do it," the granite-faced soldier said with a shrug. "You got a better idea?"
"I think standing around seems like a better idea thanJESUS!"
Ignoring the conversation behind him, Big Macintosh began walking forward. Not heaving, not straining, just walking. He was putting some effort into it with his legs, but the tank was moving. It was moving SIDEWAYS, far faster than it had any right to. Tex wobbled and fell, catching himself on the bent cannon.
With the tank off the road, traffic once more resumed its steady march forward. Luckily, neither of the three others seemed inclined to let Tex have it for his mistake. Big Lee was giving him a 'you were saying?' smile, but the pony was content to ignore him. Fred was smiling and looking off to the side, spacing out.
Tex lowered himself gingerly from the tank and shook his head. Thirty tons. Just like that.
He eyed Macintosh and shook his head vigorously. There was something he really needed to do. He sprinted back to the platoon and found Applejack, trotting alongside the truck the humans were in.
"You can ride with the rest of us, you know," he offered with a wide smile, fumbling with his pack.
"Too stuffy," she grumbled.
Tex continued speaking very quickly. "You know, I've been thinking. I know I'm a jerk sometimes, it's just my personality. I just wanna say I like you just fine. You know all those pony jokes I made in France? I take them all back. You're good in my book. Here – it's chocolate. Peace offering. Sorry for everything."
He shoved a few Hershey's bars in Applejack's saddle bag. She nodded her thanks, but she wasn't an idiot. She knew the abrasive American didn't go around apologizing to people for no reason.
After a few awkward moments walking alongside her, Tex sighed. "Your brother is terrifying."
"Oh, that's the reason." She said it in a grumbling tone of voice, but her smile gave away her good humor.
September 19, 1944 Arnhem, Holland
"You're late!" Lt. Colonel John Frost barked at the newcomer. He regretted the outburst immediately – shouting didn't do either of them any good. Besides, the whole army was late. Why yell at her?
The rainbow-maned pegasus had sat down the moment she came in, using the short reprieve for all it was worth. "Oh will you just give me the message?" she snapped back. "Things haven't been great on our end, either."
Frost would bet his soul things looked worse for his paratroopers than the Cloud Kickers, but he didn't have the will to argue. His radios didn't survive the trip down, leaving him reliant on pegasi messengers to connect him to the rest of the army. It wasn't something they were originally supposed to do, but Soarin managed to shake a few loose for him. A lot was being asked of them already, and the strain was starting to show. Bags were under this one's eyes, and her wings were drooped to the ground.
Not that he disliked Equestrians, but Frost didn't trust the tired pegasus to accurately convey a message. He motioned to an aide to take notes as he spoke.
"My brigade has taken Arnhem, and we hold the bridge," he began, giving the single piece of good news he had to convey. "The First Airborne Corps has performed exemplary given the situation, but reinforcements have not been able to reach us. German forces have begun to launch strong counterattacks, including heavy armor."
"…Underline those last words will you, Jeff?" He added in a softer voice, talking to his aide. "Christ, nobody said anything about tanks in the briefing..."
Frost shook his head and continued. "The perimeter is largely intact, but we are running short of all supplies. German tanks have overrun our drop zones, please make future supply drops onto Arnhem itself. The situation is not yet critical, but will only deteriorate if our position remains isolated…"
"Er, Jeff, it's the Poles that landed just south of the river, right?"
"Yesir."
"Thank you." Frost cleared his throat. "Erhem, in addition to the change in drop zones, I ask that the Polish 1st Parachute Brigade be released to reinforce us. Also, I request some pegasi to be placed under my command to act as local aerial recon."
He turned to ask the pegasus her opinion, but saw that she was fast asleep, snoring quietly.
With a small frown, Frost leaned in to shake her awake. He was a tough soldier, but a gentle soul. There’s nothing he would’ve loved more than to give the overworked Equestrian girl time to recover.
But there was no time, no time at all.
September 20, 1944
As strange as humans were to Soarin, Sosabowski was the strangest of all. Every other human he talked to over the last four days was locked in a frenzy of activity. Even those idling on the road were screaming orders, cursing, and frantically trying to speed the advance. There were a lot of delays, and many yelled at Soarin like it was his fault.
Since the offensive began, a dozen new responsibilities had been heaped on the pegasi: recon, relaying messages, traffic control, even cloud clearing in Britain for supply planes. He handled them as best as he could, but the exhausted Cloud Kickers were starting to fall down on the job. Such was the workload that a quarter of his pegasi had toiled through the night to ready the weather for the dawn.
They slept the next day, obviously, but one British officer wasn't so understanding. "Sleep?!" He had roared. "Brave men are cut off at Arnhem, and you ponies want to sleep?!"
It stung Soarin, but what could he do? He frantically wrote Princess Celestia, asking her to send pegasi from other parts of the front. But there was no telling when they would arrive.
And in the midst of all this panic, it came to the Cloud Kickers to tell the Poles the boats they needed to reinforce Arnhem were stuck somewhere in the sprawling traffic jam. Soarin opted to bring the message himself, hoping their personal relationship would shield him from Sosabowski's inevitable rage.
Instead, the man shrugged. One hand was casually in his pocket, the other produced a carton of cigarettes. "Smoke?"
"N-no." Soarin shook his head, looking away. "The boats might not come too soon, either. The Americans need them first to take the next bridge south. It's still strongly held, so they'll try to come at it from both sides."
"Hm." The Pole shrugged again. "When are they attacking?"
Soarin sighed, feeling the strain of the last few days pushing him down. "It was supposed to be tonight, but they're still trying to get the boats up the road. Tomorrow morning, we think."
He stomped a hoof on the ground with a sudden burst of anger. The frustration at the stalled offensive was getting to him, too. "That human, that American colonel, he cursed me out when I told him about the holdup! I'm doing the best I can, but I'm getting sick of people yelling at me for things that aren't my fault!"
Sosabowski gave a harsh laugh. "Ah, the bastard Westerners. First in line for the credit, last in line for the blame. Don't take it personally. They're just lashing out."
"So what makes you so different?" Soarin asked, glancing at him through the corner of his eye. Sosabowski was friendlier to him than he was to humans, Soarin had learned that by now. It was worth a shot to learn a little more about the man.
The Pole shrugged again, lighting a cigarette for himself. "Eh? Maybe I just don't have the energy for it, anymore. Getting in a panic over things you can't change is just a waste of time. I've learned to force myself to relax. I'm almost as cut off at the British in Arnhem are. If those panzers overrun them up north, my position is next in line. But what can I do about it? Nothing. The boats are late, and a lot of those boys are going to die because I can't reach them. But what can I do about it? Nothing. So I make sure I've done all I can, then I settle back and have a smoke. You should try it, it's relaxing."
Soarin ignored the cajoling. "Well…thanks for understanding."
"The attack is already fifty hours behind schedule," Sosabowski muttered, glancing at his watch. "What's another ten?"
He managed to keep his nonchalant attitude until Soarin left. My men found the Driel killing fields. But you've got enough on your mind right now.
The chatter of nearby machine guns drew his attention back to his own men. The battle was on over here, too.
September 21, 1944
“Out of ammo. God save the king."
-Note found on a pegasus casualty outside of Arnhem, bearing the signature of Lt. Colonel John Frost.
September 22, 1944
"How they doing?"
Soarin shook his head at the question. Neither of the two pegasi had the endurance left for extended flying, but they forced themselves into the air to watch the night battle unfold.
"Not good at all, Rainbow Dash. Not good at all. You know what the crazy thing is? Those aren't Germans. That's pro-Fascist Dutch down there, fighting them off."
He and the cyan pegasus watched the moonlight scene below them. The boats had finally arrived, and the Poles made their move that very night. But it was too little, too late. The SS panzers were grinding the Arnhem defenders into paste. The Allies held most of the highway, but the Germans were in the countryside on either side. They were counterattacking with abandon, throwing the logistics into even more disarray. More and more troops were being peeled off from the offensive to guard the line of supply. On the other hand, more and more Germans were arriving to strengthen the resistance. The army was one mile from Arnhem, just one mile! Rainbow Dash could TASTE it – breakthrough, victory, a swift end to the war. But it was one mile too far. The allies were stalemated outside the town, and weren’t getting any closer.
More than enough Germans and Axis-Dutch had arrived to contest the river as well. Somewhere down there, Sosabowski was shouting profanities and working in a frenzy to make the doomed offensive succeed. For all his friendliness towards Soarin, the man was a roaring volcano when the shooting began. Machine guns were raking the Polish boats as they tried to move forward, sinking some and casting corpses into the water. None had even made it halfway when the Poles gave up. The fight lasted under an hour. Some might say Sosabowski called it too early, but for the men resting below the water, it was far too late.
Rainbow somehow still had the energy to be angry. She looped twice quickly in the air, groaning in frustration. "So, why the hay didn't we give them cloud cover? I heard that mustached guy ask you for it!"
Soarin glanced back with resignation at the waxed moon. "Couldn't get enough pegasi together in time."
"Dang it. DANG IT!" Rainbow ground her front hooves together. "We're THIS close. What am I gonna tell Frost?"
September 24, 1944 Arnhem, Holland
"One mile," Frost rasped as loudly as he could manage. His throat was sore from too much shouting and not enough water. "One mile, one bridge. Is that really too far?"
Tired as she was herself, Rainbow Dash was sympathetic. She could fly out of Arnhem. Lt. Colonel Frost and his men…not so much.
Things hadn't gotten any better. The Poles had made another attempt to cross, but it was beaten back even more easily than the first. The front line was going backwards. Backwards! German heavy armor was arriving in force, and Allied commanders were now more worried about defending their gains than relieving Frost and his men.
"I can't hold out any longer!" Frost slumped in his chair, despair weighing down every limb. "They told us relief would come in two days. Two! It's been eight! We're at rock bottom, Rainbow Dash. No food, ammo, medical supplies, nothing."
He groaned loudly – an elongated, exhausted gesture of anger. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry, you know all this already. H-how's the rest of the First Airborne doing?"
Most of the First weren't able to reach Arnhem before being bogged down by German resistance. They were on the wrong side of the river too, cut off and struggling to stay alive. Still…
"Better than you," Rainbow admitted, though the words seemed to lift Frost's spirits a little. "Bad, but they've got their backs to the river."
Rainbow took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "…Tomorrow night they're going to evacuate. The Poles are going to launch another raid, but it'll just be a diversion this time. The First's wounded are going to hold the perimeter while the rest cross to the Allied side of the river."
"So we've well and truly failed then," Frost rested his face in his hand. "And us in Arnhem are well and truly doomed."
There was no question of Frost's men leaving with the rest. The Germans had retaken most of Arnhem, and his battalion was square in the middle of it. They still clung grimly to the north end of the bridge, staring down panzers with empty rifles. One more day, maybe two, then it would be all over.
Frost felt a fuzzy limb push his hand from his head. He opened his eyes to see the pony staring right at him, inches away. Her large, maroon eyes were tired, but they radiated heartfelt concern.
It was a bit too close for comfort. Frost felt his cheeks flush a little and leaned away from her. She kept that same, serious gaze on him.
"Listen," Rainbow said. "I'll be back tomorrow night with as many pegasi as I can round up. We'll ferry you guys out as best as we can."
Frost shook his head and smiled sadly. "I think it's too late for that. I need to keep my men on the perimeter, or the Germans will know something's up. There are so few of us left, I'd only be able to sneak back maybe sixty to be evacuated."
"Then we'll rescue those sixty." Rainbow Dash countered his despair with unwavering determination. "It's more than zero."
Frost smiled gently back at her. A night evacuation would be extremely dangerous for the pegasi involved, but here she was, the first in line to help total strangers. Somehow, it helped to know there were people like that in this army. It relit the flame of resolve that had waned in his heart – he would fight until he could fight no more, then surrender with head held high. A mission like the one she proposed…
"I doubt we'll even last to tomorrow night," he said with a chuckle. "And if we don't, you'd just fly right into Jerry's arms. Thank you, but don't return."
September 25, 1944
The perimeter had shrunk to a tiny ring around the bridge, and half the men he had yesterday were dead or captured. But somehow Frost had held on one more day, clinging to the last shred of hope that the ground forces would break through to him.
It hadn't happened, of course. Frost went to bed exhausted, knowing that tomorrow he would sleep on a train to a POW camp. That, or with the angels above.
Instead, Jeff awoke him scarcely an hour later with word that twenty pegasi had swooped down under the cover of darkness and wanted to talk to him.
Frost stormed out of his headquarters and was greeted by the most exhausted, battered Equestrians he had ever laid eyes on. But there was tired determination in their eyes as they looked back at him.
Tired determination, and a scrap of smirking defiance in one pony with rainbow hair.
"I told you not to come back," Frost groaned, but relief was showing on his face. So long as they were here, he wasn't about to turn down a ride out. "What if the Germans had overrun us and were waiting for you instead?"
"Eh, I figured you had already held out eight days, what’s one more? Besides, I don't take orders from you." Rainbow Dash tossed back her filthy hair and allowed another pony to strap a hammock-like sling to her. "It'll be a bumpy ride, but it's better than getting shot. Round up as many men as you can."
The site erupted into a quiet flurry of activity, Soarin calling out orders and directing the evacuation. "Come on, Cloud Kickers. One more mission, then we can put this all behind us."
Going into Market-Garden, decisions were made based on optimism and preconceptions rather than sound judgment. Reports of enemy tanks in the area were ignored or actively suppressed by leading officers. No one scouted the highway to ensure it could support the advance, and information passed by the Dutch Resistance was routinely ignored. The attack still came very close to breaking the weakened Germans, but it also came very close to being a disaster. With lightly-armed paratroopers against heavy armor, it was only through heroic action that the British Airborne Corps wasn't utterly destroyed.
Montgomery's conduct following the defeat was the subject of significant controversy. Publicly, Montgomery lauded his brainchild, calling it "90% successful." This was sheer spin-doctoring – the operation’s goal was to win the war, and it failed. The territory taken proved unimportant.
When pressed, Monty bizarrely blamed the battle's failures on two of the smallest forces involved: The Poles and the Cloud Kickers. He harshly criticized the former as unwilling to exert effort to support the beleaguered British Airborne, needing everything "their way" first, and then tepid and cautious once their needs were finally met. The list against the Cloud Kickers was even longer. Of Soarin, he said, "The pony frittered away his assets. The pegasi were absent when we needed them, present when we didn't. After the operation began, no more than a handful of exhausted fliers could ever be gathered in one place. The rest were always on meaningless errands somewhere unimportant. Soarin is an inadequate replacement Captain, and I wouldn't trust him to oversee another major operation."
Stung by the criticism and shaken by news of the Driel Massacre, Soarin immediately offered his resignation to Princess Celestia. She sent him on leave, but declined his request to resign. Of Montgomery, she confided that, "He has his own rank to worry about."
Despite Celestia's comment and some of his peers' private feelings, Montgomery retained his rank. Churchill detested him, but had no better option, and the diplomatic Eisenhower wasn't interested in persecuting a popular and skilled leader. With general hard feelings all around, the Allies settled in for the winter. Although victory had eluded them, they were confident that 1945 would see them crush the flagging Germans once and for all.
Author's Note
The opening quote is from the 1977 film, "A Bridge Too Far." While not 100% accurate, it does well show the failures and victories of the operation. Also, Sean Connery looks dead sexy in a red beret.
As a side note, historically, Frost and his command were crushed, with him and the survivors made prisoners until the war's end. But they didn't have pegasi to help bail them out, making this sorta the first "real" divergence from history.
Thanks for reading.
-Dan
--Snapshot - Gods and Generals
”It is a mistake to equate kindness with weakness. A people do not have to be cruel to be tough.”
-Franklin Delano Roosevelt, US President
Not even Princess Celestia knew what to expect when she joined the ranks of the Allied commanders. It had been a very long time since she led others into battle, and the conflicts she knew bore no resemblance to this war of bombers and blitzkriegs. Nor did she have great insight into the minds of her new peers. Would the human generals throw the lives of her ponies away? Would they be treated like beasts? Either way, she owed it to her subjects to lead them herself. To not sit safe in Canterlot while they bled for their beliefs.
When she announced her intention to lead on the battlefield, Celestia learned that she was not the only one with reservations. Eisenhower met with unanimous opposition when he brought the subject up to his generals. They knew nothing of her. Would she be a strange, demanding goddess? A bully queen? A silly princess? And how could they ask their soldiers to be led by a pony?
A compromise was eventually reached, though the deal heavily favored the humans. It was agreed that she have authority, but would only be the commanding officer of her own people. Equestrians, however, tended to serve specialist roles. As such they were divided among the myriad Allied divisions, putting Celestia in direct command of very little.
A few ponies were furious over the perceived insult, Luna most of all. Ruling Equestria in her sister’s absence, she flew directly to Britain to berate her sister for being sidelined so easily. The two wrote back-and-forth on the subject for months, Celestia’s views well-summarized in the excerpt below:
”It is simpler than you and they are making it out to be. There are two truths about trust: It cannot be forced, and it begins unilaterally. I will be the first. I will accept their leadership and show them my measure. I will be a dutiful soldier, learn all I can, and hope that they come to trust me back.
Perhaps you’re right, and THEY should accept orders from ME. I can believe it is so, argue the point, even stop the sun until they agree. Or, brick by brick, I can tear down the wall between us. I choose harmony.”
A general without an army, Princess Celestia became a frequent sight in Eisenhower’s headquarters. The first thing she learned was that the internal diplomacy hardly started and stopped with her own case. Montgomery and Patton were both skilled, dynamic leaders who had all the answers and everyone else should just shut up and agree with them. And they hated each other, doing much to flare the American-British rivalry. Not unlike Eisenhower, Celestia found herself in the role of diplomat as often as soldier, smoothing out bruised egos and keeping the army from pulling itself apart.
One of the closest friends she made in those years was General Omar Bradley, a sad-eyed man of fifty who led the 1st US Army. Perhaps correctly described by Montgomery as “Polite, dutiful, and dull,” he was not a great general, but he was not a bad one either. Although initially skeptical of an alicorn leading human troops, Bradley came to genuinely like Princess Celestia. The two had similar personalities and a similar opinion of war: war was nasty, ugly business to be concluded with as few losses as possible. Celestia had lived for centuries, and knew full well the “glory” of battle was fleeting. In Bradley she found a human who understood this, and was willing to work with her, listen to her, and even teach her when she was found lacking.
Professionally, Bradley appreciated her perspective. As Eisenhower’s right hand pony, Celestia had a sense of the big picture and what everyone’s role in it was. Personally, he enjoyed her presence for the same reason she enjoyed his: another voice more interested in quiet conversation than loud-hailing one’s own virtues. She was also someone to whom he could safely rant when his frustrations with “those damn prima donnas” [Patton and Montgomery] reached a boiling point.
In post-war years, Eisenhower was asked by a reporter to summarize Celestia’s leadership in one word. He chose “reliable.” Her wings let her go wherever dispatched in moments, taking command of a position, relaying orders from the top, or assessing the situation. She would do these and return, unfailing, ungrumbling, never inventing excuses or claiming glory. Her reports were concise and accurate. When she ordered men, she spoke without flowery words or preamble. And when she led them to failure, she flew back and informed Eisenhower without dispensing blame.
In December of 1944, the Germans launched a winter assault that would later be known as the Battle of the Bulge. During this time, Princess Celestia was briefly entrusted with leadership of the 1st and 9th US Armies and ordered to stem the tide. It was a massive responsibility, and a sure sign that the trust she showed was at long last returned.
Chapter 7: Warlocks in Winter (Part 1)
"Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Colonel. See you in Canterlot!"
-Anonymous soldier to Col. Joachim Peiper, 1st SS Division
December 16, 1944
"Soldiers, our hour has arrived. We are part of the army launching a major offensive against the Anglo-American-Equestrians. Do your duty to the absolute best of your ability, for we gamble everything. Germany gambles everything. You have your orders – nothing more need be said."
Colonel Peiper's speech was crisp and professional. No excessive words or gestures, just a green light and a blunt reminder of the stakes. His men didn't need anything else. They were Waffen-SS: the best of the best, warriors first, everything else second. They knew his measure, and he knew theirs. Speeches were for politicians.
Which was good, because he didn't have time for a speech. As panzers and halftracks gunned to life, he mentally cursed every moment lost. The German army had massed in secret, hidden by the winter overcast. As soon as the Allies realized the threat, pegasi would clear the sky and the bombers would be right behind them. Peiper and the rest of the assault would have to move fast. Their target was the major port of Antwerp: a distant hope and desperate throw of the cards. If this was going to work, they had to move, move, move.
And Peiper was going to make it work. No matter what.
His command car had barely left the start point when it was forced to stop in an unwieldy traffic jam. The Americans in the area were surprised and overwhelmed, but a few had made a fight of it along this road. One of the precious King Tiger panzers had been immobilized by grenades. The steel behemoths were irreplaceable, but it was being towed to the side to be left behind. Proper repairs would take time. Time was not something they had.
It was almost an hour before the column was moving again. Peiper cursed and glanced upwards, almost expecting the pegasi to already be at work.
'See you in Canterlot,' he mused at the private's optimistic words. Hmph. If we reach Canterlot, it'll be as prisoners. But what else can I do?
The men knew their mission, so he had few orders to give. Nothing to be done but make sure no time was wasted.
December 17, 1944
"Look Applejack, all I'm saying is don't knock it before you've tried it."
The addressed pony spat into the snow by the roadside. "And all ah'm sayin' is those two unicorns couldn't make decent cider if their lives depended on it. 'Flim and Flam,' mah Putooty, more like, 'Fib and Fudge.'"
The road was hard, but snowed under in so many places the truck column was advancing at a crawl. Applejack always walked, disdaining the cramped transports. Today the rest of her platoon took advantage of the slow pace to walk alongside her.
…'Her' platoon? Applejack accepted the affiliation with a mental shrug. This far away from home, they were the only friends, allies, or family she could count on. Pear-shaped, curmudgeonly Sergeant Manny. Nervous Corporal Jackie. The excitable poser Tex. Big Lee, like a jollier, human Big Macintosh. And Fred, who reminded her so much of Derpy: Strange diet (the boy only ate crackers and Cola), klutzy, silly, and intensely lovable. There was her brother here too, and a few others. They hadn't seen real combat since D-Day – the soldiers and ponies were attached as muscle for some high-IQ engineers. But they were all a long way from home, and combat or no, they were something of a family.
Family was allowed to fight sometimes. Tex pointedly took a loud slurp of his canned cider. "Yeesh, someone's a sour apple today. And here I was about to compliment you Equestrians on your drinks. I never had anything this good back in Houston."
"Y'all Americans wouldn't know a good drink if yah bathed in it," Applejack shot back. "What with all that 'Coca Cola' yah drink, ah swear there's enough sugar in it to put even Pinkie Pie under."
She smiled and glanced away, thinking of her friends who stayed in Equestria. Maybe Pinkie and Fluttershy were the smart ones.
Thoughts of home put a weird idea in her head, and she ran with it. "Anyway, after this is all done y'all come over mah farm and Ah'll show yah what real, hoof-made cider tastes like. Ah swear, you won't wanna go back."
"I seem to recall that humans aren't allowed in Equestria," Jackie chimed in, dropping back a pace to walk even with her.
"Yeah, but…" Applejack mused on it a moment and shrugged. "Equestria never goes to war neither, but here we are. Ah reckon a lot of things are gonna be changing before too long."
"Eeyup." Big Macintosh nodded solemnly.
Lee Paulson matched his nod. "You said it, brother."
The next few seconds were surreal. Applejack opened her mouth to respond, but before the first syllable was out a high pitched whine buzzed in her ears. Her flank felt hot and her hind legs were pushed forwards. She slammed hard on her rump and tumbled into Manny. The pair collapsed in a heap. Facing backwards, Applejack saw the truck behind them finish exploding.
Tex was down with what used to be part of the truck's hood between his shoulder blades. Fred – fool’s luck – was still standing somehow, though Jackie quickly yanked him down to a lying position. Jackie was screaming something that might have been "take cover," but Applejack could barely make it out over the buzzing in her ears. Her vision swam in and out of focus.
Applejack crouched and shut her eyes, trying to regain her senses. That dang buzzing was blotting everything else out. She could hear shouted voices at the barest edge of her perception, but it was like she was under water. Her head kept drooping to the right. The typewriter kept clattering. Granny Smith was saying it was time for-
Typewriter? Granny Smith?
Applejack shook her head violently, chasing away the confused dreams. She ground her teeth, forcing herself from the edge of unconsciousness through sheer willpower. But that typewriter still kept going…
"Machine guns," she growled, opening her eyes. She was still dizzy and shaken, but damned if she was going to lie down just when things got dangerous.
She stared at the ground for a moment, willing her vision back into focus. When she looked up, Applejack wondered if she was still addled. Snow drifts were ambling towards them from the side of the road…no, not snow drifts. German vehicles wrapped in white canvas for camouflage, pulling up just close enough to pound them without fear of retaliation. Half-tracks were raking the column with machine gun fire, while panzers belched payloads that were sending trucks flying into the air.
Paulson and Manny were already shooting back, but it was a ridiculous mismatch. They were third-line soldiers without any heavy weapons. Terrified men and ponies crouched at the lip of the road and behind trucks, seizing what cover they could. The snowy fields behind them offered no chance of a hidden escape.
White-coated German soldiers were emerging from the halftracks. Seeing a target he could actually fight, Jackie stood and raised his rifle to his shoulder, squeezing off shots.
"Paulson, yank him down!" Manny roared directly next to Applejack's ear. The buzzing was dying down, letting her at least hear the shouting. Fortunately, everyone was shouting.
Big Lee caught Manny's gaze and shrugged. "Sorry, Sir. Deaf as a stone."
"Will someone tackle that dumb-"
A mass of red fur engulfed Jackie, sending him sprawling to the ground. Good ol' Macintosh.
"Good man, Mac!" Manny shouted. "Everyone, get the Hell down! Get your damn heads down!"
Applejack needed no second bidding. Ignoring the chill, she pressed herself down into the snow. It was deep enough to cover her nose and freezing cold.
She scrunched her eyes closed, gritting her teeth as a shell whizzed directly overhead. Not deep enough.
The armored fire slackened as abruptly as it started. Without introduction or ceremony, a lone German strode out from their line and marched forwards. He was bold as brass, walking erect, not even bothering with a flag of truce. Not one of the shell-shocked Americans shot at him.
"I am Colonel Joachim Peiper," He shouted without preamble. Applejack raised her head to peer curiously at him. His voice was a little too high pitched, and he spoke with haste. For a man in complete control of the situation, this Peiper almost sounded…scared.
"You have fought well, and may now surrender with honor."
The man was as abrupt as he was a liar. 'Fought well,' nothing, they had barely fought at all. The man was spouting clichés.
"Sergeant…" Applejack turned to him.
Manny shook his head, turning to the oldest dodge in the book. "It's the lieutenant's call. Where is he?"
"He was in the truck behind us." Applejack was grateful their hearing had returned enough to say the words with low respect.
"Ah, dammit." Manny shook his head again and raised his head above the road lip. "I speak for these men! What are your terms?"
"Surrender now and be treated as honorable prisoners of war. Resist and we will kill you to the last. You have five minutes!"
Applejack swallowed, feeling a lump rise to her throat. This Peiper didn't mess around.
"Dammit," Manny seethed, settling back behind the lip. Applejack look steadily at him, wondering what the old human would do. He didn't back down easily, that she knew. She'd seen him pick brawls with men twice his size.
But this was something completely different, this was pride weighed against inevitable, futile death. He looked pained and afraid, two looks Applejack had never seen on him. Manny was looking around quietly, searching for any kind of escape, any kind of chance. His eyes met Applejack's for a moment, but they quickly darted away.
"We ain't surrendering, are we?" A familiar, nasally voice came from a few feet down. Tex was hunched over with Fred pressing gauze to his back. Applejack did a double-take: she thought he was dead when the shrapnel hit him. But then again, she thought there was a typewriter involved somehow, too.
Tex quailed as Manny looked at him, not happy at all to see his officer so shaken.
"Well," Manny said quietly. "I'm open to suggestions."
Applejack wished she had one. Resist, and the Germans simply bombard them to paste. Flee or charge and pretty much the same thing happens. Which left…
After a moment, the sergeant shook his head. "Yeah, I didn't think so."
The decision made, Manny stood up squarely. If duty called him to surrender, then he'd do it like a man. Looking out for everyone under his command. And every pony.
"One question!" He shouted back to the German, and was rewarded with a tremor of agitation from the SS Colonel. "We've got Equestrians with us."
Peiper paused a moment before answering. "Any unicorns?"
"Nope, just a few earth ponies." Manny shook his head, and gave a harsh laugh. "Sorry, no 'warlocks' for you."
"Fine, fine!" the German ignored the jibe in favor of moving the conversation forwards. "There's no problem."
Applejack beamed with pride at Manny, knowing where he was taking this. She doubted there were many humans who could control the discussion while surrendering, but Manny was built as stern as they came.
"We know what happens to Equestrians who end up in Germany!" the sergeant boomed. "I want all the folks under my command to get a square deal, men and ponies and what-have-you."
"Done," the German shot back. "You'll all be treated in the same fashion: with honor, so long as you cooperate. Disarm your men and prepare to march. Any delays will be met with harsh punishment."
And that was that. "Drop your guns, boys," Manny grumbled loudly. "This Kraut ain't fooling around."
There were a few half-hearted complaints, but most disarmed with a will. Applejack felt herself flush. It was embarrassing how quickly they folded. They weren't the best of the best, but they were still soldiers. Give them good ground, good support, and she'd bet the farm her platoon wouldn't do badly for themselves.
Jackie jammed his rifle savagely into the ground, muzzle first. His face was contorted in rage, and tears came from his eyes as he lifted the weapon and slammed it down again. No help for it.
They had barely fought, barely even slowed the enemy down. But what was there to do? Peiper gave them a choice: surrender now, or die. Not just die, but die totally in vain, without a hope of success or even of damaging the enemy. It would've been senseless. Manny made the right decision when he gave the order to stand down.
Knowing that didn't make her feel any better. Applejack fought back tears as German soldiers herded them into a column. Some American soldiers were crying openly, others were furiously clutching their fists.
Problems began almost immediately as they began walking. The Germans were anxious and berated them often, accusing the trudging prisoners of intentionally moving slowly. Tex was keeping up as best as he could, but he was still winded from his injury. Soon he was panting and staggering.
"Keep him moving!" A German warned in stilted English. "If you don't…"
He mimed a pistol shot with one finger.
"Tell that guy to go suck a lemon," Tex grunted, doubling over to catch his breath.
Several willing hands reached to help him along, but one voice offered the easiest solution. "Hop on my back."
Tex looked up to see Applejack next to him. She wasn't a big pony. He'd have to keep his feet raised or they'd drag along the ground. But it was a better idea than dying.
Applejack repeated the offer, but she wasn't looking at him. Tex had a nervous, fragile pride, and probably didn't want to be looked at right now. Might as well let him down easy.
Helped by Paulson, Tex gingerly climbed up. Applejack began walking at a slow pace, mindful of her wounded cargo.
It was several minutes before he spoke. "Funny, AJ, an hour ago we were talking about cider. Now…"
He didn't finish the sentence. She didn't want him to, either.
December 19, 1944
Bastogne.
The place sounded like a fortress. General Anthony McAuliffe hoped that was a good sign, because it better be as defendable as one.
He was coming into town at the head of a battalion of speeding trucks, each one skidding through ice and snow to reach it before the Germans did. It had taken far too long, but the Allied leaders were now fully aware that a major assault was emerging from the Ardennes. Maybe it was too late. The Germans were already solidly in their flank, and turning Eisenhower's unwieldy army would take time.
Everything they could grab on short notice was being thrown forward in a bid to stall the enemy. That would mean holding the important crossroads. The town of Weiler had already fallen. St. Vith was barely holding on. Bastogne, the biggest and most important of all the crossroads, was almost surrounded.
That "almost" let McAuliffe and a fair chunk of the 101st Airborne squeak in there one step ahead of the Germans.
Maybe that meant they were lucky, but McAuliffe – now surrounded by at least two panzer divisions – wasn’t feeling very lucky. He was a sacrifice bunt and he knew it. His ad hoc force was there to hang the Germans up for a while, then go down swinging.
He'd been told the town was defended by an artillery battalion, a light tank battalion, and remnants of units that had already been chewed up by the Germans. Given the way things had been going, most of that force was probably destroyed by now.
"They want me to die for a dang refugee camp," he had grumbled on the way here.
Yet as he finally laid eyes on Bastogne, McAuliffe grudgingly admitted he was impressed. The hamlet he passed through on the way in was fortified to the gunwales. The outskirts of Bastogne itself were even better prepared. Every man on duty was in a trench or foxhole, and every strongpoint held heavy machine guns in prime positions. Nigh-invisible anti-tank guns poked out of snowbanks, positioned to shoot at vulnerable sides and flanks of advancing tanks.
The streets of Bastogne itself were clear of everything but military vehicles, and concrete slabs lay to the side for rapid road-blocking. Some buildings had been reinforced, others had been bulldozed to provide better lanes of fire. A tiny airfield had been built in a field next to town, ringed by several observation towers. Far from the disorganized survivors he expected, the soldiers McAuliffe saw were in a frenzy of activity making the formidable defenses even stronger.
A pegasus directed the traffic, detouring him directly to their leader's headquarters. The papers in McAuliffe's pocket were clear: he was in command now, though he had to admit the man already here had done a damn fine job of things.
That man happened to be one Colonel Beckett, a balding man with a tired smile. He read McAuliffe's papers and saluted. "Happy to have you, Sir."
"Happy to be here," the general respond, more enthusiastically than he expected. Beckett had set up shop in the old town hall, and had made it as fine a headquarters as McAuliffe had ever seen. "Give me the low-down."
Beckett's strategy was solid: the Americans had turned all the villages around Bastogne into fortresses and refused to yield any of them. When one was threatened, he used the road network to funnel in as many reinforcements as the defenders needed. Once the attack petered out, the Americans simply withdrew to their starting positions and awaited the next blow. With the crossroads in Allied hands, the Germans could only fight as scattered units. The defenders could fight as one.
A good plan, but… "Ain't they hitting the roads with artillery?"
Beckett smiled as if he anticipated the question and pointed to a patch of raised ground. "That hill is the only position that overlooks the town, and we hold it with our own artillery. It's isolated, but any time the Germans come at them they shell the road until the Krauts fall back."
"Nice," McAuliffe noted. Beckett deserves to be a lot more than just a colonel. "With two German panzer divisions out there, I take it your armored battalion is dead and gone?"
It was a fair question: American and British tanks could never stand up to their German counterparts in a fair fight. But once more, the general had misjudged.
"Quite intact, actually." Beckett smiled again. "Thanks to interior lines and the good speed of our tanks, we've been able to stalemate the Germans with raids and flank attacks. When their heavy panzers get sorted out to hit us back, our tanks simply retreat and avoid the worst of it."
McAuliffe actually laughed at that, feeling his spirits rise. He slapped a solid hand on Beckett's back. "You've made bricks without straw, my friend. A little bit of this and that, and you've held up the biggest Kraut offensive since Falaise."
"Actually…" Beckett's smile grew a little self-conscious. He hesitated long enough to get the other's attention. "The credit doesn't really rest with me. When the Krauts first hit us, I was like a chicken with my head cut off before Miss Sparkle got our defense sorted out."
"McSparkle? Who the heck is that?" McAuliffe laughed again, picturing some kilt-wearing Scotsman with a sparkler. "Show him to me."
Beckett nodded and walked to one of the side rooms. He was rightfully embarrassed, but the truth had to come out sooner or later.
The general's smile froze on his face as the door opened. Some bureaucrat's office had been turned into a war room, with maps and lists pinned to the walls and stretched across tables. A teakettle piped happily on a burner in one corner. A half-dozen objects were encased in a purple magic aura and flittered about the room - a crayon drew an arrow on a map, a pencil scratched a line off a list, a red pin was being fitted according to some code…
And amidst it all stood a pony . A short, purple little pony with her attention fixed on a sheet of paper hovering before her nose.
"No, no, no," she tutted into a radio receiver. "Don't blow the bridge, that'll hurt you worse than the Germans. Just finish the trench for now…hm, yes?"
She hung up the receiver and looked up, taking the soldiers in with those big, pony eyes. "Hi, Joe! Who is this?"
It was a good thing her first words were to Joseph Beckett, as his new commander was still gawking. "Miss Sparkle, this is General Anthony McAuliffe of the 101st Airborne, and my new commanding officer. General, Sir, this is Twilight Sparkle, protégé of Princess Celestia and Grand Genius of Bastogne."
Twilight's purple cheeks darkened a little with a blush. "Oh, come on, Colonel, don't make my head big. Anyway, I'm pleased to meet you, Anthony."
She smiled genially at him. McAuliffe managed to close his mouth and gave a tight nod in response.
A paper floated over and deposited itself in his hand. "Here," Twilight said. "This is a listing of everything we've got available here, not including the soldiers who came with you. I think I know exactly where we can put the newcomers to do the most-"
"Thanks, thanks," McAuliffe cut her off abruptly. "Uh, you gotta give me a minute. Me and Beckett got something important to talk about. Outside."
He gently elbowed the colonel in the ribs. Beckett took the hint in an instant, nodding his head and stepping out of the room. The dutiful colonel managed to get the door closed an instant before his superior exploded.
"What in tarnation are you thinking, Beckett?!!" McAuliffe yelled. Another man in his shoes would be cursing up a storm, but that wasn't how he was raised. Didn't make him any less angry, though.
"A PURPLE. PONY. GIRL ! And you're letting her command American troops! What in God's name is the matter with you?"
Beckett closed his eyes and responded conservatively. "She is not commanding American troops, she is acting as an advisor. I am in command and I am duly delegating her tasks that-"
McAuliffe was a forthright man, unfortunately, and the roundabout defense only incensed him. "Don't ring around the rosy with me, Beckett! I heard her on the phone, she's giving orders, isn't she? To American soldiers, isn't she?"
"Well, yes, but-"
"Then it sounds an awful lot like she's commanding American soldiers then, right?!"
Beckett was taking a step back, hands raised placatingly. "Sir, please understand. Three days ago I was eighth in command. Now I'm in charge of everything and-"
"Aw, man up!" The general roared. "Gee, if all those good plans are her idea, she might as well be in charge!"
"Would that be such a bad thing?" Twilight's voice came from the other side of the door. It was muffled through the wood, but the frosty tone was clearly audible.
Both men grimaced. It was hardly a surprise that she had heard them from the other side, but McAuliffe hadn't meant to get so…loud.
"Want me to go talk to her?" Beckett muttered.
McAuliffle chuckled ruefully and opened the door, his respect for the man returning. If nothing else, Beckett was dutiful. "Nah. I can reap my own whirlwind."
Twilight looked miffed, not that he blamed her. She had perched on a chair in a human-like sitting position, forelegs crossed in front and eyes narrowed. McAuliffe swallowed, embarrassment rapidly winning out over anger.
He scratched the back of his head. "Look, Sweetheart, me and-"
"'Sweetheart?'" She snapped back. "Really? No offense, but you're not my Special Somepony, so please stick with 'Twilight Sparkle.'"
Great, now I'm being henpecked, he thought ruefully. "Sorry, Miss Sparkle. No need to get hostile."
The concession didn't appease her at all. "Like how you just were with Beckett? The whole place could probably hear you ripping into him for taking help from a-"
Twilight lowered her voice to poorly impersonate the general. "PURPLE. PONY. GIRL. "
Anthony groaned, completely backfooted. Pa had raised him to be chivalrous to ladies, but no ladies had ever gotten in his face quite like this.
He rallied the best way he knew how: keeping it simple. "I meant no offense, Miss Sparkle. I was tearing into Backett for…breaking the chain of command. Letting civilians command soldiers, and all that. It's not proper."
"Oh. Well then, there's no problem." Twilight smiled very sweetly at him, though McAuliffe wondered if she was just being passive-aggressive. "I'm a Sub-Captain of the Equestrian Expeditionary Force. The rank was bequeathed upon me by Princess Celestia, making me a full member of the Equestrian military."
Her eyes closed, she tilted her head a little, and the smile only seemed to grow sunnier. "So I'm glad that little misunderstanding is behind us. I know you know that holding back the Germans is what matters, and not the fact that this defense plan everypony thinks is brilliant was made by a purple. Pony. Girl. That would be foalish of you."
Yep. Definitely passive-aggressive.
"Look, Ma'am, I'm not saying you're not smart. But there's more to soldiering than making lists and plans. You gotta be able to change plans, to throw them out at a moment's notice."
McAuliffe's voice grew sterner, more fatherly. "You gotta be able to send boys out to die, too. Can you do that, Miss Sparkle?"
"I…" she hesitated. She was honest, he gave her that.
"I don't know. I've never been this close to a real battle before."
Her smile shrunk to a shy, nervous one. "I was just sent here to calculate whether earth ponies or bulldozers were better at shoveling snow. When the attack started, I just treated it as a big logic puzzle and worked from there."
Twilight's voice grew a little louder, more confident. "But it worked. You had to have seen it; we're as ready as we can be. Tell me I'm wrong."
"I'd be a liar if I did." McAuliffe swallowed, feeling a fair bit of pride go down the hatch. "You've done darn good work, and I'm grateful. This little fortress is gonna save a lot of people's lives. Probably my own, too."
"I'm sorry." He said the words meaningfully, another product of his upbringing. When you're wrong, man up and apologize. "You might or might not be a good soldier, but you're one heck of an organizer. And right here, right now, that counts for a lot."
With a bit of a tumble, Twilight hopped off the chair and trod up to him. She offered a hoof, smiling genially. "I'm sorry too. You're right, I have no idea how to actually lead an army into combat. That's your job."
McAuliffe shook the hoof firmly. "And yours is to get the heck out of town."
"Yeah." She nodded, then blinked, registering his words. "What?!!"
"’Princess Celestia's protégé,’ right?" he repeated the words, brushing past her to examine the map. "They'll have my head on a pike if anything happens to you. Time for you to skedaddle."
A tug of magic on his belt whipped him around. Twilight's horn was glowing, her face now openly glowering. "General! You obviously don't think much of ponies, but I can't leave just when things get tough!"
McAuliffe didn't like arguing, but this was something he wasn't going to budge on. "This isn't about species, Miss Sparkle, this is about politics. You're close to your princess. How will she take it if you die? She might get depressed and become a worse leader. She might withdraw Equestrians from combat roles. And she might, as I mentioned, demand my head on a pike. They'll give it to her, too. One fifty-year old officer is a small price to keep Equestria in the war."
He turned away again, but Twilight shouted at his back. "Even if you're right, I can't go! The Germans locked down the last road right after you arrived."
"I saw an airfield back there," he muttered, trying to make sense of the mountain of information across the tables.
"Look at the weather," she countered. "Clouds so thick you could catch them in a net, snow piled up everywhere. We have one old biplane for recon. You think I'll be safer riding in that?"
"There was a pegasus directing traffic. Get two of them to ferry you out." McAuliffe turned back to face her. If she had a good counter for this, well…
"One pegasus." She responded. "Flitter, who got a bum leg during the Arnhem attack. She isn't going to carry anyone anywhere."
Damn.
Twilight took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. She was showing a little fear in her eyes, but also strength. "I know what you're saying about politics, and I'm not saying you're wrong. But…we're all stuck here."
She pawed the ground nervously, looking down. "I, uh…I guess I'm counting on you to lead us all out of this mess."
McAuliffe sighed and turned to the big map. The isolated hill and the tiny ring around Bastogne, all surrounded by hordes of pieces representing the Germans…
"Well," he said, resigned to it all. There comes a time when you just have to accept the hand life dealt you.
Accept…and make the most of it. "We're in for it now. Beckett, Twilight…I reckon I'm going to need all the help you two can give me."
"Yes, Sir!" they both piped. Beckett looked relieved the two hadn't killed each other. Twilight looked…steady. Determined. He had a good feeling that she wasn't going to let him down.
"Alright," he smiled, glancing back down at the paper in his hand. "So first, tell me where you need the 101st boys. No sense in letting them loiter in the trucks when there's a fight on."
And boy howdy, are we in for a fight.
Author's Note
In the autumn of 1944, Germany had won defensive victories in Poland and Holland that stymied defeat. But as winter fell, the Reich's fortunes looked bleaker than ever. Two massive armies stood poised at their borders, ready to smash the exhausted Wehrmacht and crush Germany between them. Only the winter weather delayed them, negating their air supremacy and giving the Axis a precious few months of breathing room.
Rather than stand defensively and merely slow defeat, the Reich summoned its strength for a pair of final offensives. In the East, German forces would break the encirclement of Budapest, capital of their last ally. In the West, they would lunge for the major supply port of Antwerp. Success on both counts would be a major reversal against the Allies. Ultimately, it was hoped that the victories would convince the Allied leaders to accept a negotiated peace. By this point, all dreams of conquering Europe were gone: Germany was fighting to survive.
With genius born of desperation, the Germans lulled Allied intelligence into a false sense of security. The attacks came as a complete surprise, and their scale wasn't noticed until days after the offensives began. In the west, the conflict became known as "The Battle of the Bulge," named for the bulge that was hammered into the Allied lines.
Despite their advantages in quality and surprise, few German officers had much hope for success. The Allies had grown too strong, and their own forces simply too few for the task. Once more under Walter Model, the German army struck with speed and ferocity. They knew full well the price of failure, and knew that success hinged on speed: speed in breaking the Allied lines, speed in seizing the crucial road junctures.
At Bastogne, it fell on General Anthony McAuliffe to deny the crossroads to an army desperate to achieve them. And the Siege of Bastogne began.
Chapter 8: Warlocks in Winter (Part 2)
Several days after the winter offensive began, Allied commanders finally realized the strength behind the assault. Patton was already aligning his forces for a counterblow, but the engaged units were floundering for want of leadership. The battered 1st and 9th US armies were nominally under General Bradley’s command, but the ill-lucked officer was in Paris when the attack struck. Eisenhower needed a leader for the defense, and he needed it yesterday.
General Montgomery would have been a solid, but controversial choice. As a veteran of the Africa front, he was well-versed in deflecting the blitzkrieg with ad-hoc forces. But he was distrusted by his allies. Cooperation with the Cloud Kickers would be essential, and they despised him for blaming the Arnhem defeat on Soarin. With the old Anglo-American rivalry rising, the US armies would scarcely be more cooperative.
Instead, Eisenhower settled on a less-disliked, but no less controversial appointment. Princess Celestia had been a frequent sight in his headquarters, flying out when ordered to oversee battles and provide leadership. Months of quietly doing her duty had earned Eisenhower’s trust, and now she was charged with blunting the last German assault. Specifically, he ordered her to hold the Meuse River at all costs. Bastogne, St. Vith, and the other crossroad towns would be on their own until Patton arrived.
December 19, 1944 North of Bastogne
“FIVE HOURS?!!”
Peiper’s engineer just nodded, cool as the snow around them. “Yes Sir, about five hours to clear the mines. No way around it.”
Colonel Peiper growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The mighty Waffen-SS, crippled by mines and snow…right, get on it.”
The young colonel smiled wanly as the next man approached him. “Sergeant Bergen, I really hope you have better news for me.”
They had served together long enough to be comfortable in each other’s presence. Bergen offered his officer a cigarette, then leaned in to light the smoke off his own.
“Well, we took St. Vith.” Another of the crossroad towns in German hands, though the sergeant hardly sounded jubilant. “30 hours behind schedule. They had to commit warlocks to do it, too. Any idea how much unicorn dust we have to work with?”
“Not a clue.”
Peiper blew out a cloud, tobacco smoke mixing with his chilly breath. “All the warlocks are in the southern attacks. They gave me extra panzers to compensate, but we’re nowhere close to being on schedule. We need to pick up the pace.”
The men smoked in silence for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts as prisoners trudged past them. Bergen’s thumbs were hooked over his belt, the crag-faced blonde letting his cigarette dangle in his mouth. Peiper gripped his in his teeth, hands thrust into pockets and foot tapping irately. The Meuse River – his own objective – was almost too much to hope for at this point, let alone Antwerp and Brussels beyond. Too much time had been lost the last few days. Too much life had been lost in the last few years. There wasn’t enough left for the task at hand. It was hopeless.
But was it? Maybe someone else would move faster than expected, or the Allies would respond slower. Maybe some unexpected help would arrive – even a few soldiers would be decisive if they carried a certain chalky powder. Maybe all their efforts would be barely enough. Counting on luck to carry them through was sheer desperation…
“But what else can we do?”
Peiper cast an embarrassed glance to the side, but Bergen hadn’t heard him. The slim sergeant was leaning forward, thumbs now hooked in his back pockets. His attention had become fixed on the prisoner column. American soldiers, with maybe a dozen earth ponies mixed in with them. A nervous lieutenant with a Bronks accent was trying to keep them organized, but the pace was still painfully slow. It would’ve been nice to send the whole gang to the rear, but Peiper couldn’t spare the men to do even that.
Bergen lit a new cigarette for himself, bizarrely interested in the spectacle. An orange mare was giving one of her human comrades a lift, but even she was starting to lag from fatigue.
“Do we really have time to bother with prisoners?” Bergen grunted.
Peiper shrugged laconically. “Not really.”
They smoked in silence for another few minutes, watching their disarmed foes trudge past. Bergen removed his hand from his pocket and started fidgeting with his collar button. He lit his third cigarette, and lit Peiper’s second off it. They puffed silently, both minds racing. The conversation had led them to a hard subject, and neither was keen to continue.
A very large part of Colonel Peiper wanted to move on. Drop the cigarette into the snow and check on the minesweepers. Leave this strange, unspoken abyss behind them.
Instead, he opened his mouth. “If we lose this fight, we’ll spend the rest of our lives wondering. ‘Could things have been different if we fought a little harder, or moved a little faster?’”
“Yep,” Bergen said with even neutrality, lighting yet another smoke. He really should conserve his rations, but what the hell? They might all die today anyway.
Others had noticed the orange mare’s fatigue. After a hushed argument, her rider painfully dismounted and got on the large red pony. The American’s coat was discolored from a bleeding back wound, but he seemed more worried about the mare.
“Sergeant,” Peiper began, never making eye contact. “You need to do everything to make sure we win this. No matter what. Those are your orders.”
Bergen was no fool. An eye slid to the side to take in his officer. “Sir...exactly, what are you ordering me to do?”
Peiper gave a mental sigh. He counted Bergen as a friend, but the man was pragmatic. If they found themselves on trial for war crimes, Bergen wanted to have every soldier’s best defense: ‘I was only following orders.’ And if Peiper was specific, it couldn’t be deflected back with the claim that he ordered no atrocities.
The young colonel swallowed and turned fully to his sergeant. “Fine. Bergen, here are your orders…”
December 20, 1944 Namur, Belgium Along the Meuse River
When word came that Princess Celestia was in command, no one quite knew what to think. Several soldiers asked Rarity for her opinion, but she didn’t know either. Celestia was wise and kind, certainly, but a military officer? Even Rarity couldn’t be sure she’d succeed at her chosen task.
The Princess hadn’t brought the sun with her to Namur. Grey clouds filled the sky, making a good match for the town below. Drab houses poked out of dirty snow, and even the people seemed grey and worn. There was just something about this place that seemed to suck the color out of everything.
If the setting was cheerless, the soldiers matched it perfectly. Faces were set in tight, worried frowns. The lucky ones huddled in buildings, and the rest made camp amidst the oil-stained snow. The British regulars Rarity traveled with were the only fresh, front-line soldiers to be seen. The rest? Military police. Truck drivers. Refugees from shattered units. Celestia was to hold the bridges at all costs, but it would be ugly if the Germans attacked.
At least there were tanks, and Rarity wasn’t the only one happy to see them. Squadrons of British “fireflies,” parked protectively in front of their infantry comrades.
Rarity swallowed as she strode down those dirty streets. With the tanks here, the river seemed secure. Maybe Celestia would listen to what she had to say.
She shook her head. Of course Celestia would listen. She had to.
Rarity was no exception to the omnipresent dirt – it was painfully obvious on her white coat, but she was used to it after six months at war.
Somehow, neither the filth nor the greyness seemed to touch Celestia. The princess’ hair was as vibrant as ever, and her coat as pure. The alicorn was surrounded by a gaggle of nervous officers, each one perfectly happy to be receiving orders. Having someone ‘in charge’ meant direction and planning, even if that someone happened to be a pony. Pride and rivalries had been forgotten as the death toll mounted.
“Your Highness,” Rarity stuttered, poking her head in between two grey, dirty men. Then a little louder, “Your Highness!”
Celestia looked at her, and the gaze caused Rarity to cringe. There was a…hardness around the princess that she hadn’t seen before. The gaze was cool and aloof, more reminiscent of a stern aristocrat than the kindly ruler Rarity knew. Even the soldiers around her seemed cowed in her presence.
Ignoring the sidelong glares of a few humans, Rarity went on. “Princess, it’s Twilight Sparkle. A few of the refugees said she’s trapped in Bastogne. Is there…”
At the wrong moment, she felt all of their gazes. She flushed, knowing they would hold her in contempt for asking. But her friendship outweighed her fear. “Can we break through to them? Help them somehow? Can we at least get her out of there?”
“Wrong side of the river,” one of the officers grunted.
Rarity swallowed again and braced herself, looking sternly ahead. She had learned very quickly that the war didn’t care for individuals. Mueller had become a great friend, and the war swallowed him whole. Not one of these officers cared for him, or for Twilight either. The friendships, the people…they simply didn’t count when it came to war.
One of the captains caught her gaze, and she glared fiercely. Maybe it was a silly thing to hope for, but she’d be as silly as she needed to be for Twilight. It was stupid to ask an army to move to save one life, but Rarity would be the stupidest pony in the world if it meant saving Twilight. Let the humans laugh! Let them titter and gossip about how soft Equestrians are. Twilight was worth it. She was worth it to Rarity, and she was definitely worth it to Celestia.
To her surprise, the captain didn’t laugh or get angry. He just sighed and looked away. These men had seen war. They knew what was going through Rarity’s head, and saw a little bit of themselves in it. When a close friend was in danger, who cared for logic?
Of course it was worth risking the war to save one life.
But of course it wasn’t.
The tired men shifted quietly away from Rarity, looking to Celestia to say what needed to be said. Some of them had to be wondering if she had the strength to say it.
It lasted for an instant, but it was there – the mask of the aloof general dropped, and the Princess grimaced. Twilight Sparkle might die in a thousand morbid ways, or might already be dead. She’d blame herself forever if it happened. But great trust had been placed in Celestia. She held the lives of thousands in her hooves, maybe even the fate of the war. She couldn’t betray that. Everyone knew the river was first priority, and there wasn’t even enough to defend it well.
Everyone gave a start when one of the grey-faced men took a step forward and spoke. “Ma’am, maybe we could spare something? Launch a raid, pull out their wounded? Give Jerry something to think about?”
Rarity looked at the man, eyes wide. She didn’t expect any of them to speak up for her.
Any of ‘them.’ How silly of me. Rarity gave a tiny smile and nodded at him. The knot of grey men was more than that, they were that many individuals. Not just a crowd looking down on her, but each one of them with a mind, with thoughts and feelings and Generosity. A few were smirking, others had sympathetic or supportive eyes. No two completely alike.
Individuals. She was asking them to fight and die for Twilight’s sake. Rarity felt a strange weariness settle on her head. But Twilight’s worth it.
Celestia said it in a voice like a mother shushing her baby, but the words were reproachful. “There will be no attack.”
“But-“ Rarity and the man who spoke up said it at the same time.
The tone didn’t change, but – coming from Celestia – no argument was brokered. “This is not an open meeting. Return to your unit and await orders.”
Celestia glanced at Rarity’s advocate and the man shrunk backwards, avoiding the gaze. A few of the heads bobbed gently. No one could argue the princess was right.
She didn’t even say Rarity’s name. The little unicorn glared at her princess for a second before her eye slid to the side. Around her stood the motely band of individuals she wanted to fight for Twilight. And die for her. Some were heroes at heart and would do so gladly.
Slowly, Rarity’s head lowered in defeat. She wanted to argue. She knew Celestia loved Twilight, that she wasn’t as indifferent as she appeared before the officers. Rarity wanted to pounce on that like a weakness and twist Celestia’s guilt until she acquiesced.
But somehow, she didn’t have the heart to do it.
The streets were grey and cold as she plod back to their campsite. Plenty of pony cooks had come to Europe, but none were around here. Dinner would be a ration bar, same as it had been for the last week. Men and ponies huddled around weak fires, occupying themselves with worrying and being cold.
At least two warm faces greeted her: Stern Glare, her guard, and a friendly little Londoner named Ben Cook.
Her face told them the answer. Stern shrugged unhappily. “I told you she wouldn’t.”
“And I still had to try,” Rarity came back with a sad smile.
“Hey, you got guts. I sure couldn’t do it.” Cook grinned and passed her a tin cup. Bless him, it was piping hot and had a tea bag in it.
He had scrounged some sugar for the tea, and he beamed when she noticed. Cook was one of those people who just lived for others. He would raise the sun himself if he could.
It was easy to see him as an individual. Stern, too. But the rest of them, they were more than greyness and uniforms. Each one was a life. Princess Celestia was right. To risk many lives for one would be selfish.
Individuals, not just crowds. She frowned, letting her head sink once more. Rarity had acquired a strange kind of wisdom, one she would be far happier without.
She sighed and turned away, looking to curl up in her bedroll for a while. There wasn’t much else to do.
“Hey, who’s the letter from?” Cook’s voice called from behind her. Rarity turned, blinking, causing a small envelope to dislodge from her mane.
Cook grinned slyly. “Wotsit you call it, your ‘special somepony?’”
Rarity ignored him, looking with befuddlement at the note. In her mane? How on earth did it get there? Blinking and wondering, she daintily slit the seal with her magic and floated the paper up before her.
Rarity,
The matter is being taken care of. Please trust me.
You must not question me now, Rarity. I promise, when this is over, you can say whatever you want to me and I will listen.
Stay warm,
Princess Celestia
The note crumpled into her saddlebag, Rarity not daring to give it a second glance. The Princess listened to her. Twilight would be rescued, and it would be other people who had to see their friends die.
Somehow, that didn’t cheer her up very much. It was still far too cold out here. Rarity shivered and crawled into her bedroll, curling up into as tight a ball as she could.
The rivalry had turned into a team, and it was as good a team as anyone could ask for.
Twilight Sparkle, the unicorn prodigy. Brilliant with numbers, data, and maps. She had the deployments of every unit in the Bastogne festung memorized, almost down to the platoon. All she needed was a town name and she could recite how recently it had been attacked. A unit number would bring out how many fights the men had been in and how much fight they had left.
For all her knowledge and memory, though, Twilight didn’t know how to lead soldiers into battle. That task fell to General Anthony McAuliffe of the 101st Airborne, commander of the defense. Was an attack a feint or an assault? Which position should be bolstered with their precious few tanks? And what was the foe thinking? Seeing the truth through the fog of war took instinct and training, not just knowledge.
And they were rising to the occasion. The duo and a host of lesser officers now filled the map room. The windows were boarded up – only a few artillery shells had hit the town, but best not to take chances. Kerosene lamps hung day and night, offering small warmth to those inside. People stamped their feet, drank hot coffee, and endured the cold. You couldn’t get away from it, so you just made do.
Not a face was smiling as they discussed the situation. They had done well so far, frustrating the enemy at every turn. But help was a long way off, and everything was running low. Food. Ammo. Men. Twilight could tally and organize things magnificently, make them stretch further than they had any right to. But no matter how often you counted, there was less every day. The Germans kept slogging forward.
“They don’t have a choice but to hit us,” McAuliffe grumbled, tracing the circle around Bastogne with his finger. “Too much of their army has spilled past us. If they retreat, they’ll need the crossroads to escape. They’ll throw everything at us if they need to, if that’s what it takes.”
In the grand scheme of things, it was wonderful. With the Germans hesitating, looking back instead of forwards, their attack was faltering. To those in Bastogne, though, it was a dubious honor. The Germans were as trapped as the 101st, and would fight like wolves to secure their road home.
Col. Beckett pointed to another, smaller circle. His voice was confident, the heart behind it believing more and more that things would work out alright. “We command the heights. While we have that, we can see wherever they attack and pound it with the guns up there. They’re not going to be able to break us, not if we keep going like we have been.”
McAuliffe’s eyebrows raised. “Maybe. At least we can hold out until Patton shows up.”
“Damn Patton,” Beckett snapped with a smile. He was a Bradley man through-and-through. “Patton can clean up after we’re done.”
“…Pardon my French, Miss Sparkle,” he added as an afterthought.
Twilight nodded wanly, sipping bleary-eyed at her coffee. The bookish unicorn was pulling her weight, but the bad food, cold, and long hours were hitting her a lot harder than the athletic soldiers.
McAuliffe circled one of the outlying villages with the pencil. “Anyway, first item on our agenda: This place was hit yesterday evening. They held on, but there’s less than a hundred left and the nearby sectors are already strapped. Where can we pull troops from?”
“Quiet front over here, Sir.”
The general eyed the indicated part and grunted. “We’ve already stripped almost everything from there. Can we borrow from our reserve?”
Beckett’s response was silenced by a thumping knock at the door. An officer opened it, letting in the comparative chill of the main hall. A frowning captain in an army uniform stepped quickly past, snow on his boots and grime-faced.
He saluted McAuliffe, offering an envelope with his other hand. “Message to you, Sir. Jerry’s compliments.”
Another grunt came from the general, his eyes still moving over the list of units around Bastogne. “Maybe just send the tanks up from…er, read it out, Captain. I’m a little busy here.”
The captain nodded and tore open the envelope, pausing once to cough wetly before beginning.
”To the U.S.A. Commander of the encircled town of Bastogne.
The fortune of war is changing. This time the U.S.A. forces in and near Bastogne have been encircled by strong German armored units. More German armored units have crossed the river Our near Ortheuville, have taken Marche and reached St. Hubert by passing through Hompre-Sibret-Tillet. Libramont is in German hands.
There is only one possibility to save the encircled U.S.A. troops from total annihilation: that is the honorable surrender of the encircled town. In order to think it over a term of two hours will be granted beginning with the presentation of this note.
If this proposal should be rejected one German Artillery Corps and six heavy A. A. Battalions are ready to annihilate the U.S.A. troops in and near Bastogne. The order for firing will be given immediately after this two hours term.
All the serious civilian losses caused by this artillery fire would not correspond with the well-known American humanity.
The German Commander.”
“Nuts.”
McAuliffe grumbled the word and shrugged, eyes still moving down his list.
An expectant silence hung over the others, but that seemed to be all the general had to say on the matter. He hummed a tuneless ditty as he searched for the answer, finally settling on one. “Those stragglers from the 89th, they just fell in around the villages on the East side. Might as well transfer them somewhere more important.”
Everyone else still seemed to be waiting for his opinion on the message. He glanced upward pointedly, annoyed at the silence. “Thoughts, people?”
“It, it’ll take time to pull them out,” Twilight said, pulling herself back to reality. “We might just shuffle – send troops from the reserve as reinforcements, and pull those soldiers back to the reserve.”
“Sounds good,” McAuliffe almost snapped, briskly moving the conversation along. “Next up: One of the fuel depots about ten miles out is about to be overrun. My first instinct is to just blow it, but we’re low on gas ourselves here. Do we have any prospects of pulling anything out before Jerry gets there?”
The captain coughed loudly. When that did not interrupt the general’s musings, he coughed again.
“Blow your nose, Captain,” McAuliffe said distractedly.
“Sir, the Germans will be expecting an answer. What is your response?”
“Ah, shoot, I dunno.” McAuliffe scratched the back of his head, frowning. They weren’t surrendering – not yet, anyway – but he really didn’t want to waste time with negotiations or letters or-
Twilight suddenly grinned as a thought hit her head. The rough general looked at her, eyebrows raised. There wasn’t anything funny about the situation, especially for her. No unicorn wanted to be a prisoner.
“Something funny, Miss Sparkle?”
There it was again, the flash of a smile as the thought returned. She looked at him. There were bags under those big eyes, but the gears of knowledge behind them had released a spark of humor.
“Why not just say the first thing you said?”
There were several blinks around the table. Beckett was the first to crack a grin, but others followed. The worn captain barked a laugh.
McAuliffe gave that vague smile of someone who doesn’t quite get the joke. “Uh, which was…?”
“Nuts?”
“Nuts,” Stauller said with a shrug. “’From the American Commander: Nuts.’ That’s all the return letter said.
His companion – a witty black-hair named Derek – stopped his trek for a moment, pausing to lean on a tree jutting out at a 45-degree angle. This damn hill. More like a mountain.
“So that’s a ‘no?’” Derek grumbled. He wasn’t used to missing a joke.
“Seems so.”
“So why didn’t they just say ‘no?’” Derek was breathing heavily as he grumbled, but they were almost there. “Damn Americans. They think they’re cute.”
Private Gessler fell in with the pair – a 14-year old, keeping up as best as he could. “You’d rather be on the East front? I heard the Russians kill our kind even if we surrender.”
Derek gave the kid a hard glance, but he did that to all the SS soldiers. Especially the kids. “The Reds never need a good excuse. And I’d rather be on the God-given road up this hill.”
“Their guns are watching the road,” Stauller said dully.
“Tch.” Derek punched his shoulder, resuming his trudge through the snow. “Stauller, when someone is complaining, they’re not interested in logic.”
A fourth man met them, retracing his steps back down the mountain. There was little love between the two cynics and the zealot Haufmann, but today they were all business.
The sharp-faced fanatic held up a hand as he approached the other three. “They’re just over that next ridgeline. Be ready.”
“Where’s Fritz?”
Their fifth. Five men assaulting an American artillery emplacement, complete with guards and infantry support.
But they were warlocks. It would be enough.
“He’ll be coming from the sky, as usual. The showoff.” Haufmann grunted the words, fumbling with his pouch. He dropped it once before managing to get it open. It was so cold out here.
The others began readying their own tools, taking out pinches of the dangerous powder. Unicorn dust. Unethical, perhaps, but ethics wouldn’t save Germany from destruction.
“I hate how it makes me feel,” Derek grunted. “I always throw up afterwards. Anyone else hear about Obsfuhrer Kraftstein? His third time using it, he just starts coughing up blood and doesn’t stop until he’s dead.”
“Could happen to any of us,” Stauller muttered in discrete agreement.
This wasn’t natural. Every warlock was familiar with the vague, but undeniable feeling of wrongness whenever they used the powder. Their bodies rebelled against it. Sometimes violently.
Still…
Haufmann took his own powder by licking it. “No help for it.”
“Ja, ja , no help for it.” Derek hated the taste – like sweetened chalkdust – so he just snorted his own. “I just hope Fritz follows our lead.”
And they were off. The dust brought with it physical strain, but an amazing awareness. A rush of sensation as the mundane human body felt the magic flow through it. Sensing the burning inside as the precious dust was processed, and the eyes taking in every sight with perfect detail. Fueled by the rush, their bodies picked up speed, and their minds moved to match.
Gessler floated off the ground, but the rest just sped forward. Their feet never hit the snow long enough to leave a mark, but their passage was marked by scorched land as their magical auras came alive. The distance was crossed in seconds, and the four of them flew speedily over the final ridge. They saw the big guns. They saw the people.
Artillerymen of all armies had reputations as cowards, but the men they fell upon were steel. These soldiers had fended off all the conventional attacks on their position, and were used to melee and sacrifice. They were hardened by battle and the knowledge that everyone in the town below was counting on them. Many had seen warlocks before, and knew their shields were far from invincible. All it took was one lucky bullet.
That wasn’t to say they weren’t surprised. No one could climb the ice-slick ridge the warlocks had leapt, so they never even guarded it. A lot of things changed when warlocks hit the field.
Pistol and carbine shots rang out as the crews exploded into activity. Cook fires and card games were abandoned as American soldiers leapt into foxholes and behind their howitzers.
Such instincts served them well fighting tanks and infantry, but this was a different kind of battle. Derek swept upwards with his arm, and a line of fire exploded out of the ground and dashed before him. Scorched bodies were thrown out of foxholes. The line crossed one of the cannons and it leapt into the air, mangled and twisted.
Sometimes there were explosions without fire wherever the men gestured. Stauller had a bit more control, channeling his power into efficient magic bursts that sought out their target. The rest were just wielding a power they could not hope to master. Even in the heat of combat, there was small relief as they felt the magic wane slowly, fired off as clumsy, brutal death at their foes.
Derek winced as his aura flashed bright for an instant. A bullet that had his name on it had been whisked away by the unchecked power swirling about him. The Americans were overwhelmed, but they had a last card to play. As much firepower as they could muster flew at the assaulting warlocks, and under that cover a trio of unicorns in golden armor charged.
A white mare with horn shining silver came at Stauller, but he was the best of them. A swipe of his hand, and a mystic parry sent her reeling. He didn’t have any style, just efficiency. He fought defensively, not taking chances. He didn’t have to.
One unicorn, a larger male, paused before Gessler and raised its horn in salute. It was a last mistake. Gessler rushed his front at the same time Haufmann struck from the side. The unicorn was lightning fast – both blows were parried by hasty magic shields, but the action had turned him fully away from Derek. The Wehmacht veteran hurled a cone of grey fire at him, annihilating the poor fool.
Derek gave a grim smile. Unicorns had romantic notions of ‘magic duels,’ one-one-one combat between spellcasters. Those who survived learned very quickly that that’s not how this war worked.
Which left…
Derek braced suddenly, willing his shield to strengthen as the third unicorn attacked. She was small and brown, and apparently scrappy as hell. She didn’t stop to channel her own magic, she just plunged into his shield, lighting up her horn like a purple sun. She sliced right through it and plowed into him. A last-instant dodge let Derek avoid the horn, but not the mass behind it. He gasped as she slammed into him.
She didn’t stop. She reared back and punched him, breaking a rib with a solid hoof. Derek grunted and raised his arms. The Equestrian braced, but the magic wasn’t aimed at her. Derek just blew himself backwards with telekinesis. Unsubtle and messy, but he needed space. This mare was good at her job.
The launch had propelled him a few dozen feet that she was quickly crossing. The other warlocks had turned on Stauller’s “duel,” but she wasn’t about to give them time to save him.
The face was memorable. She was probably very cute by Equestrian standards, with the big eyes and short stature that marked most of the species. But on her face was written hatred . Not the grimace soldiers get as they kill each other to stay alive. No, to her, this was very, very personal.
A small part of Derek’s brain shrugged. It made sense, of course. By now, they had to know how warlocks got their powers. The cruel harvest. Unicorns in cages, waiting until their horn had regrown enough to take again. Derek always thought cutting a horn would be like cutting a nail, but his brother was in the business and said otherwise. He said that unicorns could sense it, that they screamed even if they got morphine first. And she had to know it. Of course she hated him.
She had green eyes. A gold band was around her horn. A wedding ring?
And then she was gone. A meteor of flame fell from the sky, close enough to scorch Derek’s face. It was hot, hot enough to bake through the snow and a few inches of the rock beneath. Maybe her ring had been blown free – he liked to think a little bit of her survived.
He looked up and scowled. Fritz. With scarf billowing behind him, goggles over his eyes, riding his damn motorcycle in the sky. Stauller was effective, but Fritz had style . Maybe it made him a better warlock, because he took to flying his precious bike through the sky like it wasn’t even a thing. Smile like the sunrise, ego like he raised the sun himself, God-damned “Just in Time” Fritz. He did that on purpose.
“Just in time, eh, Derek?” The fifth warlock called down to him.
Derek didn’t even give him a response. Let Fritz have his style. Derek just wanted to do his duty and go home after the war was lost. Won. Whatever.
The Allies had lost the heights, but that didn’t stop them from trying to hang on. German infantry was attacking up the road again, and this time there were no big guns to stop them. However tenacious the defenders might be, now they were just scattered men without any support. Easy prey.
The crews kept fighting after the unicorns fell, but some were starting to panic. Derek would’ve done the same. The ones fleeing were the smart ones.
A redhead with more freckles than face kept firing his carbine. There were few enough left that Derek could start seeing them as individuals, not that he cared to.
“Sorry,” he said with a laconic shrug, and pressed his fingers together. He tried to kill the man with a single bolt, like how Stauller did it. The concentrated beam frayed and flared almost immediately, burning the kid and everything within five meters of him. Derek shrugged again. Messy or clean, no real difference.
The last of the crews were bolting. A few of the German tanks and halftracks had already broken through to the warlocks, and the rest weren’t far behind. The hill’s defenses had been neatly punctured, and now it rested in German hands.
Fritz had come down, and gestured the others over to the hillcrest. “Nice view?”
Bastogne and the surrounding countryside. Stauller nodded. “Damn nice view.”
As December waned, Bastogne’s fate balanced on the edge of a knife. The Americans in the town were short of all supplies, utterly exhausted, and enjoyed no prospects of immediate relief. The Germans needed Bastogne, and needed it badly. It would be crucial if they broke through the Meuse, and it would be crucial if they had to retreat. For a week they attacked, tenacious soldiers and heavy tanks fighting with every ounce of strength and wit they possessed. And for a week the Allied troops held on, repulsing each blow with their own might and cunning.
The weak link in McAuliffe’s chain was an isolated, vital hill that commanded the area. The Germans assaulted it on December 20 but were narrowly repulsed by ad hoc forces. On December 22 a new attack was made, this time employing warlocks to strike in support of the conventional forces. This blow was a total success, and the hill was overrun in a matter of hours.
The perimeter around Bastogne remained intact, but the siege had been turned on its head. Now it was the Allies under constant, accurate artillery fire. Now it was them who had every move seen by the enemy. The timely shuffling of reserves now was observed, and the tired Americans were fired upon every step they took.
McAuliffe and Twilight saw the writing on the wall. After a terse late-night discussion, they agreed to commit to a counter-attack to take back the hill. The bulk of their armor was arrayed to spearhead the hasty blow.
The massing of tanks was observed, and accounted for. As they sallied out, the shermans clashed almost immediately with tigers and king tigers of the 2nd Panzer division, ready and waiting for them. The brief confrontation savaged the American counterblow. The remaining tanks limped behind the tentative safety of the perimeter. From the hill above, artillery harried the retreat well after the battle was lost.
And yet above even the seized hill, flecks of color were visible. Lines of clear sky were being drawn through the endless overcast. The pegasi had arrived in force. And more would come every day, their leaders now well aware of the scale of this last great Axis offensive. After the pegasi would come the infinite Allied bombers, and on their heels would come Patton. The noose had tightened, both around McAuliffe and his assailants. Now it just remained to be seen who would fall first.
And the final stage of the Siege began.
Author's Note
Huh, got my first...hate-mail regarding this story. Kinda shook me up at first, but I guess that's just the internet for you. There are some odd people out there, and that's coming from a guy who writes pony fanfiction.
There is a bit of a point of divergence here...historically, the heights were never taken and Bastogne remained fairly secure throughout the siege. It seems reasonable to think that the presence of German 'wizards' might change things, able to launch powerful assaults without buildup or armor support. Certainly enough for a tactical edge, which is all that would be needed to take a single hill. That one event then sets up a rather more desperate battle for Bastogne...
And yes, McAuliffe's famous catchphrase was kind of uttered on accident. Maybe not as badass as shouting "NUTS" with a waving American flag and explosion in the background. But to me it makes him feel more like a human than a statue.
Anyway, thanks for reading. Call me at home if you wanna go out for brews later.
Dan
Chapter 9: Warlocks in Winter (Part 3)
”When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.”
-Franklin Delano Roosevelt, US President
He was alone.
Hard to believe how strange the feeling was. General McAuliffe glanced around the planning room, blinking, wondering at the solitude. The worse things got, the fewer people were here. The officers were all on errands. Some were pulling together troops, others leading them into battle. The aids, the hanger-ons and walking wounded, all of them had been drawn into the fight. Now outside somewhere, fighting, freezing.
The crowd around the map table had become…well, him.
He kind of missed the chatter. The liveliness, the spunk. They had done so damn good, his officers, his men.
“Nuts.”
For a few days he couldn’t take a leak without someone shouting ‘Nuts’ at him. They loved it. A catchphrase, a one-word summary of their battle-plan. ‘Nuts to you, Jerry. We’re still in this.’
McAuliffe studied the map. He’d looked at it so much he could recall every detail, but it was something to keep himself busy. Strange how there was so little left to do.
A shell struck nearby. The building shook, but McAuliffe didn’t even notice. Bastogne had been hammered by artillery over the last few days. Wasn’t even worth getting upset about anymore.
Patton was close. So damn close, but he was out of time. The perimeter was like one of those bubbles you blew out of a…bubble blower. Whatever they were called. Floating in the air, thinner, thinner, thinner, then pop.
No more reserves. Everyone pinned down. The Krauts smelled blood and were giving it all they got. All those villages Miss Sparkle engineered into fortresses, just being blasted apart by tanks and artillery.
Maybe the bubble was already popping. Some of the villages had been overrun. Can’t reinforce with them hitting the road. Soon they’ll rip open a big enough hole to just pour in. Then we pull everything back to Bastonge and…
McAuliffe breathed a deep sigh, breath misting in the chilly room. “…Probably surrender.”
You didn’t throw your life away. You did your duty and gave up when the time came. Nothing shameful about that. Leave zealotry to the Nazis.
The map didn’t hold any answers. “God Almighty, I’m sick of this map.”
A girl’s voice behind him. “You and me both.”
Miss Sparkle, of course. The only girl with access to the place. He turned, matching her faint smile. A purple glow suspended two tin cups in the air, both steaming fiercely. McAuliffe gently accepted one of them and the two sipped in silence for a moment. The coffee was so hot it felt like his teeth were melting. Well, it’d get cold soon enough.
Twilight sipped and gasped, letting the air cool her tongue. Purple energy grasped a few of the pieces on the map, pulling them to new places.
“I’ve pulled Team Brown and the 327th out from Senonchamps.” A purple arrow appeared, pointing at the referenced village.
Twilight’s eyes squinted, the brain behind them still trying to disarm the trap they were in. “That’ll give us more reserves to play with. The Germans will take the town, but there’s another in their way before they reach Bastogne. Let’s see, ‘Isle-La-Hesse,’ if that’s how you pronounce it. We have some ambush spots before then, too. Should slow them down a little.”
McAuliffe sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head. “A little, maybe. Not enough.”
“Not on its own, no.” Twilight’s voice didn’t lose its steady confidence. “But it, and a dozen other little delays? Maybe. We have to keep trying. We can make it.”
The older general shrugged, causing a magic hand to grab his jacket. Slowly, firmly, Twilight turned him around to look at her. “We can make it. There’s just enough left, I know it.”
“You’re putting me to shame, Sparkle.” McAuliffe stiffened his shoulders and smiled. Maybe it wasn’t hopeless. “If you ain’t giving up, neither am I. I’ll be darned if I’m gonna let a purple pony girl outfight me.”
“Nuts!” she laughed, drawing an eye-roll from him. “Gosh, the first time I heard you say that ‘girl’ line I was ready to send you to the-“
The door slammed open, giving them both a start. A flustered MP stood in the entrance, snow on his shoulders and blinded in the dim light. “Sorry Sir, Ma’am, but there’s this pegasus and she’s not taking no for an ansWHOAH!”
He shouted and staggered as a pegasus shoved past him, nearly trampling the poor man. She was cyan, rainbow-maned, and wasn’t in the mood to let anyone slow her down.
“Hey pops, I’m looking forTWILIGHT!”
With a laugh she sprung forward and tackled the unicorn. Twilight’s cry of surprise turned to a soft laugh of her own as she hugged the pegasus back. “Rainbow Dash! Good to see you.”
“Aw, you too, girl!” Rainbow grabbed her in a headlock and gave a noogie. “Didn’t think I’d leave my P.F.F. hanging, did you?”
“Hey, c’mon! Leggo!” Despite her protests, Twilight’s laugh grew as Rainbow playfully wrestled her to the ground. “C’mon, you’re embarrassing me!”
“Shut up and let me be happy to see you! Ha-HA!” Rainbow leaned in and blew a noisy raspberry on Twilight’s belly. The unicorn shrieked in laughter, reaching a hoof over to the humans. “Hee-hee, Anthony, help!”
McAuliffe…wasn’t really sure how to handle this. “Twilight, there is no way I’m getting involved.”
A chuckle fought its way out of his throat. It was good for a little noise to come back to the place. Especially this kind of noise. Two friends, relieved beyond words to find each other again. He smiled benignly at the pair as Twilight finally pulled out of Rainbow’s grip.
She stepped away as the pegasus tried to grab her again. “Ease up, Rainbow. I’ve still got a lot to do here.”
“Nnnnnnope!” Rainbow drawled, an in-joke McAuliffe missed. “Princess’ orders: Me ‘n Thunderlane are here to lift you the buck out of here. Woulda been here sooner if I’d’ve know the mess you were in.”
A stunned silence filled the room. Mcauliffe smiled, small, but genuine. At least one of them would live.
Just as genuine was Twilight’s reaction. First she recoiled in shock. Then she seemed to grow sad, sending a guilty look the general’s way. She bit a lip and lowered her head slowly…
Then she brought it up fast enough to whip her hair back. “N-no! Absolutely not!”
Her voice was shrill with nervousness, but held that sort of conviction no one could ever talk you out of.
Although they would try. “Twilight!” Anthony and Rainbow said at the same time, with the pegasus adding more to it. “Are you nuts?!! These guys here have landed in Cloudsdale without wings!”
“…No offense, pops.”
“None…taken?” he said as a question, missing the reference entirely. Probably saying that we’re screwed. She ain’t wrong. “Anyway, Sparkle: Get while the getting’s good.”
“NO!” She said again, hooves planted.
This was just stupid. McAuliffe waved a hand, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Sparkle, it’s been an honor and a privilege, but this is an opportunity you are NOT passing up.”
“No.”
This time it was calm, like she was saying the most obvious thing in the world. Twilight turned her back on them and reared up, planting her hooves on the map table. “Part of war is uncertainty. ‘Fog of war’ and all that, I know. But a big part of it IS certainty. Logic and math and all those things that make perfect sense and have perfect solutions. I can see the solution. I can see where all these little pieces will move. There are things we know they’re going to do, and if we react exactly as I’ve planned we’ll hold out for another few days. I KNOW help might come too slow, and I KNOW unexpected things happen. But I also know that we have a chance, a good chance, of hanging on. It’s math. It’s math and it’s hope .”
Rainbow groaned in frustration. “You’re making this hard on me.”
Twilight ignored her, turning to the human. “General, I know I’m right. I know where every one of those little pieces is going, and how long it’ll take them to move. I’ve accounted for the speed of every tank, the conditions of the roads, and everything else that can be puzzled out. I can do it, I just need-“
The door slammed open yet again. This time it was Colonel Beckett, breathless and smoke-stained.
“Sir…” The aging colonel swallowed and shook his head. He had entered in an awful hurry, but took a second to learn against the wall and choose his words. “I…think it’s time to pay the Devil, Sir.”
“What do you mean?” McAuliffe snapped. Nothing should’ve caved in or been overrun or…
“Warlocks,” Beckett sighed. “They’re spear-heading the drive on Isle-La-Hesse. The village won’t hold, they’ll…well, they’ll hit Bastogne not even an hour later, and we’ve nothing here capable of deflecting it.”
McAuliffe slammed a heavy hand against the wall. “GOD D-D-D…”
With an exertion of will, he maintained his religion. “DARN IT!”
“Sir, I think the Lord will forgive you for swearing in a situation like this.”
“Shut up!” The general snarled at Beckett. He whipped around towards the ponies. Rainbow was ignoring him, looking intently at her friend. Twilight, of all the stupid things, was hunching over the map. As if it did them good any more.
“The math still add up for you, girl?”
Twilight’s eyes were closed. With her forehooves touching and her posture hunched, it looked for all the world like she was praying.
A roar from above announced planes in the air. The skies were clear enough for their fighter-bombers to hit the Germans. Too little, too late.
“Yes.” She nodded her head and slowly came down from the table. “Yes it does.”
It didn’t make any sense. McAuliffe, Rainbow, Beckett, and the MP gaped at her as she slowly cracked her neck back and forth.
“Without the warlocks, there’s just enough.” Twilight swallowed slightly and turned around, her gaze seeming to go past them. “It’s within the margin of error, certainly, but we have just enough left to last just long enough. So if we negate the warlocks, the math still adds up.”
A second of silence fell. It was Beckett who began the obvious question. “How DO we negate…”
Twilight began running forward. She was already at the front door before they realized what was going on.
McAuliffe turned to Rainbow Dash, voice rapid with urgency. “Go to Patton and tell him-“
“Bite me, Old Man!” She snapped. “I ain’t leaving her hanging! If she’s staying, so am I!”
And then she was gone, leaving a streak of color as she flew out the door and past Twilight, towards the sound of combat beyond.
“Sir,” The MP began, but McAuliffe was already speaking.
“After her!” The general shouted, hand outstretched. “Protect Twilight with your lives!”
“Stupid Twilight, stupid Twilight, stupid Twilight, stupid Twilight…”
Rainbow growled the words as she shot through the freezing air. The ground below was white, pockmarked black in too many places with the debris of war. She couldn’t even see the Americans. There were few enough left, and those remaining were dug-in and concealed. Men fought in ones and twos, skirmishing from the woods or crouching in foxholes. They weren’t making it easy on their assailants.
The Germans wore white as well, but on the move they could be seen as a distorted wave coming on against the Allies. There were a lot of them, slogging through the snow. Easy prey for bombs and machine-guns. Rainbow knew enough about war to know these men needed an opening, or they’d just die in clumps. Yesteryear, that opening was given by tanks.
Today it was a different power, one that made her stomach churn. A few explosions on a southern road lacked the black cloud of artillery, but rather shimmered with violent oranges, whites and reds. A pair of great, green hulks of shermans, one crumpling as it was lifted high into the air. The other belched its cannon one last time, defiantly, and then suffered the same fate.
Four figures in white smocks sped past their latest kill and towards the next, steam rising in their wake. A fifth on a motorcycle of all things flew above them, holding a miniature sun in his hand.
Twilight wasn’t discreet in her approach, nor was there time to come up with any plan. The tip of her horn glowed white. And like white wraiths, the warlocks flittered above the snow, fanning out to strike her from every side.
It was the kid’s turn to play defense. Derek nodded as Private Gessler shot forwards, hands sheathed in blades made of magic. He’d get her attention, and the rest of them would kill the poor, stupid unicorn. And after the battle they’d saw her horn off. God, he was sick of this.
Him, Stauller, and Haufmann circled around – the Wehmacht pair halfway to each side, Haufmann all the way to her rear. Fritz would come from the sky if needed. Derek was the first to his position. He turned early, anxious to get it over with.
The unicorn had already one-upped the brat, a telekinetic whip sending Gessler sailing into the air. He would land in the snow and recover.
Derek gave a grimacing kind of smile. Another unicorn that hadn’t figured out how to kill yet. Poor idiot.
But she was good at what she did. That same telekinetic force whipped her forwards, escaping the trap. Derek cursed and hurled a blast after her. Haufmann did the same, but she had gone far enough forward to block both. A wall of purple energy appeared before her, stopping the magic blows with ease.
That left Stauller. Precise magic darts shot out from his fingertips, flaring like tiny rockets. He had reacted the fastest, running to flank her shield.
She grimaced. It was a nice wall, keeping Derek and Haufmann at bay, but it took a lot of effort. With little left over for Stauller, the unicorn just tried to parry the darts with her horn. She managed to slap aside a few, and she dodged a few more. But one gashed her leg, then another split an ear in two. He saw white teeth as she cried out in pain. Desperation was in those eyes. Drop the wall to counter, and the other two strike. Can’t attack. Can’t defend.
Another gashed her shoulder, and a fourth cut her face right above the eye. The shield flickered as Haufmann cast another blast into it.
Not much longer now. Someone, somewhere was tolling a bell.
But who was it for?
Gunfire sounded, uncomfortably close. From the corner of his eye, Derek saw a spurt of blood as Haufmann gave a strangled shout. A bullet came out the front of his chest, driving the SS soldier to his knees. An American with a white “MP” on his helmet was charging up the road, bayonet fixed on his smoking rifle. Behind him a mob of soldiers ran forward, firing, shouting. He heard ‘nuts!’ somewhere in there. A last charge. A half-crazed lunge towards their final hope.
Still dangerous. Derek crouched, glancing back towards the unicorn. “Haufmann…”
“See to the caster!” the fanatic shouted. One hand was clutching the wound, but the other crackled with energy. Though pained, his voiced retained its arrogant command. “I’ll deal with this!”
Haufmann flew directly upwards, grasping balled lightning in his hand. A few gunshots came at him. Nothing hit. A few in the desperate charge were diving to the side. Wouldn’t help. They were too packed together. This was going to be ugly.
A strange, high PEOW sounded, just as Derek turned back. The unicorn had planted her feet and discharged a beam of white-purple energy. It sped through Haufmann’s chest and continued into the sky. He fell to the ground, all his pride now lost forever.
He died. Twilight killed him.
There was no time to think about what she had just done, the line she had just crossed. Nor was there time to think about the pain, the throbbing in her leg and ear. Both of the warlocks around her glanced to the side, distracted by the death. A few seconds. It’d have to be enough.
With those few seconds, Twilight refocused her magic and swung her shield out in a straight line. It slammed into the far warlock, knocking him to the snow. The more precise, bespectacled one raised his hands, but she was faster. A bolt of bright purple discharged from her horn. It zig-zagged like lightning before reaching him.
But he was only a hair slower, and switched to defense without pause. His hands encased in murky magic, the warlock slapped his palms closed and caught the tip of the bolt bare inches from his chest. Twilight channeled more magic into it. The lightning crackled and advanced an inch, but the warlock held on, straining, channeling his own magic.
No good. The warlock behind her was skirting away from the soldiers, but the one she had thrown at the start of the fight was racing towards her. A stalemate would end poorly.
Which meant she had to end it. With skill born of practice, Twilight changed the energy in her spell to telekinetic force. The lightning curled around the warlock’s hand and whipped him outwards, slamming him into the younger soldier.
As she raised her head to swing him, Twilight saw the fifth warlock. Riding a bike through the sky, cradling a dense, searing ball of flame in his hand. Nursing his energy, readying a single, massive blow for the exact right moment.
Twilight wasn’t even finished with the telekinetic throw. No time for a shield. His arm was already up, pitching the tiny sun right at her hooves.
As the hand reached the apex of its height, his aura began glowing a fierce orange.
And a cyan-tipped rainbow slammed into the orange, smoking as it hit the field. One of Rainbow Dash’s hooves went into his hip, shattering the bone with her mythral shoes. The other hit the thigh below, snapping it. So hard was the blow that the leg beneath came up at a sideways angle, kicking her in the nose.
The tiny sun flew to the side, incinerating snow a hundred yards from the fight. Rainbow bounced off him, singed, bleeding from her face. The warlock spun in the air and lost altitude. His crushed leg flapped at his side. He was crying in his goggles, in so much pain, knowing that he’s have to focus or he’d fall…
He hit the snow with a sound like water on a frying pan. The bike landed heavily on top, and he lay still.
Now, one of the warlocks – the boy who struck first – was charging towards Twilight, firing wild lightning. She ducked, but her eyes were on the more precise one turned away from her. He had raised a hand and shot a single, knife-like dart at the pegasus. She dodged, but not far enough. The tiny missile exploded as it passed Rainbow. The worst of it was avoided, but the thunder of sound made her heart skip a beat, and her wings frayed out at unnatural angles. Stunned and senseless, Rainbow fell the last few dozen feet to land wetly in the snow.
But the man shouldn’t have turned his back on Twilight. Lightning flared once more from her horn, this time striking squarely between his shoulder blades. He didn’t even have time to look surprised before collapsing, his heart roasted in his chest.
And Twilight didn’t even have time to worry about Rainbow. There were still two left.
STAULLER!
Not Stauller!
God Damn Stauller.
Derek jerked an arm at the Americans. A green-black beam shot out. One of them was struck and a same-color explosion emerged from his corpse. Those around him caught fire and thrashed in the snow, screaming.
God Damn Stauller. Smart Stauller. First in our class to recite the alphabet. Then first to multiply.
Could’ve been an engineer. But Fritz and I wanted to join the Freikorps, so he came too. Maybe not so smart, to have friends like us.
Whatever. The Americans didn’t matter now, with their planes and guns and ‘nuts.’
Gessler threw one of his bolts at them too, but the unicorn parried it with a thread-like magic beam. The humans returned the favor, stopping their charge to shoot at Gessler. His shield blocked a few of the bullets, but he was always the weakest of them. Through his imperfect defense, one found a hip. Then his stomach, then his head.
Good riddance. Damn Youth Soldiers. Damn SS. All you God Damn Nazis deserve it.
Stauller didn’t. He wasn’t a Nazi. His girl’s roommate, she was an earth pony. Student at Konigsberg. He helped her escape. I was a good friend, I didn’t tell.
What do you think of that, unicorn?
God Damn you.
Not Stauller. Not Fritz.
PLEASE, GOD, NOT ALL OF US.
God Damn you.
Twilight felt the man coming in on her side, heard the snow beneath him melt with a hiss. Her horn was charging power even as she turned.
The blast of purple energy met his own, its color now a bright green swirling with black and purple. White light glared from the point of collision, and kept glaring as the mages poured more and more energy into it.
Sweat and blood trickled down Twilight’s face. The warlock’s attack was coming on full-force, stronger than any of the other blows she suffered. Stronger than most unicorns could ever get. If she tried to move or even alter the spell, the time wasted would let him rip through her magic. An instant was all he would need.
Nothing to do but endure. Twilight felt herself sliding backwards in the snow, but didn’t even dare move a leg to steady herself. No finesse for either of them left, just raw power. A magical grapple.
So long as she held on…it was one she would win. A warlock’s magic was stolen. Unnatural. A thing consumed and processed. The more used, the less would remain. To a unicorn, it was more like a muscle. The more often it was used, the stronger it got. And even among her own, the depth of Twilight’s magic was legendary.
The force of her beam was steady. The warlock’s began burning itself out. The purple beam began slowly devouring the green one.
Not a hint of fear was on the man’s face. When Twilight finally looked at him, he met her eyes with hatred. At once calm and furious, his eyes wanted her dead. No matter the cost, he would kill her.
The strange, stolen magic responded to his wishes. The green energy surged forth anew, passing the halfway point and driving Twilight’s backwards. The warlock walked forward after his beam, arms trembling with the power. His face was red, his teeth grimacing beneath the enraged eyes.
A vein on his face burst open, spraying the snow below with green sparks and blood. His body couldn’t take so much at once. The tide of magic was starting to burst out in any way possible.
The balance shifted another few feet against Twilight. The warlock coughed fresh, red blood. His pinkie fingers snapped backwards as he willed still more power into the attack. His beam moved up another few feet, almost touching Twilight’s horn.
Bullets came at him, but melted as they approached. His cold expression shifted and strained. He was so close. But Twilight was throwing in everything she had. Her horn throbbed, but still she forced more magic into the air. Steam was rising from the snow around them.
Another burst of blood and green sparks, this time from his chest. And another from the side of his head. One more foot closer to Twilight.
The warlock’s eyes finally broke from hers. They swam out of focus and glanced to the side, looking at…something.
The green tide waned to a trickle in an instant. Twilight tried to hold back, but she had put so much strength into the beam by now it couldn’t be stopped. The purple force shot forward, searing the final warlock to ash.
She blinked. Her horn was still throbbing, but adrenaline chased out the pain. Now – for the love of Celestia, even now – there was more to be done.
The Germans were still coming.
“Take the wounded and get to the village! Hold it at all costs!” The band behind her sprang to her orders, but Twilight ran forward a little further.
About thirty yards out slumped a scorched, battered cyan body. Twilight swallowed nervously as she approached, but the pegasus groaned and moved.
“Oh thank you.” Twilight breathed, eyes blurring with tears. “Thank you so much. I’m alive. You’re alive.”
“Huh-wa?” Rainbow managed, eyes rolling around in her head. “Wah? That you, Rares?”
A concussion, probably. Rainbow squawked as Twilight’s magic lifted her out of the snow.
“C’mon Rainbow.” Twilight said it, determined. She was exhausted. She’d have to stay up late making sure everything was arranged just right. Then she’d have to stay up late again the next night. And the one after, until help came for Bastogne. Oh well. She’d live.
She’d live.
Author's Note
Chapter 10: Warlocks in Winter (Epilogue)
”It is morning. It is cold, but it is morning still. The Sun is rising over Europe.”
-Princess Celestia, December 31st, 1944
North of Bastogne
It had been a few hours since the human said anything. Long enough to worry Applejack. “Y’all still with me, Leslie?”
“It’s Tex,” the voice groaned back.
A moment passed and then it came again, carrying a note of concern. “What about yourself, ‘Jack? Christ, you sound like a chorus of frogs.”
She gave a weak laugh, but didn’t dare waste any more energy on it. “It’s mah nose. Keeps running, but keeps freezing too. Think if I gave it a good blow, ice cubes would come out.”
Freezing. Ice. She spat a curse as the thought made her start shivering. It started with her front right, then spread like lightning to the rest of her body.
The shivering turned to violent tremors. They were bad enough that it was hard to walk. Applejack’s pace slowed, but never stopped. She couldn’t stop. Dusk was falling. Couldn’t stop until she found them some shelter. And it better be soon, because they were in a world of trouble if it wasn’t.
Lost her hat some time ago. Dad’s hat. Couldn’t even think about the sentimental value right now, not with her legs going numb in the snow. Not with her ears feeling like they were freezing off. Not with her stomach growling and nose frozen shut.
Not with Manny still lying back there.
”AJ, keep that dumb shit Tex on your back. Start running at the first sign of trouble. I don’t like the look these Krauts are giving us...”
A tear came down her face, freezing along with all the others.
Tex’s thoughts had apparently drifted to the sergeant, too. He turned on his litter – a wooden door hitched to Applejack like a sled – and cast his eyes on her back. “That stubborn jackass, I can’t believe it.”
“I know,” she sighed, clamping her mouth closed afterwards. No point in letting him hear her teeth chatter. He was probably scared enough as it was.
“Doesn’t make any sense, you know? The other guy starts shooting and you don’t have a gun, what do you do? You head for the freaking hills, that’s what. Thank Christ I was riding you, or I’d be sporting a bullet in the brain. But Manny? Did you see him?”
“Not really,” Applejack said quickly, gritting her teeth again afterwards.
“Craziest thing you ever freaking saw, ‘Jack. When…when the Germans started shooting, we were all in that field, you know? You took off like a shot, and all I could do was hold on for dear life. But I looked back and saw Sergeant Manny running TOWARDS them. Towards that freaking machine gun they set up and just hurled his helmet at it.”
More quiet, freezing tears came down Applejack’s face as the human went on. Tex’s own voice was cracking with emotion. “I dunno, maybe the Kraut flinched? Maybe he stopped firing for a second, and a few extra people made it out of there. Christ, that’s what I want to think. Maybe he just died without a reason…”
“…Like the rest of them…” A sob coursed through Tex’s voice.
Applejack kept her eyes resolutely forward, keeping her teeth grit shut. Stop crying, Tex. Ain’t doing nopony no good. Save your energy. After that second bullet, you’ve got little enough to spare.
Just focus on staying warm. I’ll get us out of this.
But she didn’t say it. Applejack was crying too, and shaking too badly, and not really sure how things were going to turn out.
“I can’t believe it!” Her burden screamed, jerking a useless fist to the sky.
’Burden?’
Well…Heck, don’t think ‘bout that, now.
Tex continued in a broken voice. “I just can’t believe it. We had surrendered , for the love of God. And they just lined us up in that damn field. ‘A headcount,’ they said, a HEADCOUNT! How stupid are we?! Those lying sacks of shit, they knew EXACTLY what was going to happen. With us all nice and lined up in front of all those rifles and that MG…”
He shook his head, voice getting even weaker. “It was like the big ol’ hand of God swung a sickle, and down they went like cut wheat. You ever saw anything like that before?”
Applejack heaved a sigh. “Didn’t see it then, neither. I was running with the first shots, and didn’t look back.”
Opening her mouth let her teeth resume their chattering, but Tex didn’t seem to notice. “You reckon any of the others got away, ‘Jack?”
“M-m-maybe.” Applejack didn’t even shrug, too busy shivering and shaking and chattering to-
“Goddamn, ‘Jack, you’re shaking more than a schoolboy on his first date.”
Applejack swallowed and gingerly turned her neck to look at her passenger. The movement sent needles of icy pain down her back, but still she walked on. Tex was looking right at her.
Wire-haired, wire-built Tex. A fast-talker from suburban Houston, he had passed himself off as a cowboy until the real thing came along in the form of Applejack. She liked him fine, but never expected much out of him.
He picked a bad time to prove her wrong.
His breath caught as he saw her face. “My God, ‘Jack, you look terrible.”
Applejack tried to snort, but with her nose stopped-up nothing came out. Tex didn’t look like much, himself. Frozen tears were stuck in the grooves of his face, and frozen snot had formed a film above his lip. A ski hat mercifully kept his ears warm, but every inch beneath was frosted over save for the places the skin cracked and blood leaked out.
Judging from Tex’s response, her own face probably didn’t look any better.
He finally broke eye contact and looked her up and down. Taking in the shaking limbs and white-blue ears. The icy flanks and the chattering teeth.
Then his eyes turned back to his own body. He got two bullets in the thigh as they fled the murder field. Riding proved impossible without tearing open the wounds, so they had stolen the door from one of the farms they passed. The impromptu sleigh was hard to work with. While he stayed bundled and still, Applejack was exposed, and she didn’t have much left…
A thought crossed her mind, and she narrowed her eyes. Don’t you dare say it, Tex.
As if he knew her thoughts, Tex shook his head glumly. “Cut me loose, ‘Jack.”
“Shut yer mouth,” she snapped, too quickly for the chattering to stop her. She turned violently away from him and redoubled her pace.
“You think I’m an idiot?” He called out shrilly. “It’s gonna be night soon, and our asses are dying tonight. As in DEAD. As in, ‘we’d’a saved ourselves a lot of trouble if we just walked in front of the MG.’”
“You quit that talk right now,” Applejack snarled.
“’Jack, I’m a hundred-fifty pounds of dead weight you’re lugging around. You’d move four times as fast without me, easy.”
Applejack shook her head. “How ‘bout you hushing up right now and letting me work?”
“DAMMIT, ‘JACK!” Tex screeched, his fear and anger boiling over. “You think I want this? No! I’m not brave or selfless. I’d kill Roosevelt himself if it meant I get to live. But I don’t. I just don’t, I’m DEAD, okay! Like all those poor bastards in the field, I’m DEAD. But I’m not quite so much a bastard that I’d drag you down with me. I get to DIE. You get to LIVE, if only you’d quit being such a stubborn mule! You KNOW I’m right!”
“Ah don’t reckon Ah do!” Applejack shouted back.
“Jackass!”
“Dumb-apple!”
“Stupid pony!”
“Idiot man!”
A short pause, then he responded in a deflated voice. “You don’t have anything to prove, Applejack. You’re a damn fine girl. I’d say a good soldier too, except I don’t know a thing about being a good soldier.”
He finished with a sob. “I go right to Hell if I drag a good sort like you down with me.”
“Well, you enjoy the warm weather if’n it happens.” Applejack tried to smile, but her face was so numb she had no idea if it was successful. “But it won’t. I gotcha, and that’s that.”
Tex fell silent afterwards, and it didn’t take long for Applejack to wish he’d speak again. For all her assurances and fake confidence…he was right. She was too cold. Too tired. There wasn’t much left to give. Soon dusk would turn to night and it would get even colder.
Just keep walking.
Might survive if the dead weight was dropped.
No.
Big Macintosh. Applebloom. The girls. Don’t you want to see them again?
Ah will. Pinkie Promise.
…Ah don’t really believe that.
But that ain’t no excuse to abandon a friend in need.
Too stubborn to live.
“Too stubborn to die,” Applejack grunted through a raw throat, forcing her mouth into a fearless grin. The wind was starting to blow in her face, so she lowered her head and soldiered on.
Trotting alongside her patrol, Rarity was the first to see the pair. A slow moving blotch of orange against a darkening sky. While the humans advanced at a wary pace, she dashed ahead.
Was it Applejack? Hope flooded her heart, followed a moment later by fear of disappointment.
Hope proved the victor. Caked in frost, head lowered in exhaustion, it was indeed Applejack plodding down the road. Her steps had grown so small that her hooves simply dragged through the snow ahead of a makeshift sled tied to her back.
So exhausted was Applejack that she didn’t even notice the unicorn approach. Not until Rarity’s hooves wrapped around her, yanking her frostbitten nose into a snow-white shoulder. Rarity shivered – it was like hugging an ice cube. Her muscles tensed, but her mind overruled them. She shifted a little to get better footing and hugged all the tighter.
“You feel like fire, Rares,” Applejack mumbled. “Ah must be freezin’ you half to death.”
You’re the one frozen half to death, Dear. Rarity smiled quietly and weaved a simple spell with her horn. A light-pink fire enveloped both of them, harming neither and filling their bodies with a gentle warmth.
Applejack’s eyes widened, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Woah.” She smiled sleepily, nuzzling into Rarity’s side. “Never seen that ‘un, before. Feels nice.”
“It’s called ‘Friendship’s Warmth,’ Dear.” Rarity said, easing Applejack gently to the ground. The snow beneath them melted, and the exhausted earth pony collapsed into her friend’s embrace.
“It takes two to cast.”
Applejack had fallen asleep instantly, not even waking when Rarity lifted her with telekinesis into one of the trucks.
“You can get some sleep, too,” Ben Cook quipped at the American soldier as they lifted him onto a stretcher.
“I’ve been lying down for four days,” Tex snapped. “Get me some food and hooch and send me back after the Germans. I owe them.”
But the war was over for Tex. He’d been hit so many times that he’d get a hot ticket to Britain, there to spend months and months in a hospital.
He didn’t say much when the medics told him. They congratulated him on finished his duty. When the Germans surrendered, Tex would read about it in a London Newspaper set by his hospital bed. He nodded when they smiled and patted his shoulder, assuring him that everything would be fine.
When the truck resumed its slow, rumbling journey, Rarity watched as Tex reached over and gripped Applejack’s leg. The sleeping pony didn’t even budge as Tex squeezed her, crying silently.
Rarity didn’t say anything, and neither did the human. He continued to weep without a sound, holding onto Applejack the whole way to Bastogne.
McAuliffe considered himself a stern professional when it came to soldiering. Parades and polish were for others, he’d stick with tough men and muddy boots.
But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with enjoying your time in the sun.
He probably had as many reporters as Princess Celestia, maybe even Patton. In a crisp, clean uniform he led them down the battered streets. He even allowed himself a savage grin as the well-fed civilians shivered in the cold.
“Even without their warlocks, things were touch-and-go for a while,” he explained, keeping it as simple as he could. “No Christmas turkey for us, all through the 24th, 25th, and 26th they came on, tightening around us. But we held on, dammit. The pegasi finished clearing the skies on Christmas, letting the flyboys bomb ‘em. Those poor bastards just kept coming, through the bombs and the snow and the machine guns. Some of them even got in Bastogne itself, but we were able to throw them out.”
Firing from windows and doorways as they spilled into town. The Germans dying, they just kept dying, but they kept pushing forward. They were able to firebomb some of the buildings. Not many survivors from those ones.
But nobody wants to hear that part.
“But you boys know the rest of the story. Patton from the South and Celestia from the West.” He punched his fists together. “Can’t get through Bastogne, so they have to leave the roads. Lots of them get lost, or slow down so much we catch up with them. All their panzers outta gas, dozens and dozens of ‘em, just left for us on the road.”
“Those who can, running into the woods with the princess and Ol’ Blood ‘n Guts at their heels. Those Krauts who were on the wrong side of Bastogne…” he punched his fist again. “It’s done, boys. Hitler’s last gasp, done. And here’s where it ended.”
Sure he was proud, but he had a right to be. He made a difference here, a BIG difference.
“Not just me,” McAuliffe whispered, yanking himself back down to Earth. Leaving the reporters to other interviews, he retraced his steps back to the old city hall. There wasn’t much headquarters-work to be done, so he let the docs annex it for a hospital. Lots of people in there – his own, and injured guys from Patton and Celestia’s armies as well.
He shook a few hands, patted a few shoulders. The wounded and dying, looking up at him like he was Moses with the Ten Commandments. He was the big damn hero, and they worshipped him for it.
Rather than inflate his ego, the praise pierced it, bringing him down from his heady jingoism. A hero? He just sat back and gave orders.
A side hall brought him to where the wounded Equestrians lay. The segregation made it easier on everyone – go figure, human doctors didn’t know much about treating ponies. They had one of their own nurses here, but the brunt of the work was borne by local veterinarians. Funny ol’ world.
God help him, even these ponies were awed in his presence. Blushing and giggling, Flitter asked him to kiss her bandaged leg so it would heal faster. What could he do? He leaned in and did it, pretending not to notice a camera flash off to the side.
The newsreels hadn’t paid much attention to the other hero of Bastogne. Even these Equestrians didn’t know how much Twilight Sparkle had done. A bandage was wrapped around her chest, and another on her leg. Her cheek had fresh stitches on it, and one of her ears would hang in two halves for the rest of her days. But all in all, the wounds were minor. She got off lucky. They all did.
Twilight hovered around a bed that held an orange mare, holding a bowl of soup and spoon with her magic. The pony in question was barely visible, bundled beneath several blankets with a hot water bag on her head. She glared daggers at her friend, reluctantly allowing herself to be fed. On the other side of the bed, Rainbow Dash stood with her head swaddled in bandages, chatting with a white unicorn. A few battered Americans had planted themselves on stools nearby, beaming at the bedridden mare.
“Chicken soup, AJ?”
“Don’t be gross, Jackie,” the orange pony huffed. “Hot bean soup, thank you very much.”
The corporal shook his head, befuddled smile on his face. “And you were walking for four days. Shoot, Big Lee and I got picked up by the Brits within two. That couldn’t’ve been easy, what with you dragging Tex the whole way.”
“Reckon we made do.” The mare shrugged and looked away, feebly accepting another spoonful.
The larger human spoke. “Fred got out, too. Kid didn’t even realize we were being shot at until your brother snagged him.”
That got her attention. “Mac’s here?!”
Jackie lit a cigarette, smiling with half of his mouth “’Eeyup.’ Actually was in your bed, but he cleared out to make room. Big red target that he is he got hit again, but it didn’t slow him down. Shoot, between that and D-Day he’d have two purple hearts by now if he was from the States.”
“Heh.” Applejack cracked a smile. “He’s too stubborn to die, just like his sis.”
Die. “Hey…any of you guys hear what happened with Manny?”
Jackie took a puff and looked away. “Yeah, pitched his helmet at Jerry. Poor bastard. They’re calling it the ‘Malmedy Massacre.’”
Alliteration. Applejack gave an irate snort. “Don’t much care what they call it.”
“Neither do I,” Twilight said. She touched her hoof to Applejack’s, smiling softly. “I just care that you’re alive.”
The farmpony frowned, glaring off into space. “I hear yah, Sugar. It’s just…lotsa good folks ain’t.”
“I know,” Twilight said softly. Hesitantly, gently, she leaned in to embrace her friend. “But you are. You all are. I can be happy for that.”
Too weak to lift her forelegs, Applejack nuzzled her friend back. Rainbow Dash and the white unicorn stepped over to join the quiet group hug. Applejack and Rarity were sobbing. Rainbow was frowning tightly, fighting the water coming to her eyes. Twilight was smiling with her eyes closed, but a tear trailed its way down her cheek.
McAuliffe watched for one more second before turning away, unnoticed. This ain’t no place for a ‘hero.’
Author's Note
As the weather broke, so too did the deadlock around Bastogne. Allied planes began to hammer the besiegers, desperate to save the forces trapped inside. Patton made his presence felt, assaulting with reckless abandon to relieve the siege. With so much of their army trapped on the wrong side of Bastogne, the Germans themselves fought wildly to secure the crossroads. And against them the defenders held out, unwilling to yield with relief so close in sight.
In the end, Model’s last desperate assaults failed. The defense held. Patton entered Bastogne triumphantly on December 27th. Eisenhower finally released Celestia to attack and attack she did, pinching the cream of the Axis assault between herself and Bastogne.
The remnants of the German army fled back into the Ardennes Forest, pursued by forces under Celestia, Bradley, and Patton. There, the Allied generals found no great victories. Only ambushes and minefields, bunkers and kill-boxes. Once more, Walter Model had resurrected the German army and punished his foes for their hubris.
But this would be the last time. Germany had so little left to give, and disaster now loomed more inevitably than ever. The blow in the East met with much the same results as the one in the West: The Germans struck, gained ground, and were then rolled back with heavy losses and no real success.
The last card had been thrown. Crippled beyond salvation, the Wehrmacht rallied its remaining strength and prepared for the apocalypse. There was no chance now, not even of a negotiated peace. Yet still the Third Reich would fight on, desperate, maddened, clinging to the last few threads of hope.
The year turned. The snow began to thaw, and already the Allied armies were on the move.
Chapter 10 of the project, and end of the Bastogne arc. Thank you for reading.
--Snapshot - The Army of Oblivion
"Now they are fighting with the frenzy of despair."
-Thomas Dewey, US presidential candidate
The Volkssturm March to War
Even after all its defeats, at the dawn of 1945 the German army remained strong. Millions of men still stood under arms, backed by heavy tanks and advanced jet fighters. Leading them were the same geniuses who carried it to phenomenal success in the early war. Its defensive lines were thick and well-supported by railways. Few still held any love for Nazism, but they were well aware of Allied post-war plans: Disassemble Germany, end its industry, and divide the pieces between them. Facing the destruction of all they lived for, even liberal Germans fell in with the regime that fought to save the nation.
Yet the strength Germany held was a brittle, hollow strength. Its cities and factories were being bombed to rubble. The only industry that remained strong was the harvest of Unicorn dust, which grew to a frenzied pace as they leaned on their last trump card. Of the millions of soldiers, too few were skilled veterans, and too many were drafted youths and Volkssturm militia. Their command and resources were divided by private armies of the Luftwaffe and SS at the time when unity was most needed. Skilled anti-Nazi officers were shot or sacked as Hitler’s paranoia rose. Though held in line by desperate patriotism, morale was low and desertions frequent. Germany was exhausted after five years of war, and many sought only to survive the final months.
Perhaps most crucially, while Germany’s officers remained canny, the Allies had grown wiser. Gone was the wasteful Soviet infantry charge, gone was the hesitation of Eisenhower’s coalition. The Russian army had become brilliant on the attack, enveloping whole fronts with broad armored thrusts and a hungry willingness to sacrifice. The Western Allies were less aggressive, but no less destructive, bombing miles of land ahead of their attacks with planes and artillery. Notably, they also began experimenting with closer human-Equestrian coordination. Pegasi carrying tiny bombs launched pinpoint raids, and platoons of unicorns proved a capable answer to Axis warlocks.
The weight against it proved too much for the exhausted Wehmacht. 1945 brought only disaster for Germany: Its army would break on all fronts, and May would see Russian troops in Berlin and the final surrender of the Third Reich.
Author's Note
"So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, 'My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?' Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, and builded parapets and trenches there, And stretched forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him. Behold, A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him. But the old man would not so, but slew his son, "
-"The Parable of the Old Man and the Young", by Wilfred Owen
(I've always found the above image to be chilling - a crowd of civilians stretching into the distance, armed and sent to war without the slightest hope of victory. Simply a massacre that had not yet occurred.)
--Snapshot - Yalta: A Broken Peace
”When a man says he approves of something in principle, it means he hasn’t the slightest intention of carrying it out in practice.”
-Otto Von Bismarck, German Statesman
This iconic photo of “The Big Four” – Churchill, Roosevelt, Stalin, and Celestia – was taken during the Yalta Conference of February, 1945. When it was published, many sources noted Celestia’s apparent discomfort with humor. Perhaps she had been caught in a candid moment, or perhaps she was missing the joke the other leaders were enjoying.
On the last day of the conference, Celestia wrote to her sister Luna. Her own opinion was given with uncharacteristic bluntness, saying, “Mine was the only honest face at that disaster.”
The Princess had approached the conference with far more optimism than she left it with. February 1945 was perhaps the zenith of her political might. The humans viewed her as a capable statesman and commander, and she took the invitation to Yalta as a golden chance. Her vision for postwar Europe was an optimistic one, designed to end the growing distrust between East and West. The massive armies of America and Russia would be put to rebuilding the shattered continent. To task Germany’s famed industry with replacing what was lost, and when that was done, for every soldier to return from whence they came. Military occupation would be brief, remaining only as long as was needed to rebuild victor and vanquished alike.
Celestia quickly found that the other leaders had their own visions for the postwar, ones entirely incompatible with her own. Winston Churchill was tired and surly through the meeting, suspicious of Stalin but wary of confrontation. He privately called the Soviet premier “A bloody-minded dictator,” and warned Celestia that “He will not remain inside Russia.” But Britain was exhausted from war and in tremendous debt, leaving Churchill in a weakened position. When push came to shove, he would remain on the sidelines.
The American president took a much more optimistic view than Churchill, but it was one that chilled his relationship with Celestia. Roosevelt sided with Stalin in vowing vengeance against Germany, envisioning a complete dismantling of its industry and a partition into several tiny nations. The princess and the president sparred verbally on the matter, the opposing views well-established by the following exchange on the first day:
Princess Celestia: “Germany is…reliant on heavy industry. Half of them will starve if we don’t let them have it, and their economy will never recover. Is that what you want?”
President Roosevelt: “Yes! YES, Tia. They did it to themselves, let them stew in it! Let them starve! Let their young grow up getting every meal from an Army soup kitchen, and see if they make war again!”
Although their friendship was rapidly ending, Celestia felt comfortable enough with Roosevelt to exchange ideas. No such rapport existed between her and Stalin. The two remained polite, but wary, neither quite certain what to think. Celestia felt he could not be trusted, but worried that confrontation would single her out as his enemy. For his part, Stalin wondered what ambitions this ageless, alien queen held, and resolved to tread lightly with her.
Roosevelt was very friendly with the premier, and he seemed to respond well to it. Shocking his detractors, Stalin agreed to the principle of a temporary military occupation and (grudgingly) releasing German war criminals to be tried by an international court. Churchill and Celestia pushed for free elections in Poland, and Stalin acquiesced. He insisted that the Communist provisional government be recognized, but agreed that it would only maintain order until democratic elections could take place.
Between Roosevelt’s friendliness, Churchill’s lobbying, and Celestia’s cautious diplomacy, Stalin acquiesced or compromised on most matters. Roosevelt’s vicious plan for Germany was watered down, and by the second day a solid deal seemed to be in reach.
What followed then is well-summarized by Celestia’s frustrated letter:
“…Five days of the worst sort of politics. Every sentence of the deal studied, its wording chipped at, questioned, and rewritten time and time again. Each time, it is a step away from clarity, from the intentions behind the words. Promises are becoming vague. Intentions even less clear than ever. The human powers seem more interested in dividing Germany than rebuilding even their own lands…
I have grown to be very nervous of Josef Stalin…if he intends to follow his promise [of elections in Eastern Europe], why water down the words? Why deny British observers, or refuse to talk with the Polish government-in-exile?
On Thursday, Franklin confided in me his belief that Stalin was paranoid by nature. The president believed that by being a friend, by giving freely and asking nothing back, that trust would win out over fear and Stalin would make good on his word.
I am less confident. Is it only fear that has driven Stalin to annex and conquer?
I suppose we shall find out. The Soviets and Americans are the strongest of us by far, so it is Stalin and Franklin who set the pace of the discussion. I can only try to keep the last teeth the deal has from being pulled out.”
Celestia found a glum ally in the form of James Byrnes, an older US delegate who quickly came to confide in the Princess. He tried to reconcile her with Roosevelt, noting a fact no one else seemed eager to mention: The Soviet Army outnumbered the Western Allies by 3:1, and would likely crush them if it came to blows.
“Your Highness,” he said, “I’m sorry to say it, but it’s not a question of what we’ll let the Russians do. It’s what we can convince them to do, and not a bit more.”
History would show that Stalin was well aware of his strength. By the end of the negotiations, Soviet dominance of Eastern Europe had been tacitly accepted. Stalin’s political muscle ensured that no power but his own would decide how to enforce the treaty. Perhaps it meant little either way – when his foreign minister expressed concerns about the remaining restrictions, Stalin replied, “Never mind, we can always do things our own way later.”
More immediately, Yalta would prove a propaganda coup for the Third Reich. As their enemies pledged the nation would be plundered and divided, ordinary Germans rallied to the regime. Hopes of an internal revolution or coup were dashed, and the fighting would rage on.
Celestia signed the treaty, (correctly) believing that refusal would do nothing but fracture the alliance. She wrote her letter and departed immediately, heart branded with cynicism. When the question was later asked if Equestria would return to isolationism, that cynicism would steer the course.
Soarin had read the Yalta transcript one night, and he didn’t even find it interesting. Dull political language, well outside of his interests.
But it was bad news for the Poles, or at least they believed it was. He could feel it, walking through their campgrounds. No cards, or joking, or boxing matches going on. Just men looking off in the distance, black berets or bare heads. Drinking and smoking. Smoking and drinking, and staring off into the distance. Tight, unhappy frowns, or soft, resigned ones.
Halfway down the muddy path, Sosabowski’s aide matched pace with Soarin. Lieutenant Bartoz was slim for a soldier, with a blonde dusting of hair and permanent look of disapproval. They never interacted much before now – Bartoz was always in his General’s shadow.
The Lieutenant gave a wan smile. “Thank you for coming.”
“Sure…” Soarin paused as they approached Sosabowski’s guards, but the men just nodded in recognition.
Soarin swallowed as Bartoz bent to open the pavilion’s flap. “How’s he taking it?”
The sound of breaking glass exploded from inside the tent. Another smashing sound came, punctuated with Sosabowski’s voice roaring, “THOSE BASTARDS!!!”
Bartoz’ lips came up in a sarcastic little smile, eyes turning back to Soarin. “About as well as you’d expect.”
Stepping inside, Soarin was surprised the glass lasted as long as it did. General Sosabowski seemed to have already smashed all the wooden chairs. He had then turned to the desks, lifting them up with his hairy arms and swinging them to the ground without a thought for the wine glasses atop.
“THOSE HIGH AND MIGHTY BASTARDS!”
He was breathing rapidly, to the point of hyperventilation. A few staff members and guards loitered at the periphery, exchanging nervous looks. Sosabowski’s fists remained clenched, and he managed only the barest nod to the newcomers.
“Soarin,” the general strained out through grit teeth. “Talk fast.”
Soarin gulped. Bartoz had requested his presence, but what was he supposed to do?
Maybe this? Soarin took a sharp breath in, and exhaled. “General…let me talk to my princess. I think…I think if you can’t go home, maybe there could be a home for you in Equestria. Your families, too. I think if I explained the situation to Princess Celestia she’d understand and bend the rules for-“
That was exactly as far as he got. A granite fist connected with his jaw, sending Soarin to the grass.
Sosabowski stood above him, only incensed further. “Do I look like a man who wants pity from you?!”
He raised the first to strike again, but an arm from behind seized it. Two guards and three aides tackled their superior, hauling his struggling form to the ground. The paratroopers were rough sorts – he could fire any of them, but none were too gentle as they wrestled him down.
Bartoz offered a hand to help Soarin up, forgetting for a moment that ponies rose on all four limbs. He gestured outside and the two quickly departed, leaving six swearing forms on the ground.
Soarin took another sharp breath and wiped his mouth – blood, and a loose tooth. He’d had worse.
A tight, embarrassed frown marked Bartoz’ face. “Sorry. He’s not himself.”
The pegasus nodded, glancing back. “Yeah…maybe I can stick around until he calms down?”
Bartoz shook his head quickly. “You came. He’ll recognize that. The war won’t wait for this.”
Soarin chewed his tongue, trying to knead out the taste of blood. “Hm…ugh, I don’t get it. I read the transcript, I really don’t see what’s wrong. It makes sense that the Soviets would help rebuild, they’re the ones there now. It said that Stalin agreed to everyone’s self-rule, and he would withdraw when possible. Seems okay to me.”
“Good.” That mean, sarcastic little smile came back to Bartoz’ face. “I’ll tell General Sosabowski we don’t have anything to worry about. Stalin signed a paper .”
Author's Note
”Human progress is neither inevitable nor automatic.”
-Martin Luther King, Civil Rights Activist
It’s…hard for me to take a side on the Yalta controversy. On the one hand, it was “Western Betrayal” at its worst – the selling out of a stable, democratic ally for political expedience. It prompted a wave of resignations in British government and, more sobering, a wave of suicides in the Free-Polish army.
On the other hand, it is unlikely Stalin would have yielded Poland to diplomacy. Attempts by the West to be “tougher” might have provoked a new war, one unlikely to end in their favor. Stalin held Poland, he was keeping it, and his rivals simply lacked the strength to take it from him. Viewed in this light, the Yalta treaty seems a damning, but necessary concession to the inevitable.
Less inevitable, and certainly less excusable, was the oppression of Germany following the war. Motivated by winner’s vengeance and the belief that the German “race” inherently craved war, genuine efforts were made to starve its people and dismantle its industry. Starvation in Germany actually increased in the years following the war, as did disenfranchisement and displacement.
Oddly, the trend might have continued had it not been for the Cold War. Seeking allies and propaganda, East and West rebuilt the two halves of Germany in their own image. Each side strengthened the industry and military, knowing the scarred country would the battleground if war broke out. The inhabitants were aware of this as well. A grim joke circulated on both sides of the Berlin Wall: “World War III will be fought to the last German.”
“War means blind obedience, unthinking stupidity, brutish callousness, wanton destruction, and irresponsible murder.”
-Alexander Berkman, Ukrainian Anarchist
Excerpt from Hooves and Panzers: One Mare’s War, by Rarity Belle, published 1956.
Finding my friends again, somehow reuniting amidst this maddeningly huge war…it was amazing. Whatever power brought us together in that Bastogne hospital, be it fate, luck, or the hoof of some kind deity, I will always be grateful to it. I think we all needed that little reunion, perhaps I more than the others. During that entire battle, I did not see so much as a German prisoner. The girls shared their stories, telling of hard fighting and desperate flight. And what story did I have? Nothing. Simply another mare, locked behind the front while others did my fighting for me. I felt ashamed.
Applejack noticed how low my mood was growing, and immediately forced a confession in that wonderfully forthright manner of hers. The three of them set me straight without delay: I was their friend, and that was that. If I had been spared the fighting, so much the better.
Everyone said – and we usually believed them – that the end of the war was in sight. Twilight Sparkle spoke with such certainty, saying that if none of us saw fighting again, that would be just fine with her. Rainbow nodded, as did Applejack.
So did I, but I was less sure. I don’t think any of them thought less of me for missing the violence, but I thought less of me. And if the war ignored me again, it wouldn’t be out of mercy. There would simply be another in my place. Another individual with hopes and dreams, doing Rarity’s part for her on the front lines. Maybe dying for it.
With such thoughts in my mind, it was with less sadness than expected that I heard my unit was advancing. Attached to the battered American companies, the other girls would stay behind for a time.
The war cared little for our friendship: I received but one hour’s forewarning before we moved out. Time enough for a few hasty goodbyes and a fresh round of worrying for each other. It seems strange in hindsight, but I was enthusiastic to return to my post. Twilight’s words rung hollow in my ears. My friends had fought while I stayed safe. Now, I would fight. I felt I would never be their equal again if I didn’t.
There is little to say of the next few weeks. We marched or rode in trucks, reinforced en-route by men and, strangely, several unicorns. I gathered that a transformation was taking place in the Allied armies. With Axis warlocks reportedly growing in number, unicorns were seen as our natural answer to them. My species started getting better training, and were increasingly attached to combat units.
Stranger still, with Princess Celestia commanding many regiments, humans were beginning to look on us as possible leaders as well. Our company’s captain – dead in Caen – was at long last replaced. It did not take long for word to spread of the Equestrian nature of the new officer.
Some of the men grumbled, but there will always be grumblers. What I did not expect was to join their number.
He came in a human-style uniform, all khaki and braid with that ridiculous peaked hat on his head. Head raised, shoulders thrust, sure to inspire respect in anypony who hadn’t met him before.
Well I had. And Prince Blueblood was not a face I hoped to see again.
All the way from that disastrous Gala to here, the Crown Prince of Cowardice, the Duke of Discourtesy, the Heir of Impotence, HIM. I readily joined the grumblers, ignoring their racial slurs to vent my own frustration. A fool, a twit, a coward, a brute. I certainly leveled more insults than were deserved. I can admit it now, I was bitter – I felt myself far his martial superior, and now had to obey his every order.
Friendly little Ben Cook took it upon himself to acquaint the new officer with everyone. I braced myself when my turn came, worried I might lash out in a very improper fashion (yes, even then I tried to retain what propriety I still had). And what did the prince say to me?
“A pleasure.”
Bored and distracted, the same line delivered to all the others. Blueblood didn’t even remember me.
Looking back, it’s understandable. Even if he had cause to recall the white damsel at the Gala, why would he equate her with the mare standing before him? With her borrowed helmet and shortened hair, and coat she wasn’t able to wash even once a week?
At the time, though? I DESPISED him for his poor memory. There are few things more frustrating than hating somepony who is barely aware of your existence.
Fuming, I trod steadily along with the rest as plains turned to woodlands. The Ardennes Forest was a sprawling, twisted army of trees the Germans seemed to navigate without difficulty. Bad ground to attack through, but Eisenhower’s logic was simple. Out of it they had come, and into it they fled. So after them, we went.
Our own role was bloodless until orders came on January 18, 1945. Into our camp rode Colonel Hellenson, a man of our mixed regiment with a uniform I was not able to identify. Not British or American – Canadian, perhaps. The colonel was young and irritating, brimming with enthusiasm and jingoism the lesser ranks did not share. He was…how should I say it? He was one who talked AT you, rather than TO you. He would ask trite questions about our personal lives, but never paid attention to the answer. I had seen him very little before that day, and had never really formed an opinion of him. I suppose it said something that his uniform was always very clean, and his boots always polished.
I thought he might make a good match for Blueblood, but the irritating prince seemed cowed in his presence. Whatever political games Blueblood played to become an officer, it is to his credit that he seemed to realize this wasn’t a fun adventure. A good start for a pony who had not yet seen combat.
The prince stood off to one side, nodding obediently while Colonel Hellenson talked with great sweeps of his arms. He said we were on the cusp of a major breakthrough. The German rearguards had been stretched to their limits and one more good push would send us toppling into Germany.
I took it all with a grain of salt, and I think the others did too. The end was coming, certainly. But we all knew it wasn’t here yet.
Our company had ‘a very important role’ he told us, but exactly what role that was wasn’t made clear. Other units would engage in more complicated maneuvers elsewhere on the line. We were simply to advance and seize a small town named Togemere, five miles east of our current position.
Such an order was not unusual – the whole army was on the offensive. We’d been called to take villages twice thus far. One we found unoccupied, and the other held a conscript platoon that begged to surrender. The only strange part here was that we were hearing it directly from our colonel. He stressed that we must not falter, that even if adversity is encountered to maintain the attack until our objective was achieved. Time and again he said that others would be counting on us, that the whole plan hinged on our actions.
Again, a grain of salt. The war was titanic, with soldiers fighting by the tens of thousands. It was hard to believe that much would hinge on the actions of our little company. Still, I could not fault Hellenson for his words. One of an officer’s duties is to extoll his command to greatness, no matter how cynical they might be.
Colonel Hellenson’s driver took him away. Blueblood was flamboyant as he ordered us to break camp, but he kept looking over his shoulder and swallowing. My dislike of him dropped, but my worry rose. He felt the responsibility he now held, that was good. But I did not have much confidence in him to lead us out of a difficult spot.
We knew there were Germans in the area, but these cursed woods stretched in every direction. Farms and fields were mixed in, but rarely did these work to our advantage. Concealed bunkers, even tunnels hid their positions from our scouts and planes. Maybe the Germans would be in Togemere, or in front of it. Maybe they wouldn’t. There was little to do but put our hoof on the stove and find out.
We were as ready as we could be. Replacements since Caen had brought us up to full strength and then some. 120 humans, divided into a dozen squads. Ten of these were rifle squads, one was command, and one held our heavy machine-guns. Each squad had a unicorn attached to it. With Blueblood included, our number reached the prophetic 13.
Our magical role was generally to provide mobile cover for our squad. Telekinesis was by far the most common magic of unicorns, so it was relatively simple to train recruits how to erect a barrier. It was not the most efficient way to use a dozen spell casters, but no one had quite figured out what to do with us. Only now, at the twilight of the war, did the Allied commanders begin to see unicorns as crucial soldiers. One wonders what may have been accomplished had our training been more rigorous, and better human-unicorn tactics been developed sooner.
But hindsight is crystal clear, as they say. At the very least, a dozen unicorns producing shields would do more good than a dozen unicorns sorting supplies or fixing trucks. As it was, I was the only Equestrian who had been on ‘combat duty’ since D-Day. The rest of the unicorns were ‘support’ ponies who had been retrained and attached to front-line units.
The squads were divided into four platoons, and advanced one after the other. Attacking in this ‘column’ let us move quickly and remain in close communication. A ‘horizontal’ advance would have left us thinly spread and more likely to attract attention. I gathered this was what Blueblood initially planned, but he revised at a sergeant’s suggestion.
We were well-warned of the Germans’ propensity for ambushing and counter-attacking in the dense terrain. The first two miles were through thick woods, and, wary as we were, they passed uneventfully. I let out a premature sigh of relief when the forest abruptly yielded to a wooden fence, beyond which lay the fields surrounding Togemere.
Blueblood had the platoons fan out horizontally and pressed the advance. Another mile passed. The barren fields around us were hardly cheerful, but they afforded us good visibility. The town lay diagonally to our left, a tiny collection of houses to make Ponyville seem grand in comparison. It had a quaint little church, and no other buildings of note. Looming at its doorstep, the Ardennes Forest resumed. I thought it strange that the fields would stretch so far in this direction from the town, but in the other the forest came right up to the houses. Perhaps the soil was poor further on.
The crack of rifles sounded. A few bullets emerged from the opposite tree line. Nothing came close to us.
“Skirmishers,” we said and thought. We had numbers. We could pin them down, advance. They could only hope to delay us. So we kept moving closer, cautious, firing a few shots to make them think twice.
Strange, the details I remember. Ben Cook said he felt sorry for the poor fools, starving and fighting in the woods for a lost cause. Stern Glare pointed out their bullets could kill regardless of circumstances. McSweeney, our sergeant, fixated himself on trying to silence one of the skirmishers with a precise shot.
“I see his helmet,” the dear sergeant said. Casually, as if at dinner.
And then the sky fell. The ground rose, and the world exploded in sound and light and violence.
Later I would learn there were 200 Germans in that tree line, armed with heavy machine-guns and anti-tank cannons and backed by mortars and artillery. They had sighted their heavy weapons on the field perfectly. If we pressed on, we would be decimated before even closing with their 200 rifles. If we withdrew, we would have miles of barren fields to cross under bombardment before reaching the woods. A perfect trap had been laid, and we had blundered into it. We were out of effective rifle range, but their big guns had our number to the meter. By some prearranged signal, they all began firing at once with murderous accuracy.
I cannot stress enough that such clinical appraisal does absolutely nothing to convey the horror faced by a pony under such a barrage. The mind tries to think, but such is the assault on the senses that it cannot. White and red flaring as the shells explode amongst us. Then suddenly there is black as smoke erupts and dirt is catapulted upwards. And the shaking. Could you plan, could you think or fight back while being shaken like an infant’s rattle? A mouth full of dirt. So little noise to be heard in deafened ears, but what you do hear brings no comfort. Shouts as officers impossibly try to restore order. Cries of the injured and terrified. Every man and pony among us addled and panicked.
We dropped to the ground, finding natural depressions and still-warm shell holes. I myself found a short ridge about a foot high. I threw myself behind it, lying down horizontally so every part of flesh possible was concealed.
I think several minutes passed, but it was impossible to tell time. The bombardment did not abate, but I grew used to it. There was time enough for my head to clear, as clear as it could be with blasts buffeting me and my adrenaline coursing.
The clarity was not comforting. We were in an awful predicament.
Finally, I dared to raise my head. McSweeney was some twenty meters away, crouching in a shell hole. The poor unlucky man, lightning struck twice: A white flash, a black explosion, and he disappeared from the Earth.
Not ten seconds later, another man named Welles jumped into the widened hole. He had to have been thankful for its depth, and did not have a thought to spare for the sergeant.
It was far better protection than my own cover. The tiny ridge may have helped against rifles, but meant little with bombs falling from above and shrapnel flying every which way. I knew I was vulnerable. Any moment now, shrapnel would find little Miss Rarity’s face and that would be that. Wouldn’t know it until it happened.
I could see one of our new unicorns – a quiet sort named Rocky Road – lying in the open where one shard had struck his belly. A medic had staunched the bleeding, and two stretcher bearers were preparing to hoist him back to friendly lines. Compared to them, my meager defense was a fortress. Four souls, clustered together, exposed for all the Germans to see. One by unlucky chance, three by choice.
It was a ten mile trek to the nearest aid station, back well behind our launch-point. By nothing but luck, they survived to bring Rocky Road to safety. Then the medics and stretcher bearers would turn around and return. They would crouch in the open again, among the shells and the shrapnel, and rescue another injured soldier. And they would return again, and again.
They were the only ones of us who still had their heads, who still knew their jobs.
Magnificent, every one of them.
Not a one survived that day. They deserved better.
Orders filtered from Blueblood – continue forward. The bombardment did not abate, but it did wax and wane. During the gentler times, we sped forward as far as we dared before diving into new cover. It was slow, painful going to an unknown end. There was little guarantee occupying Togemere would provide relief.
During this strangled advance, Ben Cook and I lost track of our squad and fell in with Blueblood’s. There was no waxing and waning here, just continual, accurate mortar fire that had slain or dispersed many of them. The command squad was very distinctive with its radio gear, and I suspect one of the Germans’ mortar spotters was gunning for them. With the field carefully sighted earlier, it was simple for them to keep up with our every move.
Prince Blueblood had called for air and artillery support, but none materialized. He was filthy now. His peaked hat was gone and pretty blonde mane matted with filth. A clod of dirt had hit one eye and swelled it half-shut. The other had this wide look of barely-restrained panic.
He, his radioman, and the squad’s sergeant were crouched closely in the open, shouting to be heard over the explosions. The two humans were emphatic (and vulgar) in arguing that the attack was hopeless and an immediate retreat should be conducted. Even if we reached the town, would the bombardment stop? Would the Germans let us have it?
It may have been shortsighted of us, as a retreat across the open land would scarcely be safer than an advance. But backwards meant reaching safety, and that’s all we could bring ourselves to think about.
A mortar shell came directly above our heads, but the squad’s unicorn had us covered. An invisible roof flickered blue at the impact. Sandy Hoof’s horn remained glowing, the shimmering magic a good match for his shaking legs. He looked like a terrified rabbit, but retained enough mind to hold the shield.
The close call seemed to convince Blueblood. He radioed the regimental HQ and got Colonel Hellenson on the line. As calmly as he could, Blueblood told him the situation. We could scarcely be in a worse spot, and there were many, many meters of open ground before us and Togemere. If we seized it, the fresh Germans could simply counter-attack and destroy us if the town proved important. With us frantically nodding in support, he informed the colonel that it was useless to continue the attack.
“Prince,” Hellenson replied very calmly. “You have all the resources you need to complete the task before you. I have every confidence in your capability to take the town. You will continue your advance, seize your objective, and we shall toast your victory tomorrow.”
The colonel hung up the receiver on the other end. We all stared blankly at the radio, wondering at the black comedy of it all.
Blueblood looked more scared than ever. The prince’s voice cracked as he stood up from the awkward crouch. “Well…forward it is.”
“Company, forward!” He shouted with little confidence, gesturing grandly with his horn.
Sandy Hoof shook his head wildly. “Prince, we can’t!”
“We must!” Blueblood shot back, on the verge of panic himself. “What will they say of you? Of me? Of US?!!”
He wailed, railed, on. “The first Equestrian leading human troops on the field. If he disobeyed, dishonored, fled, what then? We’d never live it down, any of us! These damn, filthy humans created this mess, and now they expect us to prove ourselves! Ponies can fight! Now press on!”
At least he got us moving. Hiding, hiding, then dashing forward again to the next spot of cover.
I recall a few events from that time very clearly. As I lay trembling in a shallow ditch, a medic leaned over me. He said he heard our lieutenant had been hit and asked where he lay. I told him I had no idea. A shell burst close by, but I was able to shield the man with my magic. He nodded his thanks and pressed on in his search, darting through the open fields.
I watched him depart, right to the ground where another shell exploded. He was the last medic. From then on, the wounded had to make their own way back. Those who couldn’t walk just lay there, screaming and crying.
Some nights I still hear them. Familiar voices, begging for help, for water, for medics who lay dead in pieces around them. Those of us still standing passed them by without a glance. There was nothing we could do.
The town was growing so close now. Blueblood threw himself into a new shell hole along with me, and his radioman clambered down next to us. The prince’s eyes were wide and he was breathing in sobs. He seemed to be beyond all orders.
“I tried again,” he stammered. “But I received a direct order, there’s nothing I can do!”
We moved forward again, with Ben Cook and Sandy Hoof falling in next to us.
One of the machine-gun bullets found Ben Cook. It was in the head.
I stopped right there in the middle of the field and stared.
It hit high in the skull, leaving his mouth untouched. Such a beautiful boy. So kind, so friendly. He only lived for others.
To my mind, bizarrely, came a memory of events some weeks earlier. A care package from Pinkie Pie had arrived, and I happily shared some sweets with Ben. He took his share and handed every cookie off at an orphanage.
That mouth. Always smiling for others.
And now he was gone.
It was at that point that I, Rarity Belle, danced precariously on the edge of Madness. I could feel it enter my mind like a black sun, trying to darken all my thoughts and leave me to my gibbering.
I was able to draw myself back, but others weren’t so fortunate.
Sandy Hoof had stopped too. He began crying out senselessly, bucking the air until he lay on the ground and began convulsing. We tried to talk some sense into him, but he shook his head and refused to go a step further.
Blueblood waved a distracted hoof at me. “Take him back,” he shouted.
With the gesture of a superior officer, my part in this massacre was over. It took some time, but I was able to coax Sandy Hoof into standing and allowing me to lead him backwards.
Like the moon setting, the incessant bombardment grew quiet, then silent as we moved away from the fighting. A few shells landed close to us, but the Germans didn’t care to target the stragglers.
It was a long, long walk. Back through the fields, then into the forest. Sandy Hoof kept mumbling to himself and weeping. We had to stop several times as he broke down crying, apologizing profusely for being such a “good-for-nothing coward” who should’ve just stayed on his father’s rock farm. I chastised him each time, getting him to cease such painful diatribes and walk until his next breakdown. Traveling with a pony as shocked as he was did little for my own brittle nerves.
On the outside, the aid station was a welcome sight. There were white, clean pavilions with not a single bomb falling amongst them.
Then an MP waved us in, and we entered the Gates of Tartarus. An assault on the nose of feces and blood. So many groaning bodies lining the cots that I could not help but raise my eyes to the ceiling. When I chanced a glance down, I saw an amputation in progress. I can’t remember much else of the scene.
The sight was abruptly obscured by a bulky doctor looming over us. He was a human, huge and red-faced. He had a wonderful smile that, under any other circumstances, would have put me right at ease.
He seemed to diagnose us at a glance. “Hm, shellshock. Don’t worry ponies, you’re safe here. Take a load off.”
I blinked, registering what he said. I grinned widely and shook my head. “No-no-no-no…just him. Me, I’m fine. Fine and dandy. I was just walking Sandy Hoof here. And now that he’s made it, I’ll just go ahead and show myself out…”
The doctor caught my shoulder as I tried to turn away. “Come now, Dearie, just catch your breath for a while. We can help.”
“No!” I shrieked, pulling away. It was foalish, but the notion of staying in this dismal place threw me into a panic.
“I mean, um, no thank you, Sir. My company needs me back there.”
“You won’t do them much good as you are now.” He reached over to touch me again, but I backed away further.
“I-I was just walking him here. I’m not a mad-pony.” My panicked tone and guarded posture probably did not support my claims.
“No one’s saying you are…”
He reached again, and I snapped. I slashed at him with my horn, nearly cutting him along his open palm. When he recoiled, I bolted. I tore through the open door, wanting nothing more than to be back with my company.
Strange, to be running so eagerly back to the bombardment. Looking back, I think I had one thing on my mind: proving that I could still do my job. If I could still do my job…it meant I hadn’t gone mad.
Lo and behold, in my absence the company had occupied Togemere. They had just breached the town when the called-for airstrike finally arrived. The Germans’ position at the edge of the forest left them badly exposed to our pilots. Rather than risk further airstrikes, they had opted to pull back further into the woods.
We didn’t toast our victory the next day. Mostly, we collected our dead and stood about in a daze.
Blueblood gave orders as was expected of him, but he had a confused, uncertain air about him. Like he had just woken up in a strange land, and could barely follow the language. Besides him, there was only one lieutenant and one sergeant left to keep order in the company.
No counter-attack came. The following day, Colonel Hellenson arrived by staff car. His uniform as clean as ever, he enthusiastically bounded up to the dazed Blueblood and pumped his hoof. The man boomed that the attack had been a complete success, both ours and the larger operation of which we were part. A further fifteen miles had been driven into the Ardennes, bringing the lines very close to the German border. He would be certain to write glowingly of Blueblood’s leadership to his superiors and to Celestia.
It is good that he left immediately afterwards, for I do not think I could have been trusted in that man’s presence. Even now, I feel very bitterly towards him. We had paid very steeply for a town that commanded no roads or resources. I cannot imagine that we played any role at all in the Allied victory (If fifteen scarce miles of land could be called a victory!). And if we did not, then what good was all that sacrifice?
My feelings to him much softened, I asked Blueblood his thoughts on Hellenson’s words. The prince turned away very quickly and said nothing. I gather that he spoke to no one for the rest of the day.
Of our initial strength of 120, all but thirty were casualties of one form or another. No stretcher bearers or medics survived. And of our thirteen unicorns, only Blueblood, I, and two others were still fit for duty.
If I live to be a thousand and fight in a dozen more wars, I will never see a day as horrible as that attack on Togemere. I’ve seen it again in so many nightmares. I’ve come to terms with my demons, but even now, some nights I return. To the shells and the fear. And the body of a generous young human who deserved so much better.
Author's Note
"I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine." - William T. Sherman, US General
I am not a pacifist. I believe there are worse things than war, and the prosecution of it may be essential to the survival of a nation or ideal. Thus said, it would be a good thing for people to be well aware of the horrors involved, that they might make such a decision with full awareness of the consequences.
Hm, trying to write like I imagine Rarity might really threw me off. If you get a chance, read 'Killer Angels' for a simple, excellent military writing style. Still, 'suppose it's good to shake myself up now and then.
Anyway, this chapter was heavily inspired by firsthand memoirs I have read of front-line soldiers in WWII. One of my more sobering pieces, but such is a far better picture of real war than the more action-y scenes in previous chapters.
Thank you for reading. Next up, the long-awaited fall of the Reich.
Chapter 12: The Suicide of Germany
”It is only through labor and painful effort, by grim energy and resolute courage, that we move on to better things.”
-Theodore Roosevelt, US President
She moved mechanically, precisely. Not Rarity, not for now, but part of a greater whole.
Blueblood was here, and her, and ten other unicorns. Not dispersed among human squads, but gathered in a tight knot, surrounded by the largest earth ponies in enchanted armor. They tore down the streets of the German village towards their target. A panzer was holding the intersection, fending off the Allied soldiers.
Isn’t this what happened in Caen? This would be different.
Riflemen shot at the “Equestrian tank.” Between the earth ponies’ armor and the shields of a dozen unicorns, nothing got through.
The panzer could’ve destroyed them, but they waited until it was reloading to charge. By the time it was ready to fire, they were already too close.
One unicorn couldn’t flip a panzer, not unless she was in a magic frenzy. But a dozen could do it easily.
They did have to drop the shield to do so, though. One of the earth ponies fell. At least it wasn’t Stern Glare.
There were two halftracks behind the tank, much easier to flip.
Eight warlocks rushed forwards, hurling their wild magic. The Equestrians barreled into their midst. Three of the Germans were too slow and were simply trampled. The unicorns paired off against the rest, one countering the warlocks’ magic, the other channeling telekinetic or elemental strikes. Those warlocks who could contend with two unicorns found themselves pummeled by the bodyguards.
It was quick. Unbalanced. Eight warlocks, slain in seconds without a single lost Equestrian. The war had changed.
Their formation broken, the Equestrians were easier targets for the infantry. Two unicorns and an earth pony were lost before Blueblood barked the order to retreat. They fled rapidly, past the Americans surging forwards. Then they reformed, a new “tank,” albeit a bit smaller. They would charge again, when needed. If not in this village, then the next one. And the next.
Rarity was silent. Grim. Proud. The war would end. The Reich would end. And her hooves were helping to end it.
Badley’s aide poked his head in the general’s cabin. “Princess Celestia’s here, Sir.”
That earned a smile from the balding commander. The lieutenant had always addressed her as ‘the pony princess’ or ‘her ladyship,’ usually with an unworthy eye-roll. Nice to see the old mare was finally getting the respect she deserved.
If anything, though, Celestia was becoming more distant as her reputation grew. She had always been polite, but now there was a briskness about her. She spoke little, wrote much, and sent men to their deaths with all the hardness required of a leader.
Maybe Bradley was wrong, but beneath her exterior she felt…irritated, almost angry. Like she was always in a sour mood, but too polite to ever let it show.
Again, maybe he was wrong. Celestia greeted him coolly as he stepped out of his tent, but did offer one of those warm smiles she was rationing these days.
“Brad,” she said, indulging in his nickname. “You’ll be hearing this officially soon, but I wanted to let you know: We’ve been ordered to strike as quickly as we can into Germany. In three days I will begin a concentrated thrust, and I don’t plan on stopping until we reach the Russian zone.”
The general nodded. “Then I’ll have a few divisions watch your right.”
Celestia breathed in, and again, a little smile emerged. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
She turned around, facing towards the East. Towards the enemy. Bradley stepped up beside her.
He felt – more than heard or saw – the princess release a silent, tired sigh. And he swallowed, feeling a pang of sympathy for the ageless creature. Of course she was tired. She wasn’t a soldier at heart. Just a queen, so devoted to her people that she could naught but lead them herself.
Bradley frowned, hating where his thoughts were taking him. America was becoming great by this war, and he was proud. But what would Equestria gain? This wasn’t their fight, not by a long shot. News of the Fascist atrocities had brought them to this, but wasn’t it strange to make war for the sake of morals? To help those who might die at the cost of those who might’ve lived?
But if morals didn’t guide a nation to fight, what else was left but cynical self-interest? For rulers to look on war as a cold tool of advancement? Would that really be better than fighting when you believe it is right?
Of course she was tired of it, of making very real war for some very vague hopes. From what he knew, it was a frenzy of Equestria’s media that brought her to this. Shocking pictures, sensationalist headlines, petitions circling for her to declare war…
Maybe she was regretting it a little.
Celestia’s soft words brought him out of his thoughts. “While I winged to your base, I saw four great, grey snakes of men marching westward. They were German prisoners.”
Still looking east, she went on. “Recall how elated we were after Falaise? To see them surrender in the thousands? There were hundreds of thousands beneath me as I flew. Marching out of their lines, defeated even before battles began. So many of them starving, coming to us like beggars in search of bread. Whole regiments, colonels leading their men with all the discipline they held in war. Men smiling, laughing, relieved beyond words that they had survived.”
One more tiny smile. “I do not think our foe will threaten my flank. Better to throw everything into the attack.”
Bradley frowned. “’Afraid I don’t quite agree.”
Celestia’s ears flicked up, indicated he had her attention.
“I drove…” Bradley swallowed, keeping his own gaze to the east as well. “I drove into one of the villages, right after we entered Germany. I wasn’t needed, but you know how it goes. ‘Pose for the cameras’ and all that. Brought the photographer with me and everything, but I didn’t even remember him two minutes later. Drove into town and every lamppost, every balcony…bodies, hung from all of them. All civilians, with their belongings neatly packed in carts below their feet.”
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Damned if it didn’t look like a massacre and looting. The major who took the place, I was ready to have his head. But the smoke wasn’t even cleared, the fighting was barely over. I found out that half the village was packing up to run for our lines, but an SS company walked in just as they were moving out. Jerry put two and two together and shot or hung the lot of them. The soldiers dug their heels in then, fighting to the death and dragging down a good half-again of us down with them. Heck of a fight, I’m told: Men dashing between doorways, lobbing grenades from windows, unicorns and warlocks slinging spells…among all those bodies, hanging like fruit.”
Celestia said nothing, still looking off as Bradley went on. “I caught up with the major a little later. He said the massacres weren’t too common, but the fights were. The Wehrmacht fought for the next town down the road, and they kept fighting well after they lost the battle. Then the next one after that, held by militia and youth soldiers. And those poor bastards holed up in the bank and fought until there were only eight of them left.”
He turned his attention to her. “Your Highness, we all want it to end. But it’s not over yet. So watch your flanks. A lot of people are impressed by you, and I’d hate to see it go bad because you got too eager.”
Celestia blinked slowly and nodded, never once turning her gaze to Bradley. The conversation ended abruptly, awkwardly, as the princess silently mulled in her own thoughts.
A long moment passed, Bradley uncertain whether to go or stay. He coughed, mind drifting back to his own words. “Militia…and boy soldiers. The Wehmacht, too, and all of them. Why won’t they give up?”
Finally, the princess turned to look back at Bradley. Something about that look made him feel very…small. Like he was a boy again, being a fool in front of a forgiving mother. The eyes were kind, and sad. Her hardness was gone, for now.
“If it was not Germany, but America…would you surrender?”
Her eyes weren’t reproving, but curious. Not a comeback, but an honest question.
Bradley glanced away, more unwelcome images springing to mind. The Capitol Building burning, ringed by wrecked Shermans and breached sandbags. A flag bearing the Swastika planted atop the White House. An army of Warlocks driving inland. Tried to hold Philadelphia, then Columbus, all lost. A hasty meeting in Chicago, and a haggard President Roosevelt asking him – Dutiful, dull, Omar Bradley – if they should sue for peace…
He could feel her eyes on him, but didn’t meet her gaze.
A moment passed, and with it passed the vision. Bradley tilted his head to lock eyes with her, answering with honest humility.
“I…don’t think it really bears thinking about.” Perhaps a weak answer, but it was all he had.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” Celestia sighed. With a rush of air, her wings swept out from her side, angled for lift-off. “Take care, Brad. At the very least, there will be less evil in the world when we are done.”
And she was off, heading north where her own command lay. Bradley shook his head, relieved to see her go. He was happy to bend an ear, but today...too many thoughts.
At least he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The war was still on, and he eagerly threw himself to the task of shortening the road to Berlin.
Walter Model opened his eyes, blinked heavily. He was awake. Sleep wouldn’t hurt this much.
Forced himself to get up, to stand. That drained, exhausted sort of pain. Hadn’t even taken his boots off the night before.
Opened his mouth to call his aide for coffee. Wait…Gunther died in the last air raid. Hadn’t quite gotten around to replacing him.
Oh well. A soldier camped nearby had a percolator going, gave him some coffee. Boy couldn’t’ve been more than seventeen. No sugar. Oh well.
The boy was grinning. Model was a god to him. The ‘Fuhrer’s Fireman.’ Held the Russians after Kursk. The Westerners after Falaise, then at Arnhem. No fire was too big that he couldn’t put it out. Things looked bad, but Model wouldn’t fail. He never did, not when the stakes were this high.
A god.
Oh well.
Now he commanded Army Group B. Not Arnhem, not an army, but every last man arrayed against the Westerners. So high and mighty, yet begging coffee from a conscript.
The caffeine helped. Still sore from too many late nights, but at least his head was clear. He could think. He could look at the maps, the reports, try to make sense of them.
The Allies were attacking. No idiotic ‘pencil-thrusts,’ no games with paratroopers anymore. Montgomery, Patton, Hodges, Bradley…and now their toy princess, Celestia. All attacking, driving forwards. The winter spent building supplies and men, while Germany frittered both away.
Planes droned overhead. The boy pointed. “Ours or theirs?”
“Ours,” Model said automatically. Theirs! Always theirs! How can you not know this?
His attention on the planes, Model missed a brighter set of shapes until they sailed directly over his head. A pegasi pair, one cyan and rainbow-maned, the other yellow and blue. They gripped something in a small hammock between them.
The pair stopped abruptly and dropped their payload onto his staff car. The tiny bomb ripped the vehicle apart, killing the driver inside. A few belated bullets came at the pegasi, but they were already winging away.
Turning his eyes lower in the sky, Model noticed more specks of bright colors, flying low and with purpose. It took a lot to make him angry these days, but this did it. The only outward sign was a clenched, trembling fist. Too fast for planes, too low for anti-aircraft…how do we defend against that?!!
Indignation turned to resignation. I suppose we’ll have to make do.
Then…grudging respect. It seems even the Equestrians can learn to fight.
“Should I call a new car for you, Sir?” The boy asked. “Army HQ is three miles away.”
He grunted a negative and began to walk. With all the holes in the highway, this would probably be faster. Would give him a little time to think, think and walk off the rest of the aching.
A bomb…on a parked car? They must be running out of targets.
Model trod with purpose, feeling the last of the cobwebs fall from his mind. Clarity brought no comfort. Shoulders sagged, head bowed, even as feet marched readily to come-what-may. He would order the counter-blow today. A last few precious divisions, spearheaded by panzers and as many Warlocks as could be found. Ideally, they’d strike the break between Celestia and Bradley’s armies, then turn and encircle the former.
Realistically? There wasn’t even a prayer.
You weren’t allowed to talk about defeat in this army. That got you shot, and Model approved. Anyone with eyes could see the end coming. Anyone who talked about it would weaken his whole unit. The men had to be silent about their doubts – they would then doubt their doubts, seeing their fellows grim and resolute. Hope would kindle. Hopeful men fought well.
There was no choice, really. Least of all for Model. The Allies mentioned him personally in their broadcasts. They found the fields at Driel, where a hundred pegasi lay executed on his orders.
He paused, remembering how pretty they looked above Arnhem. Like dancing flowers.
Of course he had them killed. This is war.
Another memory, from back on the Eastern Front. Fallen trees, stretching off into the distance. Not trees, though, but dead men. Estonians, Latvians, Russians…Model had walked through the slaughtered forest without a sideways glance. He had been talking with divisional commanders, trying to keep the Soviets out of Riga.
Didn’t remember much about the bodies. He had more important things to do. Didn’t even remember the exact reason he gave the order. Some military necessity, of course.
“Two-hundred thousand, ” he said, recalling Gunther’s estimate. “And they’ll have me on trial for a hundred ponies? What a joke!” It was so ridiculous, Model couldn’t help but grin.
No matter. Even had his slate been clean, Model would fight on.
His duty. The duty of the whole army.
For Germany. Until bitter end. They would, they must, see this through.
If nothing else, let it be a great suicide of the nation: A race of fanatics fighting on, dying, but causing such losses that their foes despair even unto victory. And when the last German dies, let the Allies divide the rubble!
Just as planned, elements of the counterattack were already underway. The skeletal Luftwaffe sortied, suffering losses, but striking crucial bridges. Feints were being made elsewhere, prisoners with false information were being fed to the Allies. It was the German way of war. Carefully mask your intentions, then lunge for the weak link while the foe is disoriented.
But where is the weak link in a tidal wave?
Model pushed the thought aside.
The first hours went well. At its outset, every Blitzkrieg looked destined for greatness. Land seized. Prisoners taken. Enemies retreating, overrun, confused. He smiled. As the advance continued, Model could feel victory in his grasp. The Reich would be saved.
Of course it was an illusion. But it felt good to believe again, if only for a while.
The small group crouched low among the trees. A few shells passed high overhead, but nothing came too close.
Corporal…Sergeant Jackie turned to Applejack with this weird smile on his face. “Hey AJ…we’re still part of that engineering detachment, right?”
“Ah know where you’re going with this…” the mare grunted, glaring down. The wooded hill gave them a fantastic view of the panzer column barreling their way.
“So tell me, how do we keep getting into these situations?”
Not waiting for a response, he shoved one of the others roughly. “Don’t duck, keep shooting! They couldn’t hit an elephant up here!”
While not an entirely accurate statement, the little platoon was in a better spot than they were used to. They were in woods, on a hill. The German soldiers hustling alongside their tanks? Not so much.
Applejack shared a glance with her brother, then turned her attention back to the fight. Not much for an earth pony to do here. Not even any casualties for her to pull away.
Theirs was one of the platoons dug in on three hills the Germans were attacking towards. One hill had already been bypassed, but the troops on it weren’t sitting idle. Rifle, machine gun, and anti-tank fire were hitting the Germans from above and behind. Two panzers had already been hit from the rear, but all of them kept pushing forwards.
It felt…Applejack would never be fool enough to underestimate her foes, but this felt like a mistake. Either the Germans were in too much of a hurry, or they didn’t have the reserves to silence those guns. Both seemed bad for their prospects, especially this early into an attack.
Spitfires roared overhead, disgorging rockets further down the road. No immediate help, but any reinforcements the Germans might’ve had would feel it.
Applejack flicked an ear – it whistled slightly, air passing through holes chewed by frostbite last winter. It was downright bizarre to be looking at a fight like this. None of that chewing mud, hiding in terror and wishing she could hold a gun. She could stand up if she wanted to, and not be in much more danger. There was time to think about what was going on elsewhere.
Death could still happen, of course, but it wasn’t too likely. Their position was good, the enemy’s was not, and the rest would play itself out.
There wasn’t even any fire coming at her hill. The Germans had bigger problems. Shermans were streaming out from between the front two hills, drawing the Tigers’ attention. Maybe they were counter-attacking, or maybe they were just moving with the general advance of the army.
The Axis tanks wrecked three of them, but the rest were fanning out to hit the column from the front and both flanks. More Shermans kept pouring into the gap, surging past their disabled brethren.
Just like that, the German attack ended. The panzers ground to a halt. They knew they would be easily cut off if they continued forward, but proved unwilling to retreat. Two more Tigers were immobilized and a third destroyed as they shook themselves out of the column. Tanks peeled off to the sides, protecting their own and their comrades’ flanks against the enemy guns.
A stalemate briefly ensued, pitting German heavy armor against Allied numbers. It may have endured if not for the hill the Germans had bypassed. Applejack had a clear view of the Americans across the battlefield, perching dangerously at the tree line to bring their anti-tank guns to bear. The tops and rears of the panzers remained vulnerable, and with no fire coming at them, the gun crews could aim carefully. Applejack counted five kills against the Tigers before the German infantry made their rush.
The men who emerged from the column were…strange. It would have been comical if not for the situation. One arm holding their rifles, the other keeping fedoras and cabbie hats in place as a crowd of men ran from the road and began clambering up the hill. A drab array of greatcoats and hats, striking with little discipline. Some stopped to fire, while others charged, retreated, or clung to the safety of the panzer line.
The Volkssturm immediately came under fire: From the defending GI’s, from the newly-minted Sergeant Flynn’s company, and from four Shermans seeking easier targets. None of the mob even made it halfway up. The braver ones had not learned to take cover, and the rest hid or fled.
A knot of deep red hair caught her eye. One of the braver ones, a foolish boy lugging a rifle bigger than he was before he fell. Knee-high to a grasshopper, couldn’t’ve been more than twelve.
Twelve? By the Stars, Applebloom would be twelve next December…
Applejack’s eyes were dry. But she did bite her lip, very hard.
It was a distraction, it was all nothing more than a distraction. The Germans were no fools. The real threat came at the guns from a more oblique angle, shielded from the Shermans. Fanatic, skilled SS soldiers…
Applejack interrupted a breath with a short, meaningless roar. And still. Damn. CHILDREN!
She grit her teeth, staring in horror. Jackie had noticed them too, and was shouting at the men to fire at the new group. The move to shield themselves from the Shermans had placed the youth soldiers in a perfect cross-fire.
Applejack released a slow breath and turned her head, walking back several paces. No need to watch. No need to be haunted by something that wasn’t her fault, wasn’t her making. Maybe that made her a coward. Or maybe it was just good ol’ survival instinct. She heard of soldiers who could never escape the horrors, and didn’t plan on joining their number.
“Y’okay, Sis?”
Mac had stepped back from the tree line, too. Any of the platoon might just see stoic ol’ “Big Red,” but Applejack knew his moods. He was shaken. Fretting over Applejack was a good way for him to push his own feelings down.
“No,” she said, a grumble more than anything. “’Reckon I’ll live, though. You?”
“’Bout same.”
The tree line crackled with gunfire. For once, Applejack was downright thankful she couldn’t hold a rifle.
She closed her eyes as heavy machine-guns opened up elsewhere on the hill. The SS soldiers might know how to take cover, but that wouldn’t do them much good with fire coming from two directions.
In a fit of emotion, Applejack ran back forward to the edge of the tree line. There was a lot of smoke now, but she and the gunners could still see their young foes below them, still trying to press forward.
“YOU FOOLS!” She shouted, voice drowned by the din of cannon and machine gun.
Applejack shook her head, stepping back once more. A tear finally came down her face. “You poor, dang fools,” she finished softly. “No one can save you now.”
The German soldiers were beaten back, not even having crested the hill. When the Shermans began inching around the flanks, they tried again, and again were defeated. A wind took some of the smoke away, giving Applejack and the riflemen a fine view as the youth soldiers, insanely, launched a third assault moments later.
The AT gunners on the hill had never stopped pummeling the panzers. While the third attack collapsed, too few German tanks remained to even hold back the Shermans. Their formation shattered under the fire from front and rear, Tigers now fighting as individuals rather than a unit. Some tried to make a fighting withdrawal; others held their ground to pound their advancing foe.
As they were overrun, some of the panzer crews simply abandoned their tanks to surrender. Others kept up the fight until they were immobilized or caught fire. A few didn’t even stop then.
Already fought-out, the German infantrymen surrendered as the Allies surged forwards. Tank crews, SS, mostly Volkssturm . Raising their arms, showing that curious mix of fear and relief. The Shermans barely slowed down as they passed them by, pressing ever deeper into the German heartland.
Model leaned over the map, focused, exhausted.
Of course it failed. The attack was anemic, ill-considered. What made him think it would work? Hope? Élan?
“Is this how the French felt?” he grumbled. A useless thought.
It was a defeatist thing to say, and men had been executed for less. A very, very slight cough sounded next to him. A man in a red armband sat there, looking anywhere but towards Model. Schwarz, his Nazi Party ‘handler.’
’Go ahead,’ Model mentally dared him, but nothing more was said of the matter. Schwarz was an alright sort. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be the one who pulled the trigger on the ‘Fuhrer’s Fireman.’
The man across from Schwarz snorted, glaring daggers at the Party man. Heidrich was Luftwaffe, a member of Goering’s private army. He was blunt, which Model liked, and honest, which he didn’t. A man who didn’t much care anymore.
“This is all your fault,” Heidrich growled, leaning towards the slim Schwarz. He was bear-sized and tough, but that mattered little when both parties carried pistols. “You damn Nazis. You brought us to this.”
No, he definitely didn’t care anymore. But Schwarz was…odd. He just sat back in his chair, regarding Heidrich with this sad little smile on his face.
“It’s true,” he said finally, quietly, shocking the other two men. Schwarz then leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Tell me then, my friend: Were you ever a Nazi?”
“No,” Heidrich said proudly. Model resisted the urge to laugh. Liar. Who wasn’t a Nazi the day we conquered Paris?
“Ah.” His hands still clasped, Schwarz looked up at his rival with ice in his eyes. His voice remained deathly quiet. “If that is true, my friend, then you are far, far worse. You’re one of the ones who were against us. Maybe you sympathized with those we killed. Maybe you knew this would end in ashes.”
He smiled his silky politician’s smile, utterly devoid of humor. “Maybe you have a Jewish aunt or an Equestrian girlfriend, I really don’t care.”
Schwarz gave a tight laugh, ignoring his rival’s bristling denial. “But if Nazism didn’t grab you, then you’re one of those lukewarm souls who knows Evil, sees Evil…and lifts not a finger to stop it.”
The smile vanished, and he growled in his own way. “You’re worse, damn you, you’re worthless. I’ve been with the party since its inception, I believed we were right. Your kind knew we were wrong, and joined us nonetheless. ‘Sieg Heil ,’ you shouted with us joyously. And thus, the nation died.”
Model had to pull the two apart, a charming bit of physical violence that he thoroughly enjoyed.
The pair’s enmity did not last long. A week later, Schwarz was killed in one of those damnable Pegasus airstrikes. Two days after that, a Luftwaffe army tried to stop the Allies north of the Ruhr and Heidrich went to oversee them. Depending on who he asked, Model heard he was killed by a sniper or when his tank caught fire.
The end came faster than he feared possible. Helpless for all his power, Model could only watch as the armies of the Reich crumbled.
He fortified the Ruhr, and oh, how he made the Allies bleed! Arrogant fools, they never learned. But they simply spilled around, and there wasn’t enough left to keep them back. His own commands fought furiously, but too few proved willing to fight to the death. Defeats grew, both in number and scale, and with them grew the wave of desertions and surrenders.
Model was very tired for a helpless man, toiling through the nights to reform hollow armies and order desperate defenses.
There was no point anymore. He knew this. If anything, things were even worse on the East Front. There would be no reinforcements. These were the last days.
Like giant jaws clamping down, the Allies encircled the Ruhr Valley. The industrial heartland of Germany, surrounded, with 300,000 soldiers and Walter Model inside.
Of course he fought on.
For Germany.
Until bitter end.
The perimeter shrunk. Starving men surrendered in droves. Others kept fighting.
Model knew he should surrender. This was the end. There was nothing more to accomplish, nothing more to gain or hope for. He could spare the lives of his loyal men – Good German soldiers, who followed orders. Hadn’t they sacrificed enough? Wasn’t honor satisfied?
But what then? The Allies would have him, and they would see him tried for war crimes. He would stand before their lawyers – nothing was more contemptible than lawyers! Tweedy, arrogant little men, wielding power they did nothing to earn. Saying ‘justice’ like they knew what it meant. Toting photographs, using words like ‘massacre’ and ‘atrocity’ as if they had any meaning. Talking about the ‘rules’ of conflict while knowing nothing of war.
Humiliation, then the gallows.
No.
‘Massacre?’ What of the thousands of women and children slain by Allied bombers? Weren’t they ‘massacred?’ Was it really so different than a band of Slavs or Pegasi?
No.
A hand clenched into a weak fist. His stomach growled. He closed his eyes, forcing back the tears.
Until bitter end.
Word filtered in, none of it good. The Soviets had seized Konigsberg. Commonwealth troops had overrun Arnhem by ground attack and were spilling into northern Germany. Resistance was disintegrating.
Fight on. No hope. No reason. Just fight on.
On a cold day in April, the Allies overwhelmed the perimeter in two places, splitting the besieged Germans in two.
Model met with his staff immediately. “What is left for a commander in defeat?” He asked them. “In antiquity, they took poison.”
Three of them took his words to heart, committing suicide within hours of the meeting.
The next day, Model dissolved his command. The Army Group was disbanded. Lesser commanders were freed to decide if they wanted to surrender, to try to break out or to dig in and fight.
Mercy? Maybe. Maybe he just didn’t want the responsibility anymore.
When they learned of this, Berlin denounced him as a traitor. No matter.
Liberated of command, Model walked to the edge of the Ruhr. He barely noticed the journey, paid no mind to the looters and hangings.
Maybe he would die in battle, as a defeated soldier should. Perhaps he would surrender, after all. If the Westerners and Soviets went to war, they would need good German officers. Maybe he could make a deal.
No. No! No cowardice, no deals. There would be enough of that as the Allies robbed the country.
He came to a small patch of woods, well past the German lines. Where the Hell are they?
There!
Model drew his pistol, but the Equestrian saw him first. The orange mare dove behind a tree as the first bullet shot out.
“Surrender, y’darn idiot!” She shouted. Americans emerged from the trees behind her, crouching, taking no chances.
Model emptied his clip to no effect, then almost emptied another.
He froze. That was his only spare clip. What if he was only injured, or ran out of ammo?
Righteous lawyers. The gallows.
Never.
Never.
“You’re not different !” he roared. Some shred of instinct kept him crouched behind a tree. “You’re not better !”
It was duty. Everything was for duty! Any soldier among them would do the same! Why ‘War Crimes,’ then?! Why…
No more time.
“You’re not different. Damn you.”
He was finished. Walter Model exhaled sharply, closed his eyes.
The pistol’s barrel was hot from being fired so much. It scorched his tongue, but he only felt it for a second.
The Reichstag, Berlin, 1945
“I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
-“Ozymandias,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Author's Note
Because this is the internet, so I guess I need to clarify: Model's section of the above chapter does not represent any effort to lionize or diminish the man, nor does it exist to endorse the beliefs I imagine he held. It is simply an honest guess into his thoughts in the final hours - nothing more, nothing less.
Bradley's vision of an invaded America is a nod to an Alternate/Sequel that's been in my head for a while... "A War Gone Wrong," in which the Germans unlock a far greater (one might say deific) magic power and abruptly reverse the course of events, culminating in a last defense of Canterlot. The more I think about it, though, the less enthusiasm I have for writing it out: A grimdark clash of characters is a much different animal than the staunch realism I'm going for here, and I can't help but feel it would diminish the over-arching project. Interesting, sure, but I'm a little dubious about committing the hours and hours to writing a spin-off. Struggling to finish even this main story has proven tiring. I'm very proud of it, though, and I do plan to finish.
Thank you for reading.
View Online
--Snapshot - Berlin: And the Walls came Tumbling Down
May 2, 1945 – Soviet soldiers raise the USSR flag over Berlin while Cloudkicker Rainbow Dash looks on.
As the final weeks of the war played out, many pegasi expressed a desire to fly to Berlin and witness the end of the Reich for themselves. Eisenhower flatly refused. With Germany dying, antagonism was looming between the Western and Soviet Allies. Allowing pegasi into the Soviet occupation zone seemed a recipe for disaster. When the issue was pressed, he gave a direct command for them to remain within the Western zones.
A few squadrons of pegasi claimed ignorance of his order and flew to Berlin as the last battle began. Fortunately for all involved, Eisenhower’s fear of hostility with the Soviets proved unfounded. Red Army soldiers were delighted at the sight of the pegasi – they were symbols of victory, of the hated Nazis finally being crushed between the Allied armies. Pegasi who landed in Russian camps were welcomed, and feathers they dropped were snatched up as good luck charms.
Rainbow Dash (the ringleader of the unauthorized “excursion”) led the Cloudkicker band in several recon and rescue missions in support of the Soviet attack. Until the very end, the Germans fought back with desperate ferocity. The final battle was marred with atrocities by both sides against each other and against the civilians, leading most of the pegasi to leave in disgust before its conclusion.
The photo was taken on the day Berlin fell. Five days later, on May 7, 1945, the Third Reich of Germany gave its unconditional surrender.
When asked why she remained in Berlin to the end, Rainbow said, “The end of a nightmare is the worst part of it, the part that makes you wake up with a scream. I knew this wasn’t going to be any better. The Nazis’ last stand wasn’t going to be pretty. And you know what? I didn’t have a great reason for going. I watched their last stand…because I wanted to watch them fall.”
Author's Note
“And I hope that you die, And your death will come soon. I’ll follow your casket in the pale afternoon.
Then I’ll watch while you’re lowered Down to your deathbed. And I’ll stand o’er your grave ‘til I’m sure that you’re dead."
-Bob Dylan, “Masters of War”
Chapter 13: To the Shame of all Man
(This is the ‘liberating a concentration camp’ chapter. You’ve been warned.)
”Cursed is the man who dies While the Evil borne from him lives on!”
-Abu Bakr, Muslim Caliph
”You’re ‘Applejack,’ huh? That’s a funny name.”
“You think we’re gonna see some action, Applejack? I ain’t going home and saying the war was over before I got here.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if you were a pegasus? Then you could just clear this rain right up.”
Jackie looked irate, but Applejack hadn’t seen him any other way ever since he became ‘Sergeant Flynn.’
“Hey AJ,” he said, both a whisper and a snarl. “Is it just me, or do these new guys annoy the Hell out of you, too?”
”We’ve been walking all morning! Hey Applejack, any chance you could let me ride you for a spell?”
“You’ve been here since D-Day? How many Germans have you bagged?”
A second’s pause, and she shook her head. “It’s just you.”
He grinned. Jackie was no stranger to sarcasm. “That’s what I thought. I swear, we were never this dumb.”
Flynn’s little unit wasn’t considered to be on ‘combat duty,’ so they had always been last in line for replacements. Only now, well past any use they could be, had fresh troops from the States been bequeathed to them.
Applejack could’ve really done without.
“’Got sort of a soft spot for Mohammed,” she conceded, wanting to focus on the positive. “He’s quiet. Saw him standing with Big Lee and Macintosh, the three of ‘em just silently enjoying the silence. Kinda cute, in its own way.”
Jackie made a face. “Mohammed? Hmph. Don’t know if I trust him.”
That got a blink from Applejack. “Huh? Why not?”
“It’s just…ah, never mind.” The human spat to the side. “He’s different, you know?”
He continued quickly, before Applejack could give one of the many comebacks that sprang to mind. “Anyway, AJ, I got good news. We’re actually gonna be doing some construction work. You know, what we were supposed to be doing from day one. ‘Bout a dozen miles down the road, we’ll be building some temporary shelters. Cut some wood, dig latrines, get the rain off people’s backs.”
Some hard, honest work. Good. She nodded deftly.
The new kids’ll probably whine like there’s no tomorrow.
“Any idea who for?”
Applejack asked the question distractedly, not really interested in the answer. Hopefully some refugees or wounded folks. Hopefully not some general who doesn’t want to get his boots wet. Either way, wouldn’t change the job much.
What caught her attention was the hesitation. Jackie glanced at her and smiled a little, nervously. For just a moment he was the trembling corporal again, and not the irate sergeant.
Applejack gasped. That nervous pause told her everything. Strange that she hadn’t thought about it for months. Lost in her own troubles, she had forgotten the reason she was here in the first place.
“Concentration camp,” Jackie said simply. “Your people.”
Less than a quarter of those gathered at the campsite were ‘her people,’ as it turned out. A few dozen hornless unicorns out of a few hundred prisoners.
Skinny humans in striped pajamas, and skinny Equestrians leaning against each other for balance. None of them were smiling. None of them had anything to say. When Lee called out for them to gather in groups of ten, they mutely obeyed.
Applejack didn’t really have anything to say either. So she got to work.
Made her feel…good and bad, at the same time. Good to be here for them. Bad that she wasn’t as thrilled about it as she should be.
Applejack grunted, glancing up from the latrine she was digging. What was wrong with her? This was the whole reason she was here. These hungry, beaten ponies who had forgotten how to smile. Shouldn’t she feel…accomplished? Maybe not ‘happy,’ but at least satisfied that she was helping them?
But all she saw was a job to do. A good job; a dang good job that would give them something they need. But that was it. A job. There’d just be another one after this.
She remembered how ripped up she was when she saw those pictures in the Ponyville Express. How she hid them from Applebloom. How she ran off into the orchard so the little one wouldn’t see her cry.
Manny’s face entered her mind, and Applejack gave a wry smile. ’Guess it’s easy to feel sympathy when everything’s okay. When you’re thinking about the dead and wondering if you’re next…it gets a little harder.
The war was over. She could still be next to die, sure as sure. One of the new kids had stepped on a mine yesterday.
Climbing out of the hole, she saw the Americans were avoiding eye contact with their charges. That made it easy. Tell yourself that you were the good guy, that you were helping. But don’t look too hard. Don’t think too hard about it.
Applejack grit her teeth. That wasn’t her way. If it was, that habit ended today.
The camp had been liberated by a recon company earlier that day. Their lieutenant was handing responsibility off to Jackie as fast as he could.
“Scared of the truth,” she grunted with more than a little contempt.
Then, an internal reprimand. Where do you think he’s going? Maybe into harm’s way, while we sit here and play the hero.
“No I can’t stay and help!” The lieutenant snapped. “We already wasted too much time waiting for you guys to catch up! Only reason I stayed in the first place was to keep things from getting ugly between them and the villagers.”
Jackie snapped right back, heaving twice as much bile. “What, you’re too good for a little work? Why not just keep ‘em in there?”
He gestured to the barbed-wire prison. Wooden longhouses and guard towers, all still in perfect shape. Even the fence was intact. When the guards fled, the prisoners…never quite thought to break out. The recon guys had to herd them outside.
Applejack blinked. It was a good point – why not just use the camp?
The lieutenant shook his head again, this time with fear rather than hurry. “Oh, Hell no. I ain’t going back in there, and I ain’t asking any of these poor suckers to go back, either.”
A short moment passed, Jackie taken aback by the abrupt horror in his voice.
“It ain’t fair,” the man snorted his nose loudly. He looked away, trembling slightly. “It just ain’t fair. Typhoid or the Flu or something hit this place like a hammer. I mean, just, just…puke and shit all over the floors. Guards never did nothing with the bodies, just left ‘em there. Any prisoner who touched ‘em got killed, so everyone had to just let the bodies sit. Twice as many as survived. In the sleeping rooms, out in the mud…”
He pointed to one of the towers, bringing his arm high to try to hide his face. Applejack pretended not to see the tears. “You know what they say? They say this was one of the good camps, where you died slow rather than fast. Jerry never did nothing with the prisoners, except when a few Nazis made rounds on the unicorns. But one of the guards played this game…shot someone, but just wounded him. The one who got killed for real was the first one to try to help.”
A bitter laugh clawed its way from his throat. “They say the bastard got in big trouble when he shot a unicorn. But you know where he is now? He’s in some town, somewhere. Wearing his lederhosen and spinning a story about how he just goddamn loves America.”
He made his escape then, getting back to the war he knew.
Jackie sighed, glancing back to where the others were setting up tents and cabins. He was shaken, but still in control. “God, it’s hard enough to work with the living ones…think anyone’ll volunteer for some grave digging?”
The farm mare swallowed hard. Don’t look away. This is the truth.
“Me.”
Applejack wondered if Jackie would question her, but he just nodded and waved her on. “Looks like you’ve got your job for the day.”
Following Applejack’s lead, a few of the others started helping out with the burials. Maybe they were stubborn like her, or maybe seeing her shamed them into it. Strange to see Fred among their number…the boy was stronger than she thought.
A horrible place, inside that fence. Spring mud and no maintenance had turned it into a swamp. At least most of the bodies were dry in their beds – the starving and the sick who had curled up to die. The ones outside, half-swallowed by the mud…those would be the ones that gave her nightmares.
At first, Applejack took her time. Tried to memorize every face. Tried to recall the little details. Even for the humans. They were the victims, too. Gave them each their own little grave.
She got through about six before realizing she’d be at it for months at this rate. There were far and away too many.
Nothing else for it. She picked up the pace. Dragged them out of the longhouses and into a ditch. Nasty, muddy work. Pushed them onto a canvas to pull, rather than touch them with her mouth.
She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t people she was dragging around. Just empty shells. The person in each was long gone – who knows where, but not here anymore.
Couldn’t help it, though. They were people, dead or no. She couldn’t take the time to remember every face. But she did apologize to each one for the rough handling. Made her feel a little better.
The last one Applejack moved flipped over as it fell into the ditch. Human woman. More maggots than backspace left to her.
Applejack veered her head to the side before throwing up. None of her lunch ended up in the ditch. It made her strangely proud. These poor souls had enough indignity heaped on them.
She spat out the remainder and shook her head. Back to work. Gotta get back to-
A hand gripped her shoulder. Jackie, and next to him was…
“Derpy?” Not who she was expecting.
“B-b-brought your mail,” the postmare stammered, completely out of place in the muddy graveyard. She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering. Head swaying slightly, one eye fixed on Applejack’s ditch. Pawing the ground like she was ready to bolt.
Then bolt! “Derpy, y’all get out of here before you pass out on me.”
“Had to see it,” Derpy returned, breathless. “Heard some people say the pictures were fake. P-proga…proda…propaganda. Lies to get us involved. Had to see it.”
Rumors. This army was full of them. Applejack grunted, adopting her best ‘big sister’ voice. “Well now you have, so you be getting yourself gone. Ah’ve work to do.”
“Let me help!” The pegasus squeaked.
That got an incredulous look from Applejack, but it quickly faded to a gentle smile. Derpy was scared out of her wits. Knees knocking. Smelling that terrible filth-smell. Mind reeling at the senselessness of it all. Ready to hurl and pass out, maybe not in that order.
And through all that….all she wants to do is help. Applejack was damn proud of her. She’s everything that’s right with Equestrians.
Still with her best ‘in charge’ voice, Applejack nodded. “Then you get yourself to the folks outside. See what needs doing for the people who can still be helped. You leave these ‘uns to me.”
Derpy nodded, giving a wide grin. Applejack hadn’t shooed her away. She could help, just…not here.
Jackie snorted gently, giving a quiet grin as the pegasus retreated. “Damn, AJ, you’re good with kids. I think we got room for another corporal, if you want the job.”
He probably meant it. The system would have other ideas. Applejack shook her head, drawing a shrug from the sergeant. “Figured. Good job letting her down easy, though. The last thing we need right now is a scene.”
“’Let her down easy,’ nothing. She’s helping, same as me.”
Applejack’s gentle, proud smile continued. “She’ll do good by someone. Stars only know that the folks still breathing need more help than these sorry sorts.”
“Hm. ‘Bout that.” Jackie jerked a thumb towards the gate. “I need some level headed people, and your name’s at the top of the list. Need to do a bread run at that village we passed. Didn’t exactly plan on feeding an extra three-hundred when I woke up this morning.”
A ‘bread run.’ Only one, creaky step above out-and-out looting. If the civilians gave up the food willingly, the soldiers would pay in scripts they could theoretically redeem later. It was just like any other business transaction…except the soldiers didn’t have to take ‘no’ for an answer.
Three hundred mouths to feed…mouths that had already been hungry for some time now.
Applejack’s smile fell, but didn’t entirely disappear. No, Sir. “No” wouldn’t be much of an answer at all.
It was a scenic little German town, too small for the bombers to bother with. Probably hadn’t changed much in the last century. Not a Swastika to be seen.
They tried saying “no.” A lot of apologies and pleasant smiles. They said the village never had much in the first place. The bakery was empty, but a quiet bribe loosened an urchin’s tongue: The baker knew what would happen and dispersed the food among his neighbors. It was a small enough town that they all knew each other. Far better to give the bread to friends and neighbors than let it be seized for strangers.
With no luck in the shops, the soldiers turned to the houses. If they didn’t open up, Applejack kicked down the doors. Everyone advertised that their cellars were bare. Some were telling the truth. Others had sausages, hard bread and flour. The soldiers seized these without ceremony. No one complained too loudly, not with a gun in every American’s hands.
There was some crying, though, and begging. They didn’t lie when they said the village didn’t have food to spare.
One man, Applejack’s heart broke for him. He was on his knees, begging them to spare his larder. He had a pregnant wife and a baby, and a twelve year-old sick with the flu.
Poor man, it had to have killed him inside. Human men hated to beg, hated to look weak.
Applejack wouldn’t’ve believed Mohammed could get angry, but he made up for lost time then. He gave the man a savage kick, right in front of his wife. And then another, in the stomach.
“YOU DON’T GET TO BEG!” He roared. Even Applejack flinched away from him. “Not after what you people have done! Not even five miles away!”
“I don’t know anything about that,” the man groaned, guarding his stomach. His wife kneeled down next to him, shielding his body with her own.
Barely five country miles outside of town…and you didn’t know?
Applejack snorted disdainfully at the lie. Mohammed did more. “YOU LIE! YOU LIE BEFORE ME, AND YOU LIE BEFORE GOD!”
That was it. They took his bread and meat and went on to the next house.
Maybe there was something wrong with her, but Applejack didn’t feel too sorry after that. These people would be lean for a while. Good. Five miles up the road were some folks who had forgotten what food tastes like. The villagers had to have seen the construction, or went out for a look…
…Or heard gunshots when a guard played target practice.
She frowned. Did they just not care? Were they scared?
Doesn’t matter. Applejack growled the thought in her head. They did nothing, not one finger lifted to help folks who never did them no wrong. They’ll make it right. We’ll make ‘em.
Maybe we should have them come down and dig the graves.
Would that be justice, or just spite? Applejack wasn’t too sure, but she wanted it all the same. Bring the pregnant wife and the kids. Show them around the camp, at gunpoint if need be. Show them all what went on so close to their precious homes. Give the whole town a bitter dose of wisdom they’d never swallow on their own.
Let’s see them say ‘I don’t know’ after that.
The thought consumed her enough that she broke off to find Jackie. Maybe he could make it happen.
Author's Note
The opposite of Love is not Hate. It’s Apathy. It’s not giving a damn.”
-Leo Buscaglia, Author
During the inception of this fic, I planned on talking about the Holocaust a lot: The atrocities, the history, and the enduring controversies.
But do you know what’s more depressing than intensive research on the subject? Neither do I. I've written what felt natural for the story, and will continue the story to its conclusion.
For what it’s worth, I take Applejack’s side: In the face of evil, silence and indifference is equal to complicity. A citizen bears responsibility for the actions of his government. It was not a single man who prosecuted the war and the atrocities, nor was it a political party. It was a nation, and I feel the silent majority of Germans who followed their leaders must share in the blame.
But it’s very easy for me to say this, isn’t it? With no tyrant above me and no gun at my head. Form whatever opinions you like. I have merely given mine.
(Oh, and I held off on posting this chapter until I was done with the one that follows. I'm not bastard enough to make people wait a month on a note like this. Need to finish proofreading but the next one'll be posted here within a few days.)
Chapter 15: Long Roads Home
”You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean. A few dirty drops do not make the ocean dirty.”
-Mahatma Gandhi
The days had become routine. Predictable. Her time in Europe was drawing to an end, this Applejack knew. Princess Celestia had politely refused offers to participate in the occupation of Germany. Instead, letters were being sent instructing Equestrians to report to harbor cities. Ships arriving would bear supplies, and when they left, they would bring the victorious ponies home. The soldiers…and any Equestrians they freed from the camps. Fewer than they hoped for. But enough to give satisfaction that their war – Equestria’s war – had not been in vain.
Applejack wasn’t too sure what to think. Her letter had arrived a few days ago, but she was putting off the trip. She wanted closure. The war was so huge that few could claim to be there when it “ended.” But to her it felt like one giant loose end. One day she woke up and heard that the Germans surrendered, and that was that.
The war was finished, but she wasn’t. She kept working, waiting for something to happen.
Big Macintosh hadn’t gotten his letter yet. It gave her a good excuse to stick around.
The platoon was spread out, manning three checkpoints on the watch for smugglers and deserters. It was dull, thankless work. The Americans were bored and sullen – they would be stuck in Germany for a while longer. Or worse: transferred to the Pacific, where the Allies were readying for an invasion of Japan. Celestia’s neutrality in that conflict meant the Equestrians were safe. It also meant that many of Applejack’s comrades were seething with jealousy for her.
She scrunched her face, waving a car past. A German banker and his wife, rich enough to drive and eat well after the country’s fall.
When Mac got his letter, she would leave with him. Eeyup. Closure or no, there was nothing more to win here.
Still, she kept hoping something would happen. For one of these humans to look her in the eye and say-
A grey jacket caught her gaze as she glanced back to the front of the checkpoint. A short trot over gave her the clear picture.
It was a Wehrmacht uniform, though the man inside had grown too thin to fill it out. His face was handsome enough to make Applejack understand how some ponies were falling for humans. But the face was pained and drawn. The clipped blonde hair was dusty, and he leaned heavily on a pair of crutches a bit too small for him. One leg was unmoving and twisted completely to the side. The other wobbled as it struggled to support his weight.
But he was smiling, or at least trying too. One of the Americans pulled up a chair for him to collapse in. While Jackie eyed the man’s papers, him and one of the recruits chatted about motorbikes of all things.
The German nodded at Applejack, but had apparently seen enough ponies that he didn’t even blink.
“So where you headed?” Jackie asked, returning the paperwork.
“Mattenburg,” the man replied in accented English. “Home, or whatever’s left of it. Your planes hit it pretty hard. About ten miles outside of Nuremburg.”
That meant about an eight-mile walk. In the state this man was in, that might be days.
…Of course for a pony with four good legs, it’d be the work of an afternoon.
“Hell, Sergeant,” Fred chipped in sympathetically. “We got the jeep close by?”
Jackie shook his head. “The captain borrowed it. Something about a dress-uniform dinner.”
Applejack’s mouth opened. “Let me give him a ride.”
The words fell easily from her mouth, born straight from good-natured instinct. This man wasn’t the enemy, not anymore.
Jackie offered her a little grin. “Why did I know you’d say that? Sure, fine. I just gotta resist the urge to burn your recall letter while you’re gone.”
The German looked up at her, shocked. “Are you sure?”
Applejack smiled encouragingly at him. “Sure thing. You ain’t going anywhere fast on those.”
He laughed and slapped one of the ruined legs, hobbling upright. Even with Applejack squatting down, he still needed a little help from Jackie and Fred to mount her.
“The name’s Applejack,” she began amicably, starting down the road.
The man caught himself a little before responding. “Fritz.”
“…But here’s the really great part: The professor knew right away it was me. The evidence pointed so clearly away from me that he knew I had arranged it that way. Or maybe he guessed that no one else would dare put that cat there. Either way, he was right, and I caught Hell.”
Applejack laughed so hard she had to stop for a moment. She needed this. Fritz was charming and hilarious, full of stories of pranks and hijinks that would compete with Pinkie Pie’s.
“You know, I think I know what my downfall was.” Fritz seemed like he needed this, too. Who knows how far that man had walked, or how long it had been since he caught a break?
“It was laying the trail to Sweetie Pie. Professor Zuft might’ve taken the bait if it was someone else, but Sweetie was a goody-goody. She even took notes, even though he taught everything right from the book.”
Applejack cracked a fresh grin…but the grin died as something came to mind.
“Sweetie Pie?” She said guardedly. This wouldn’t go anywhere pleasant. “That ain’t a German name.”
Fritz hesitated a second before shaking his head. “N-no. We had some Equestrians at Konigsberg – it’s a port city, so it was pretty convenient for them. Earth pony. Nice girl. Had this hair like a-“
“Whatever happened to her?” Applejack cut in. She asked it nice and neutrally…but it was a loaded question and they both knew it.
“Fled the country,” Fritz responded. It was the best kind of dodge: A dodge that didn’t sound like one.
But Applejack wasn’t born yesterday. “Where to?”
“Um, Poland,” he said sheepishly. The first to fall.
He continued quickly, hoping to end the conversation. “Lost track of her after she left. Hope she got out of there…”
“Me too,” Applejack snapped, what was left of her good humor evaporating. “’Cause if she didn’t before you lot rolled in, it would be too late. Wouldn’t it? ”
This was the part that pissed her off the most. When, no matter how friendly he was before, the German would grow quiet. He would act dumb to the atrocities, claiming he knew nothing of them. That’s how this song and dance worked.
Fritz, however, was done dancing. He hesitated a long moment, then nodded. “Far too late. Hope she kept moving.”
That caught Applejack, this time in a better way. I’ll be darned. There are some honest ones out there.
“Well hay, Fritz, you’re the first one I’ve talked to who’ll own up to…”
The right words caught in her throat. “…That whole business,” she finished lamely.
Fritz blew out slowly, shaking his head and frowning. “Shit, I don’t know. It wasn’t exactly advertised. Lot of people really were clueless. Heard talk of deportations and never gave a second thought.”
“Then the dockworkers might’ve guessed,” Applejack countered. “They never saw no big deportations.”
“Nope.” Fritz just rolled with the rebuttal. “And the train workers, too.”
“The construction workers who built the camps,” Applejack continued. “And the towns they were built close to.”
“And the guards, and any family members they wrote to.” Fritz grimaced. “People just…didn’t want to know more, so they shut up and looked away. Hell, you couldn’t be in my business without having an inkling or two.”
Applejack stopped a moment, chewing over that. “Your…business?”
Memories of the liberated camp came back to mind. The muddy graveyard. The story of the sharpshooting guard, now blending in with the populace.
If he’s that guard, I’m burying him tonight. The dark thought hit her mind, and she wondered if it would be right or wrong.
Fritz nodded. He was done dancing. “Operation Obscura Korps. I was a warlock. That’s how my legs got busted, actually. I was at Bastogne, when…”
From his seat on her back, Fritz couldn’t see Applejack’s face as he began the story. The twist of rage and hate that came to it.
A flash of memories. The cluster of hornless unicorns, with hollow eyes and shrunken bellies. Twisted bodies, half-sunk in the mud.
He was three sentences into the story when Fritz noticed his ride’s front half was rising. He leaned forward to compensate, leaving him unbalanced as the front hooves slammed back down and Applejack’s rear shot upwards.
By the time he realized she was bucking him off of her, Fritz had already hit the ground. He shouted in pain and alarm, tumbling once before rolling flat on his back.
He looked up, finally seeing the look on her face.
“DAMN YOU!” The words tore from Applejack’s throat. “Damn you right to your human Hell! You knew, all right. You’re the REASON for it. Torturing ponies who never did you no wrong, for what? So you can kill even MORE people?!!”
Fritz didn’t offer any riposte. Applejack turned away and kicked a hoof-full of dirt back at him. “Reckon you can get yourself the rest of the way home.”
She began trotting away, squinting her eyes against the setting sun.
Several minutes of fuming and trotting later, a thought hit her mind. He’s just a soldier. They ordered him to pick up a weapon, so he did.
That slowed her pace to a walk. More thoughts came, slowing her still further. Maybe he deserves a little misery. Maybe they all do. But he’s beat. He’s lame for life. Hungry, no job, maybe no home to go back to. No country left. Dead friends and family.
How much misery is enough?
The last thought made her stop. Applejack looked at the ground, thinking. There was such a thing as Justice, this she knew. But there was also Vengeance, and Spite. Where was the line between them? And where was she standing right now?
She stood there a moment, tossing the question back and forth in her head.
Try as she might, though, Applejack couldn’t figure it out. So, slowly, she turned back around and began retracing her steps. If this was the right thing to do, good. If it wasn’t, then at least she was erring on the side of decency. Of being stronger than her hatred.
Fritz wasn’t far from where she left him. He had pulled himself up to a tree and was lying with his back against it. He watched her return, but didn’t make anything of it. He didn’t look happy to see her or angry she threw him, just…tired.
Applejack sighed as she strode up to him. He was resigned, and so was she. “I had to come back.”
“You seemed the type,” he returned, showing a wan smile.
She sighed again and squatted down next to the tree. “Right, hop on. We’ll need to move if we want to make it before nightfall.”
He did, with some pain and effort. When Applejack felt him climb far enough onto her, she started walking on.
Silence was a shield, for a while. Neither much wanted to talk, so they didn’t.
Applejack had to ask, though. She didn’t want to, but there wouldn’t be another chance. Nothing for it but to plow ahead.
“You seem like an okay sort,” she began.
“Really? Ask my friends.” Fritz gave a short laugh.
But Applejack wasn’t about to get distracted. “These people, these ponies…they never did you no wrong. You know this. So why ?”
A moment of silence, and the human gave a defeated sigh. “Why…the madness? Or why did I become a warlock?”
“Both,” she responded sternly, eyes straight ahead. “Any order you please.”
“You gonna drop me if I don’t want to talk about it?”
Applejack didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
Fritz gave a little laugh. More like a hard exhale. “Of course you wouldn’t. It’s…”
He shook his head, pausing a moment to gather his thoughts before pressing on. “I don’t know ‘why,’ but I can say what it felt like. It was a fire hose, is what it was. All that pressure building for so many years, and it was you poor bastards who were in front when it blew out.”
“When what blew out?”
“The Hate ,” Fritz said it like it wasn’t a word, but a God. Maybe it was. “I wonder if you could even understand? What it’s like to grow up in a defeated nation. Poor and hungry. Seeing the adults looking at you with guilt in their eyes, knowing they can’t give you a better future. The soldiers, toasting the damn Kaiser, drunk as drunk…but they shut up when they look at you. Because no matter how horrible the war was, they’d give anything to go back to it. To charge that damn hill when they fled, to press on when they stopped, to win where they lost, to have one…”
He stopped at that last word. Quietly, Fritz wondered if he spoke of himself as well. “Just one . God. Damn. Chance to give that little boy a better future. Even if it kills you, because then you don’t have to look at that little boy and know you failed him. Sitting there, drunk as drunk, they know. They know it in their hearts, no matter how wrong it is. Each of those soldiers looks at that kid and knows, ‘it’s my fault.’ God-Damned Allies even made us sign a paper, ‘it’s my fault.’ And the real cincher is that boy grows up and he sees things just getting worse and worse. Hungry mothers, hungry babies, and he’s a man now, so he looks at that hungry baby and thinks…’it’s my fault.’ Nothing gets better. ‘Maybe it’s my fault.’ It’s gotta be someone’s fault, right?”
“You can’t hate yourself forever. The hate’s got nowhere to go, so it just builds. It never leaves you. It’s under pressure. It’s gotta get out.”
The voice turned bitter. “I don’t know who was the first fool who said, ‘it’s the Jews’ fault,’ or ‘it’s the Equines’ fault.’ Maybe whoever said it believed it. Maybe he just wanted people who were too few to fight back. But word spread. You know how I said people didn’t want to believe in the death camps, so they didn’t? Well people DID want to believe in this, so…they did. It was a damn relief, knowing that it wasn’t our fault. It wasn’t the soldiers’ fault, and it wasn’t my fault. It was THEIR fault. We wanted to believe it was someone else’s fault, so when the Nazis pointed a finger, we didn’t think twice.”
Applejack was silent, willing herself to absorb every word. It was evil. Evil and dumb foolishness, and she liked to believe the two were closely related.
Fritz gestured with his hands, losing momentum. “It was…a tidal wave. Everyone’s emotions, everyone’s hate, finally given a chance to let loose.”
His orange companion grunted, glancing back at him. “I know a thing or two about getting dumb just because my blood’s up. It don’t last for ten years.”
“True,” Fritz nodded. He gave a humorless smirk. “It just needed to last for an election. We voted in the city halls, then we voted in the streets with truncheons and rope. By the time we cooled off, we were at war. And hey, we took a good look around and nodded, thinking Hitler was right. He was right about Poland. He was right about France. And he was right about solving the Equine problem: Not a one was to be seen.”
“Well it’s not like they vanished,” Applejack snarled.
“People don’t think about what they don’t see,” Fritz came back glumly. “They were gone and…no one wanted to know more. Brings us right back to where we started.”
“Hm. ‘Reckon so.”
A moment passed, then he went on. “As for being a warlock-“
Applejack cut in, mercy rising in her chest. “You don’t need to.”
“But I WANT to!” Fritz’s sudden, pleading volume took her aback. “Stauller, Derek. I need someone to know…”
He trailed off. Several minutes passed, slowly goading Applejack to speak. “Know what?”
Fritz almost whispered the words, voice breaking. “That they weren’t monsters. They were human.”
He kept talking, with that quiet breathlessness you get when you’re on the verge of tears. “We were idiots. At least Derek and I were, we just dragged Stauller along with us. Grew up together, went to school together, joined the Freikorps and the university and the Brownshirts together. Then joined the Wehrmacht, fought, and got leave together. An officer came to us and asked if we wanted to be in an experimental force. After a year in Russia, all we could say was ‘Hell, yes!’”
“Being a warlock…” Fritz hesitated, then went on. “Well I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good. Our first op was breaking out a regiment enveloped by the Reds, and it went without a hitch. The Russians had no idea what hit them. The guys we saved had been hanging by a thread for days, and had run out of food and water. Seeing the looks on their faces…they had given up all hope, and we gave it back to them. We saved them. I was the big hero, and I loved it. We all did.”
His voice grew happier, recalling the better times. “We got recalled to Germany right afterwards – they wanted a debrief, wanted to see if warlocks were worth the effort. Holy Hell, Ma’am, did we have a party then. Us and the other new warlocks.”
Applejack felt his weight shift as Fritz fished something from his pocket. His hand came down into her view, holding a battered photograph. “Here.”
She blinked, needed a long moment to take the photograph in. Then Applejack let herself laugh again.
“You, uh…y’all look like you were having fun.”
Fritz beamed. “Hoo boy, were we ever.”
Applejack squinted closer. “That’s you in the middle, right? With the white hat on, holding the other guy and-“
“What?” Fritz interrupted with a laugh of his own, pulling the photo away. “No! I wasn’t in this one.”
“He sure looks like you.”
Fritz sniffed. “Yeah his name was…Hans. People got us confused all the time.”
“Suuuuure…” Still chuckling, Applejack stretched the word out as long as she could. He wasn’t fooling anyone.
The German swapped the picture for another one. “Heh, now get a look at this.”
He pointed first to one man, then the other. “That’s Derek, in the stroller, and that’s Stauller right next to him. God only knows how we talked him into this.”
“So that one in the dress is…”
“Yep, that’s me.” Fritz laughed, but it was a weak one this time. “For God’s sake, we were allowed to be wild! We were dumb! We were young!”
“For God’s sake…”
His voice was shrinking again. Applejack let her laughter die. Reacting like this to the faces of his friends…this story didn’t end well.
“For God’s sake,” he said again, breathless, all humor gone. “They were young. They were good. I don’t know if you believe me and I don’t care, but they didn’t deserve to die. I’m not saying that the Nazis deserved it, or the Reds or Jews deserved it. But they didn’t deserve it .”
Applejack swallowed hard.
‘Deserve?’
The dead men at Normandy. Manny. The muddy camp.
‘Deserve’ don’t have anything to do with it.
But that was something they both already knew, so she said something else. “When did it happen?”
Fritz laughed again, but it was a bitter laugh. “Bastogne. Unicorn took them both on. With the Yankees and a pegasus, took us all on.”
Applejack slowed abruptly, her mind going elsewhere. Twilight had told the story of her fight at Bastogne. Against warlocks…it didn’t take much math to figure it was Fritz’s squad.
Twilight killed them.
Both those jokers in the baby stroller. Twilight killed them. It was strange. The thought of her friend taking the life of another…didn’t really disturb her.
But THAT disturbed her plenty.
She sighed, mumbling to herself. “Boy howdy, it’s gonna be a long road home, ain’t it?”
“Sorry?” The human leaned in a little, tilting his head.
“Nothing,” Appljack shook her head, then reconsidered. “Well…”
May as well. “That unicorn…purple gal, right?”
“Purple, yes,” Fritz chuckled wryly. “I, er, didn’t catch the gender.”
“Twilight Sparkle.” Applejack hesitated a second, then went on. “Close friend o’ mine. I can’t rightly say we grew up together, but we’ve been tight for a good while now. Guess with something like that…it would’ve been one of us’ns’ friends.”
“Hm.” Fritz grunted his response, content to let it end at that.
Twilight killed them.
“You, er…” Applejack trailed off, giving a hesitant cough. “Think you can forgive her? For my sake, if not hers?”
It took a moment for Fritz to respond. He gave a slow shrug, and his voice matched. “There’s nothing to forgive. Can’t blame someone for living.”
He swallowed hard. “Doesn’t stop me from wishing my friends were still alive.”
The voice was resigned again – you only had so many tears in you. The silence that followed was heavy, but neither had the heart to break it again.
Mattenburg was either a small town or a large village, depending on which way you looked at it. At least, it was before the war. The Germans didn’t end up fighting for it, but that didn’t stop the Allied bombers and artillery from taking their toll.
Lot of broken glass in the street. Lot of ruins where buildings should be.
No bodies. The dead had been buried.
A cold, nervous fear gripped Applejack’s heart as they walked the pummeled streets. What if his home was gone? It had to have been a long, painful journey for Fritz. All the way back to this cratered city, looking for those few things he had left to love. What if they were gone?
The silence remained, but she could feel Fritz grow tense on her back. He was wondering, too.
The house they came to was drab plaster. It used to be white, now grey, caked in the mashed dust of a thousand other buildings. Something had torn a chunk out of one of the corners, ripping into two walls and the tile roof.
A tarp had been set in place over the hole, and smoke rose from the chimney. There was life.
Applejack released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
The girl who came out – somewhere around Fritz’s age – was plain, but pretty. She wore thick glasses in wire frames, big enough to almost swallow her little nose. She was skinny and short, but what snatched Applejack’s attention was the hair. It was plain, but pure black. It seemed to be the only thing in the city not painted by building-dust.
She came out to the doorway, but stood there, watching them. There was a small, honest grin as she locked eyes with Fritz. She took a step forward, but then noticed Applejack. The look the girl gave was…well, not uncommon. A little hate and a lot of fear. The foot quietly retracted back onto the doorstep.
Dismounting Applejack wasn’t any easier than getting on, but Fritz made do. He balanced himself on the crutches and turned towards her, matching her gaze with those tiny human eyes.
Those eyes, now stained with moisture. He Took a deep breath. Clumsily still leaning against his crutches, he reached an arm around her neck in a dust-stained embrace.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse from the troubles and tears.
Applejack felt her own vision get fuzzy as he went on. “It’s my fault. I was a small piece in a large machine, but that means I’m as much to blame as all the others. I’m sorry for all of it. All that happened because of our foolishness, our pride. I won’t apologize for fighting for my country. But I am sorry for the pain you suffered fighting for yours. I’m sorry for the friends you lost, the tears you shed. More than anything else, though, I’m sorry to those murdered – there’s no other word, murdered – by the system I was a part of.”
“It’s my fault.” He released her and pulled away, giving a tired, sad smile. “And that’s something I’ll carry with me forever.”
A hoof came up and caught his shoulder, arresting him as he went to turn away. Applejack blinked a few times, clearing her own eyes, before bringing them up to look at his.
Her voice was clear. “You accepted the blame. Now comes the hard part, the part that your old soldiers never got right: Moving on. Don’t keep the hate for yourself, just let it go. The past is gone. And the future’s with that pretty girl over there.”
“So rebuild. Love. Learn, and move on. It ain’t gonna be easy, but it’s gonna be Life . Live for your friends, and live for you.”
As she spoke, Applejack slowly moved her hoof to rest on his heart. She left it there a moment longer, rubbing gently, before retracting it.
Fritz sniffed, then nodded with a thankful smile. He turned, limping painfully across the blackened lawn.
Halfway to the house, the girl ran out to him. Not a word was shared as she embraced him tightly, crying into his shoulder.
Applejack reached up to pull her hat down. No…her hat wasn’t there anymore. Lost it while pulling Tex.
Just a hat.
She turned around and began to walk off. She really wanted to look back at them but…somehow felt that she shouldn’t.
It was done. No sounds came during her walk home, save the clop of her own hooves and the chittering of nighttime animals. It was nice, it was…peaceful.
Didn’t get back until midnight. Fred was on guard duty, but Macintosh had stayed up for her too. He looked like he had something to say, and she knew what it would be.
“Mail came.” He shifted his hay sprig to the other side of the mouth. “Got my letter. Leaving from Antwerp, same as you.”
That was it, then. Applejack nodded. The boys would cry, but…this was the end. Time to move on. Time for everyone to start moving on.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “You okay heading out tomorrow?”
The sprig shifted back to the former side. “Eeyup.”
With the plan made, Mac turned in for the night. Applejack stayed up to munch a ration bar, making up for a missed dinner. She amusedly watched Fred out of the corner of her eye. He was looking at her, stepping back and forth, evidently nervous over something. Skinny kid. Lived on crackers and soda, for no reason he could ever say. Little touched in the head, but loveable all the more for it.
“You two are leaving tomorrow?” He shyly asked, evidently having overheard.
“Eeyup,” Applejack responded, then laughed a little. ’Eeyup.’ Mac’s got everyone saying it. It’s like our motto.
The kid – he wasn’t any younger than her, but to everyone he was ‘the kid’ – bit his lip and looked down. “Sure gonna miss you. You ‘n Mac.”
“Shucks, you too, Fred.” She gave him a warm smile, feeling emotion bubbling up in her throat. Aw, hay, who am I kidding? I’ll probably cry more than anyone else.
It was the last night with the platoon. Nothing special about it. She swallowed the rest of the bar, bid Fred goodnight, and settled down to sleep. There’d be a busy day tomorrow.
Tired as she was, though, she felt good. Applejack hoped she took some of the weight off Fritz’s shoulders. At the same time, she felt like he took some off hers, though she couldn’t put her hoof on just what it was.
Author's Note
”To forgive is to set a prisoner free, and discover that the prisoner was you.”
-Lewis B. Smedes, Theologian
Yep, those are pictures of actual German soldiers, being...well, being 18-20 year-olds, suddenly crammed in with a horde of other 18-20 year-olds.
(Gonna make it, gonna make it, gonna make it, gonna make it, gonna make it...)
”Cast your eyes on the ocean, Cast your sword to the sea…”
It was done without song or ceremony. Montgomery and Bradley received word that the formations lent to Celestia were being returned to their command. In the space of weeks, her once-potent army vanished from beneath her.
Only a tiny entourage came with her to the docks. Soarin, Blueblood, and Twilight Sparkle, all quiet throughout the train ride. There was much to digest. For Celestia as much as anyone.
At least things grew noisier when they reached Antwerp. Celestia loved the noise. Once more in public, her officers rallied to the tasks at hand. Soarin marched off with his list, searching for those members of “The Berlin Flyby” he hadn’t chewed out yet. Blueblood got ready to manage the withdrawal following a few words from Celestia. He doubted he was up to the job, she assured him he was.
She watched worriedly as he strolled out from the train car, exuding arrogance he no longer felt. A crate fell off a nearby stack, causing a loud crack as it hit the ground. The prince gave a start and dove to the side, looking fearfully to the air before realizing there was no danger. Shamefaced, he got up and hurried on, never noticing that a few Americans had leapt for cover as well.
Celestia released a sigh. She rather missed the old Blueblood, who had jumped at the chance to lead soldiers into battle.
The last member of the entourage, Twilight, looked after him with a grimace. She glanced to Celestia. “Will he be okay?”
Will any of us?
“He will live,” the princess responded, neither a yes or no. “He will have trials to endure, just as you will.”
The young protégé’s trials would be easier than others. After the events at Bastogne, Celestia quickly swept Twilight into her retinue as an aide-de-camp. It was good for everyone. Her intelligence and organizational skill were used to their fullest, and she was kept far from the battle lines.
Celestia knew she had been selfish, keeping Twilight by her side while others fought and died. She also knew that she wasn’t sorry at all.
The unicorn looked up at her. Celestia offered a gentle smile and inclined her head, stepping through the doorway.
“Come, Twilight. Let’s find your friends.”
Twilight smiled and began trotting alongside her. There was…a bit less spring in her step, Celestia noted. But it had been a long train ride.
There was no guarantee her friends would be near the dockyards, though it was a good a place to start looking. Most of the Equestrians were spending their time there, counting down the days with others of their kind. They had seen enough of Europe.
The pair made their way through the crowds easily enough, courtesy of Celestia’s rank.
Her heart melted as they bowed before her, somehow still in reverence after all she put them though. The Sun Princess smiled faintly, taking in all the faces. Her ponies.
How did they get so strong?
So many of them were victims of the Nazi Regime. They were easy to distinguish from the soldiers: Underweight, hooded eyes, shoulders slumped from the weight of murdered friends. They were alive, but they had nothing.
But they had something! Ponies sharing meals, money, blankets. They were coming Home, and no matter what, they would have a Home to come back to. Celestia would make sure of it. And if she somehow failed in this, the other ponies would make sure of it.
Of the rest, some were soldiers in name only. Coordinators, flight planners, and others who never laid eyes on the foe, but were crucial none the less. A stallion who was honestly a touch portly lounged by a stack of crates. Celestia’s lips twitched downwards, but then she looked again. He was rubbing the shoulder of another pony: A shaking three-legged pegasus in a British helmet, tears in his eyes, lips moving as he quietly told his story.
The fighters. Many ponies had entered combat roles, and it showed. Some with eye patches, ripped ears, and missing limbs. Some frowning in the midst of smiling company, thinking back to human friends they’d miss. Thinking back to friends who didn’t make it.
And some, quite certainly, thinking back to decisions gone wrong and wondering if they could have done better. Celestia knew the look of these ponies, the ones who weren’t too proud of themselves. It was a wistful, hesitant look.
She hid her own quite well.
But whether the scars were inside or outside, others could see them. Two ponies with those wistful looks met each other, exchanged photographs, and began to talk and laugh again. A pegasus mare with only one wing jokingly struck scandalous poses, drawing hoots and laughter from those around her. A royal guard kept his head drooped low, hiding his face even has he spoke to a white mare next to him.
Over there, an earth pony was holding a mirror with shaking hooves, staring with horror at a scar where an eye used to be. She ignored a young stallion as he talked and patted her shoulder, evidently trying to cheer her up. When words failed, he tried something else: he leaned in front of the mirror and kissed her, finally snapping her out of the shock.
Celestia heard a breathy little laugh, and realized it was her own. Strange that she sounded like that, almost as if-
Encased in a purple aura, a white handkerchief floated next to her face. Twilight was looking at her, smiling shyly.
Raising a hoof, Celestia dabbed at her eyes. Two sets of tears running down, breaking her calm illusion. She hadn’t even noticed.
“Thank you, I…” Celestia trailed off, accepting the tissue with her own magic. It seemed foolish to shed tears without knowing why. Should she lie, saying there was just ‘something in her eye?’
No, such posturing was never her way. “I don’t know what came over me.”
So much loss, but so much strength…
“How did you all get so strong?” She said the words softly. “Was it the war? Did it make you strong?”
Strange, to show such weakness in front of Twilight. But, Sun Princess or not, Celestia was just a pony.
Twilight released a slow breath. She looked up at her mentor, a knowing twinkle in her eye. “Not the war, no.”
She didn’t finish the thought verbally. Instead, she reached a hoof over and tapped Celestia’s chest.
Celestia smiled back at her, though the gesture brought out a few more tears.
Her head a little clearer, Celestia tilted it. “Wait…Rarity! She’s over there.”
Her eyes passing over so many ponies, the princess hadn’t made the connection. The downturned royal guard with his comforting friend…the mare was Rarity.
Twilight confirmed it with a gleeful shout. “Rarity!”
The princess remained still as her student dashed forward. Rarity waved, but remained by her guard’s side. Even as Twilight began excitedly talking, the white unicorn’s attention seemed more focused on the stallion.
A sigh came from Celestia as she watched the guardpony. Stern Glare had served in her own Palace Guard, and he was one of the best. It was why she hoof-chose him to be Rarity’s escort.
None of the other Elements were supposed to have seen battle.
Celestia grimaced. A lot of things were ‘supposed’ to be different.
After as few exchanged words, Rarity seemed to have had enough of his fascination with the ground. She placed her head under his chin, slowly easing him into the crook of her horn. She rubbed it sideways once in a comforting nuzzle before gently pushing his head upwards.
Twilight flinched. It was impossible not to.
Something had hit his face in the last days of the war. Like boiling oil had been flung between his eyes. From the once squarely-handsome nose to just under his mane, black burns and red boils had replaced the white fur. The chin and large patches on both sides were untouched, but the rest was unmistakably injured.
And unmistakably hideous.
Stern Glare gave a pained, panicked smile. He was pressing down against Rarity, trying to hide again.
The flinch – nothing but cruel instinct – was over. Twilight crossed the distance in a heartbeat and brought the two into a tight embrace. Rarity returned it readily. Stern Glare hesitantly followed suit.
Twilight looked back to Celestia, smiling. There was pride in her eyes, a ’Look, Princess, I did it!’ Celestia obligingly smiled back, but made no move to join them. She gave a wave, and Twilight nodded, understanding.
Princess Celestia turned away. She wanted to join them. She really did. But each of them would bear their own burdens back to Equestria, and she didn’t want to trouble them with her own.
The war was over. But there remained so much to do...
(This part heavily references Trixie’s story, found HERE . Has it really been a year? Sheesh…)
As the guns fell quiet across the blasted Earth, Equestria found itself at a crossroads. Never before had they gone abroad in such numbers, or entered a human war. Human and pony mouths were asking the same question: ‘Where, now, does Equestria go?’
The ‘right’ answer was the subject of much debate, but the discussion would always boil down to the truth: ‘Wherever Celestia wills it.’ As went the Princess, so would go the nation. And, for better or worse, the world would be changed.
In the immediate postwar, Celestia found herself in an immensely complex situation. Many ponies had been liberated in the West, and these she would bring home without difficulty. But others now rested in Soviet refugee camps, freed by the Red Army in Poland and Germany. The fate of these refugees was a potential flashpoint – most were unicorns, and human governments were well aware of the power their horns could unlock.
Soviet-Equestrian relations were hardly the only crisis Celestia would be called upon to navigate. An army of American diplomats had descended on Canterlot, flooding royal offices with offers and requests. They wanted air and naval bases on Equestrian soil, as well as AA batteries, supply depots, and radar stations. America would pay for everything, with generous “discretionary funds” tacked on for cooperative Equestrian officials. The new President Truman even paid Canterlot a visit, making the case for a grand alliance between Equestria and “the other free countries of Europe and North America.” He was charming and intelligent during his tour, touting the security and economic perks Equestria would enjoy in such an arrangement.
Needless to say, accepting the offer would place Equestria firmly in America’s camp in the coming Cold War.
Elsewhere, a legal crisis emerged as war criminals were gathered in Nuremberg…with a dozen ponies among their number. Most were accused of collaboration to a greater or lesser degree. The controversy ballooned when Trixie Lulamoon was arrested by military police and brought to Nuremberg. To her dismay, Trixie found herself credited with the creation of warlocks. One by one, all the involved German scientists had testified along the same vein: If not for the magic lessons she naively gave, they never would have even conceived of imparting magic to humans.
To the perception of many, this made Trixie responsible for every death caused by warlocks. Her acts of heroism ignored, a virulent minority of lawyers began lobbying for her to stand at the gallows with Himmler and Goering. This, in turn, sparked an effort by ponies and sympathetic humans to remove Trixie from the vengeful court and have her tried in Equestria. Passions grew so hot over the matter that fistfights broke out in the streets of Nuremburg.
So it was, that as her ponies returned home to joyous crowds, Princess Celestia’s problems had just begun.
After a quick conference with her sister, Celestia signed a royal decree indicating that Equestria would judge their own criminals. When international officials resisted, she turned to her military colleagues for aid. Eisenhower readily came out in Trixie’s defense, noting in writing that, “If we make it a crime to have been fooled by Hitler…let’s be honest, I’d be obligated to arrest all Europe.” Other officers followed his lead, lending strength to Celestia’s claims.
Without fanfare, the court quietly acceded to Equestria’s terms. The ponies were extradited to their own land and duly judged by their peers. There, the defense was able to prove their case: The ponies who cooperated with the Nazis did so without knowledge of the regime’s atrocities. When they learned, they were forced to continue their work under threat of violence.
The verdicts were the same for each one. While the results were often tragic (particularly in Trixie’s case), none of the Equestrians were responsible for Germany’s crimes. They were all declared innocent and welcomed home, though Trixie swiftly booked passage on the next boat to America. When the ship left, she wore a disguise and spoke to no one.
Celestia’s next task would be less heartfelt, but infinitely more important: Navigating Equestria’s path in the looming Cold War. It was odd to approach such a critical issue with haste, but within a month Celestia had put her plan into action. Whether it was a foolhardy or ingenious one became the subject of unending future debate.
A meeting was quickly arranged between her and Stalin. Celestia brazenly flew to Moscow without escort, meeting him within the Kremlin. There, she informed him in no uncertain terms that America was courting alliance with Equestria. She bluntly noted that combating Communism was the goal of this alliance, but she had no intention of making the Soviet Union an enemy.
Unless, of course, the Soviet Union decided otherwise.
With that, Princess Celestia demanded the immediate deportation of every pony in Soviet jurisdiction to Equestria. No exceptions would be made. She assured that if this was done, the Americans would be refused. If it was not, their alliance would be embraced. Celestia declared she would remain in Moscow one night to await Stalin’s answer.
Wild speculation on Celestia’s thoughts would follow in years to come. Some would say she was bluffing, and had no intention of ever joining NATO. Others would speculate that her move was designed to catch Stalin off-guard, and prevent him from secreting away any unicorns.
One way or another, Stalin knew a good deal when he heard one. He saw little need for ‘warlock’ research: The Soviets had overcome Hitler without magic, and could do the same to the Westerners. More dangerous would be a lasting enmity with both the ageless ruler and her nation. Here was a chance for Stalin to placate a potential foe at no cost to himself.
Celestia didn’t even have to wait the night out: The deal was struck that evening. On learning of her sister’s success, Luna wasted no time in completing Equestria’s end of the bargain. With a chilly lack of grace that she would become infamous for, the Princess of the Night evicted the American lobbyists from Equestria.
On returning to Canterlot, Celestia gave the long-awaited announcement of her intention for Equestria’s future. On one hoof: Equestria would never again become blind to the world beyond its shores. Ambassadors would be exchanged, tourists would be exported and imported, and the royal offices would keep tabs on the human nations. The military would be maintained, never again to rely on half-trained guards and naïve unicorns.
But the second half of her proclamation was just as telling. Equestria would return to its state of neutrality, one that “…As before, shall be perpetual, unless we are called on to fight for our fellow ponies.” Restrictions on humans in Equestria would be loosened, but not removed. Offers of foreign alliance would fall on deaf ears so long as the Celestial Sisters ruled.
Celestia’s verdict proved popular among her people. With the war over, her ponies wanted little more than a return to normalcy. Maintaining a stiff, watchful neutrality seemed the best way to accomplish this.
A vocal minority disagreed, believing entry into NATO would do far more to deter foreign threats. Headed by Soarin (and prominently including the Element of Honesty), they proved a respectful, loyal opposition. Nothing ever came of their lobbying, though neither did their numbers much diminish over time.
Predictably, the reaction was far less favorable among the Western leaders. Responses were indignant, contemptuous, even pitying. Winston Churchill grumbled that “the White Ostrich has returned her head to the sand,” sparking a running joke of portraying Celestia as an ostrich in political cartoons.
An indignant Democratic senator proved harsher, declaring, “Princess Celestia has revealed the truth to us. Far from a friend to Liberty, she is an absolute dictator, interested only in the security of her kingdom. Her much-vaunted ethics is nothing but an illusion. She turned a blind eye to every mad atrocity throughout history. Only when Equestrians were endangered did she suddenly squawk of morals. Then, with the danger passed, she returned to her petty kingdom. And there she remains, giving not one thought to virtuous struggles beyond her borders.”
Princess Celestia never gave her critics a public response. During her rare interviews, she remained unendingly polite and unfailingly reserved. She spoke of her public stance only in the simplest terms: she was the ruler of Equestria, and, like all national rulers, acted in the interests of her own. A return to neutrality, courting ill-will with no one, was what she believed those best interests to be.
Only one more glimpse into her thoughts would be allowed, occurring in the late 1960’s. Her old friend General Bradley had lobbied her tirelessly for Equestrian support against North Vietnam. Both very adamant in their own viewpoints, their relationship was becoming strained to the point of breaking. One of their correspondences from this time – a terse return letter from Celestia – was accidentally published following the General’s death:
Brad,
I am still sick from the last war, and I cannot imagine how you are not.
World War II slew sixty-million people. Do you, does anyone, even know what sixty-million people looks like?
Do not write to me again on this matter until you count that number.
-Princess Celestia
Author's Note
‘Now Trix’ at the bar is a friend of mine A showmare, all for charity Well, she’s quick with a grin And she’s richer than sin But there’s someplace that she’d rather be
She said, “Bill, I believe this is killing me” As her smile fell away from its place “I’d be on the first boat to Equestria, But how can I show them my face?”’
-Excerpt from the Endeavor-universe version of Piano Man, by Billy Joel. (Go listen to Piano Man right now if you’ve never heard it)
Blarg, I’m sorry for all the exposition. As you maaaaay have noticed, adding notes on the setting and history has kind of been a big thing for me. As such, it feels right that I wrap things up for the “big” picture as well as the little ones.
I’m debating whether or not to do a “this is what happened to each character after the war” thing. It would let me flesh out the universe and add a bit more closure to the various stories. But I never much liked it when I see others do it, so I dunno. Maybe. Probably.
One way or another, we’re not quite done yet. Close, though.
Chapter 17: And the Rest is History
(Small note, here: For whatever reason, my author’s note for the last chapter didn’t post until the next day. If you missed it, you can check it out for a bit more Trixie and musings)
”I shall pass this way but once. Therefore, if there is any good that I may do, or any kindness I may show, let me do it, for I shall not pass this way again.”
-Quaker Proverb
Applejack didn’t seem much different when she came home from the war. Rainbow Dash perhaps offered the best description, saying she was, “The same old Applejack, just moreso.” The blunt pony had grown even blunter, tipping her hat to no one who hadn’t proven themselves to her. At the same time, she had grown even more generous with her time and skills. She was – and always had been – a pony that could be counted on.
If there was one thing substantially different about her, it was a newfound interest in the world beyond. The farm was still her life. But life went on beyond her farm, and she kept an ear open for news from the humans. Applejack’s opinions were strong, and she wasn’t shy on sharing them:
”Equestria was a force for good in the War, and you can’t tell me otherwise. Why not do it again? People know we have muscle, I say it’s high-time we flexed it. I ain’t saying we should let Uncle Sam ride us, but why not walk beside him? We’d put ourselves in a position where we can do good. If people start needing us, maybe we can make them play a little nicer with each other…”
“…We can be a people that do right by others, not one that just does nothing. Nowadays, ponies think everything’s hunky-dory because everything’s going fine with us. They hear about killings in Africa or somesuch and roll their eyes and say ‘humans never change.’ Whelp, here’s something to chew on: Neither do ponies.”
The political views were new, but on a daily basis it seemed Applejack hadn’t changed at all. It wasn’t until an event in 1949 that ponies saw a completely new side of her. The Flimflam twins returned to Ponyville, bearing paperwork that declared them the official owners of Sweet Apple Acres.
There were no contests, arguments, or calling of her friends. Applejack grabbed a hoe and ran them violently off her farm. The twins returned a day later with a half-dozen royal guards to arrest her for ‘squatting.’ She ran THEM off, fighting with a frenzy that panicked the peace officers.
On the following morning, a dozen guardponies arrived and stormed the orchard. Applejack brawled with them, but numbers told the tale.
Until Big Macintosh weighed in. Then she wasn’t outnumbered anymore.
At the height of the siege, the Apple siblings and a few galvanized farmhands were keeping thirty guardponies at bay. Their embarrassed, frightened sergeant begged Twilight Sparkle to intervene, reportedly shouting ‘save me from these APPLE-DEMONS!’
She did so willingly, asking Applejack to stand down and defend her claim legally.
The response was not a positive.
”’Legally?’ Sugar, if defending what’s ours ain’t legal, then I don’t got much use for the word. I know you’re just trying to help, Twi, and I respect that. But sometimes you gotta draw a line. This is our land. If you don’t want folks getting hurt, you tell those ’ns to back off.”
The standoff ended when a pair of Canterlot detectives examined the Flimflam brothers’ paperwork and found it to be fraudulent. Everypony breathed a sigh of relief – possibly including the twins, who were injured when the Apples launched a nighttime raid on their camp. The guards apologized to the Apples, the Apples apologized to the injured guards, and further litigation was quietly dropped.
As they are wont to do around Ponyville, things quickly returned to normal. With the newfound knowledge in every pony’s mind that Applejack had grown less… ‘pleasant’ when defending that which she cared for.
Overall, though, Applejack continued much as she always had. She worked the farm, spent time with friends, and went on the odd adventure. If anything, the war made her enjoy the simple life even more. And enjoy it she did, living – as much as any of us can – ‘happily ever after.’
Although they came from similar backgrounds, Jonathan “Jackie” Flynn started far lower on the ladder than Applejack. He left for war as a skinny nineteen year-old from the farm, who was no good at farming nor the college he wasted money on.
He wasn’t any less skinny on his return. But inside, much had changed. During the war he progressed from a naïve teenager to a short-tempered sergeant, burdened with unwanted command. But the temper passed when he left the uniform behind, cooling into an intense drive that served him well. He got a job at a glove-making plant, progressed to be the plant’s manager in the space of a year, and in two became the manager of multiple factories. Always slim, always working overtime, but always plowing ahead against any adversity.
Jackie never quite settled down. When his career stabilized, he turned to another project. It became officially (and clumsily) titled the VFW-AE: The Veterans of Foreign Wars Alongside Equestrians. The group dedicated itself to arranging reunions between pony and human veterans, navigating the myriad passport and travel issues involved.
In an interview near the end of his life, Jackie proudly announced that he, “made a lot of old farts happy,” and “finally got to find out what’s so special about Apple Family cider.” When the reporter noted that the VFW-AE might dissolve soon (owing to the lack of combined-species warfare since WWII), Jackie gave a deft nod and announced, “Good.”
Of Fred, unfortunately, little can be said except for an excerpt from Applejack’s memoirs:
“Guy who lives on pop and crackers was never gonna be around for long. Poor fella. He was just born odd. Wish he could’ve made it to the first reunion, but…that’s life, I guess. I ain’t ashamed to say I cried.”
“Big” Lee Paulson’s road would only grow harder on his return to America. His wife and daughter died in an auto accident scant months after he came home to them. During their 1950 reunion, a thinner Lee noted to Jackie:
”I didn’t even cry. Somewhere along the way, I think I forgot how.”
He would have been content to fade to obscurity then: A silent, lonesome farmhand, working the soil until the day he joins it.
Fate had other plans in the form of Silverwing, a pegasus hired to fix a worsening drought. She was a veteran too, with wings half-crippled from shellfire above Arnhem. This made her a weak flier, so she went abroad, where there was little competition for weather work.
She was talkative too, which was nice. Lee was getting a little sick of the silence he lived in. Silverwing had a nervous chattiness to her that only increased in tempo the more nervous she got.
Lee was the first to notice that she got a lot chattier around him.
He would prove silent as ever about sharing the details. But, over the course of their working together…the two fell for each other.
When word finally spread, their neighbors were not amused. American law clearly stated that marriage was for “one man and one woman of the same species,” and their rural Nebraska town was not keen on the pair’s “deviance.” In the space of a week, Lee found himself fired, barred from his church, and even shot at during an evening walk.
The pair moved to Lincoln, hoping the more urban climate would be more tolerant. When that hope failed, they moved to Boston. While no one shot at them here, they still lacked for friends, and city life treated them both poorly.
It was enough for Lee. Although initially hostile to the idea, he finally sat down and applied for Equestrian citizenship.
Equestria pointedly did not accept human immigrants, but there were exceptions. One such exception was enshrined by the “Defense of Love” decree: A human romantically involved with a pony would be allowed to live there. After years of black smog and bricks through his windows, Lee didn’t hesitate when the time came to board the boat.
So it was that Silverwing and him came to Equestria, and they married the next day. At Applejack’s urging, he moved to Ponyville and built a small house at its outskirts. Summers he would spend picking apples, and winters he would spend chopping wood for the town.
There was a great buzz when he first arrived, but things quickly settled back down. It was strange to have a human in town, but Lee was – as ever – unobtrusive and quiet. And he would soon learn that he was far from the oddest thing Ponyville had to offer.
(Note: I would define myself as a neutral when it comes to the whole ‘clop’ thing. Thus said, in a world shared by two sentient species, sparks are bound to fly every now and then.)
Leslie “Tex” Burkes was one of the war’s winners. Armed with ambition and two purple hearts, he smiled his way into politics and ascended the ranks with ease. Within a few short years, he found himself in the US House of Representatives as a Texas Republican. Leslie proved unambitious as a congressman, carefully voting however his district wanted him to. In doing so he won re-election several times, and seemed set to keep his job until retirement.
As the sun rose on the 1960’s, the United States came to grapple with itself on Civil Rights issues. One of these was a “Marriage Equality” movement to allow humans and Equestrians to marry. The battle lines proved mixed on this, with many right-wing veteran groups coming to support the rights of “our historical allies.” Leslie remained publically neutral on the subject, but his district polled heavily against the bill as it came to Congress.
In his witty autobiography Life of a Car Crash, Leslie would note:
”It was one of those deciding moments you know? One of those times where you find out just who you really are. Everything told me to vote against. I would’ve kept my job, my power, my life as I had been living it. And hey, the damn bill would’ve passed anyway. There was no reason to switch sides.”
“But here’s the really shit thing about voting in Congress: there’s no hiding which end you came down on. I damn well knew Applejack would be watching this, and would be watching my vote. It’s like I could feel her behind me, glaring at me, daring me to do what I knew was the right thing.”
“She just had to go and save my life, didn’t she? One day I snapped. I shouted ‘Fine, you orange bitch!’ at my office wall. And the next day, I went and shot my career in the foot.”
“Looking back…well to be honest, that was the first thing I’ve ever done that I look back on and think, ‘Damn, I’m awesome.’”
When Congressional hearings began, Leslie came down hard on the Reformists’ side. The bill passed by a sizeable margin, and the next election he was unceremoniously kicked from office.
Disgraced, but popular, he became something of a professional celebrity. Time was spent managing football, business investing, and even big-screen acting as a WWII soldier. He finally settled down as the host of a radio show, which he continued until his retirement.
It was obvious to any who knew her that Rarity had been greatly affected by her time at war. She had become short-haired and practical…and more than a little jumpy. Even a slamming window would cause her to start. A louder crash would send her diving for cover, occasionally shouting for others to do the same. At their worst, Rarity would demand ponies get down before the “shells” or “sniper” struck again.
Her friends initially put it down to jittery nerves, but an ill-timed sleepover showed them there was much more to it. Although fast asleep, Rarity shrieked and whimpered for half the night, calling out human names and thrashing in her bed.
A deeply-concerned Twilight finally penned a letter to Princess Celestia, asking what was happening to her friend. Celestia responded with honesty: She didn’t know, but Rarity was not the only veteran with these symptoms.
It was hitting close to home for the Royal Family as well. Luna reported that every night, Blueblood was having the same nightmare: one of a muddy field filled with dying soldiers.
Equestria soon learned the humans called it “PTSD” or “shellshock,” and many attributed it to simple cowardice. Ponies refused this explanation and sought their own, researching it with magic and science. Their conclusion, while perhaps no more scientifically accurate, was much kinder: It was titled “War Sick” and viewed as an infection of the spirit. It was incurable, but not contagious, and its symptoms could be managed. Living well and talking freely of wartime events helped manage the “disease,” ideally reducing the symptoms so they didn’t affect a pony’s everyday life.
In response to the findings, veterans’ clinics began springing up across Equestria, helping them air their troubles and re-adjust to the peaceful life. Membership in one of these aided Rarity, but only so much. As noted in Applejack’s memoirs:
”One of their pamphlets said that reconnecting with your human friends might help. I suggested it to Rarity one day. She looked scared for a second, then sad, and then she gave this little smile that just made her look sadder.
‘I can’t,” she finally said. ‘They all died.’
Poor Rarity. It made me realize just how damn-fool lucky I had been.”
Better news came when Stern Glare moved to Ponyville, and it didn’t take much deduction to figure out why. His scars made him painfully shy, but Rarity pushed him along: Out in the daylight, out with her friends, out to the good restaurants. They were engaged within a year, and married within two.
Both had their own demons. But now, they would be faced side-by-side.
Rarity well-knew the marriage would be the end of her business. Profits had shrunk for years, owing to many factors: Rarity’s interest in fashion was declining, and her practical designs did not sell well among the wealthy customers. And, cruel as it may sound, a disfigured husband was a lodestone in the skin-deep world of fashion. Fiercely loyal to Stern, Rarity refused to hide him, and thus guaranteed the Boutique’s demise.
She was neither poor nor distraught over the closure, and quickly found a new career in managing the veterans’ clinics. On Applejack’s suggestion, she began sending information on War Sickness to human groups. Rarity began to tour overseas to speak on the subject, eventually coming to include a broad spectrum of social awareness in her presentations.
Rarity had found a new and far more gratifying passion: alleviating the pain of others, wherever its source. In addition to her WWII memoirs, she published multiple books and essays dedicated to raising awareness of injustices across the world. Making the acquaintance of a pair of British writers, she founded Amnesty International along with them and became very prominent in its activities.
This she continued for a decade or so, lobbying for universal rights among the sentient species. She retired from life abroad after a while, but still religiously continued to write and manage charity funds. So feverous was Rarity’s activism that a dozen countries across Africa and Asia declared her Persona Non Grata , a fact she wore as a badge of honor. As she passed slowly into retirement, heads cooled and she became beloved for her pioneering activism.
The last years were not overly kind to Rarity. After Stern’s passing, the nighttime fears and nervous tics she had suppressed for so long returned with a vengeance. A difficult few years went by, followed by a blessed month of peace she spent with friends and family, children and grandchildren.
She died at the end of that month, and headlines across the world carried the news. A loosening of human passports was arranged for the funeral, allowing in a flood of well-wishers and mourners. Never before or since had Equestria seen so many humans at once. Their line stretched across town, each one patiently waiting to offer their blessing over Rarity’s casket.
Her younger sister spoke at the burial site, noting a thing Rarity said during the final days. It was uttered when Sweetie complimented her for spending so much time solely for others:
”I am the Element of Generosity, Dear! It is a thing to be shared!”
It was a wiser, quieter Rainbow Dash who made her way back to Equestria. War had cooled her impatience – Cloudkicker work emphasized teamwork and caution, and she got used to it.
The war also pierced her ego. When she met up with her friends, she saw them covered in mud from month-long battles and privately wondered if she had done “enough” to be their equal.
Rainbow wanted to remain in the military, but her excursion to Berlin ended that idea. Soarin and Celestia both took supremely dim views of her action, the former noting that it was ‘effectively a mutiny.’ No charges were ever pressed, but it was clear that there was no room for Rainbow Dash in Equestria’s peacetime army. Including the Wonderbolts.
Responsibility proved a hard lesson, but one she took well. Rainbow returned to Ponyville with a quieter mouth and firmer devotion to her friends. She had to be tied down to keep her from throttling the Flimflam brothers when they moved on Sweet Apple Acres. She half-dragged Rarity to her first appointment at a veterans’ clinic. And, many years later, she was the first at Rarity’s side when Stern Glare passed away.
Rainbow’s dream of fame faded at the war’s end. She merrily gave interviews and comments, but remained content to manage Ponyville’s weather until her retirement. The ambition in her heart had been replaced by a deeper, stronger loyalty to those she cared for.
Perhaps, though, Rainbow felt that standing on the Reichstag – on the warm ashes of the Third Reich – was something that could never be topped by mere stunt flying. She would certainly never apologize for doing so, always taking great pride in being there at The End.
The ‘Human Refugee Decree’ allowed a brief window for those displaced by the war to migrate to Equestria. It was an option for those fleeing Communist rule, but leaving human society would be a bitter pill to swallow. Less than a hundred accepted, and General Stanislaw Sosabowski was not among their number. Facing execution in Soviet-dominated Poland, he instead settled down in Britain. He worked in a London factory until his death in 1967.
His friends and neighbors were shocked when Soarin and a dozen former Cloud Kickers arrived for the funeral. They were just as shocked when Sosabowski’s military record was read out, and he was laid to rest in full uniform.
Asking around, Soarin learned that the man’s neighbors never knew “Stan” had fought, let alone his rank and accomplishments. The man in the war from the beginning to the end…chose never to speak of it.
Joachim Peiper, orchestrator of the Malmedy Massacre, was swiftly brought to trial for his crimes. He was sentenced to death at Nuremburg, but uncertainties in the evidence let his lawyers haggle it down to life imprisonment, then imprisonment with parole. He only served twelve years in jail before being released.
He did not, however, escape vengeance. Peiper’s house was attacked and firebombed one night in 1976. His charred body was found riddled with 23 bullets. The perpetrators were never discovered.
Bradley’s careful, managerial style would serve him well in the postwar. He became the fifth and last General of the Army and served as an advisor well into his later life. His politics would be characterized by prudent, but uncompromising anti-Communism. Bradley would oppose talk of using nuclear weapons, but argued strongly for intervention in Korea and Vietnam. In both wars he appealed to his old friend Celestia for support, and in both cases he was rebuffed. Their correspondences grew antagonistic, and the friendship cracked apart. Where once Bradley would visit Canterlot at will, now he swore to never return.
In 1980, one year before Bradley’s death, the two sought reconciliation. Bradley wrote to Celestia, acknowledging that they would never agree, but congratulating her for “charting her course by the stars, and not the lights of passing ships.”
The two would not visit again, but Celestia did make a rare journey to America for Bradley’s funeral. She spoke no words there, but touched her horn to the casket: A silent gesture of respect for the human who genuinely became her friend.
Soarin’s life would be a colorful one. He returned from the war a hero, a confident commander who led ponies from the beginning of their fight to the end. He had several American and Equestrian medals to boast of, as well as a firm grasp of pegasus-human tactics.
He would have been even more beloved if not for his politics: the captain was fully in favor of Equestrian action in the wider world, and his walk matched his talk. Soarin beseeched Princess Celestia for permission to aid the Israeli bid for independence in 1948, and she partially acquiesced. The shared suffering under Nazism had made Equestrians very favorable to the idea of a Jewish state, though she firmly denied sending ground-bound soldiers. Under Soarin, pegasi Cloud Kickers flew once more into a warzone, and served with distinction.
It would be the last time. Several years later he would ask to aid the Hungarians in their 1956 revolt against the USSR, and this would be roundly rejected. The same would occur with Korea and when Israel fought new wars with its neighbors.
He managed the Royal Pegasi Army in these decades, but was unhappy and bored in the role. Fulfillment for him came in politics: Soarin founded the “Ponies for World Justice,” a group that lobbied Celestia for greater involvement abroad. His politics made him a celebrity in the West, many seeing in him hope for alliance with Equestria. Attempts were made to subvert his loyalty, and these were sternly rebuffed. For all his disagreement with Celestia’s course, Soarin remained unwaveringly loyal to his Princesses.
With so much intrigue circling around him, Soarin slowly realized that he was becoming an embarrassment to the Twin Crowns. He resigned his commission and settled in to teach military classes at a Cloudsdale Academy.
Soarin would fade into the background thenceforth. The group he founded…less so.
Spitfire’s stunt flying days were over. Surgery and prosthetics would aid pinioned pegasi such as herself, but they would forever remain weak fliers. Undeterred, she planted her roots in Vanhoover and became a rehab coach for others with wing injuries.
Her escape from Warsaw would be dramatized in later years with the movie Spitfire’s Flight, and the wing-clips Milo made for her would be donated to the Equestrian Wartime Museum. She would readily tell her story to any who asked, always affectionately referring to the old Pole who saved her life as “Grandpa.”
Some were destined for bigger things after taking off the uniform. Anthony McAuliffe, hero of Bastogne, was not one of them. Already 47 at the war’s end, no more glory would come to him, and he did not seek it. He worked for a chemical corporation for eight years and then retired, content to fade from public sight.
Of Twilight Sparkle, the other hero of Bastogne, perhaps little need be said. Later study would show that she played a far greater role in the battle than was initially believed. But her coronation would come, and many battles and travels awaited her. Bastogne would prove a very small chapter in the very large book of Princess Twilight Sparkle’s life.
Author's Note
So I hemmed and hawed a lot over this part of the project before deciding to go all-in. It felt good to write – little stories of life, with its little triumphs and hardships within a much larger setting. Sorta lets me wrap up both the historian side of things and the ‘human’ side.
Anyway, hope you feel your time well-spent for having read it. Coming up: the last chapter and the afterword.
(Note: Events from the long-ago prologue are referenced here. Thank you for finishing this with me.)
“Are you alright, Applejack? We’re almost there.”
Applejack grunted, but nodded, pressing forward. This old hill. It had watched over Ponyville since Granny’s day, and never grew an inch. But it seemed to get higher each time she climbed it.
The farm mare paused to wipe a hoof across her brow, pushing up a lock of white-blonde hair. It ain’t any higher, girl. You’re just old.
She looked forward, seeing the white mare glancing back with worry. Good ol’ Redheart. Retired some ten, twenty years ago, but still a nurse at heart.
It was a little embarrassing. Redheart was even older than Applejack, but remained in better shape. All those years spent applebucking had taken their toll, finally wearing down her body to a shadow of its former strength. Couldn’t hardly get out of bed these days without a muscle cramping up on her. She was dang old, and it was no dang fun.
Applejack gave a grin at her grey-maned companion and resumed walking. There was nothing to complain about. The soreness came from a life of honest work. The white hairs – as she liked to tell it – came from the kids. She wore them both proudly. They were badges of honor, just like that American medal they gave her, or the old frostbite holes in her ear. They all were a part of who she was.
Finally cresting the hill, she noticed Redheart had stopped. The retired nurse wasn’t kidding when she said they were almost there. But…there wasn’t anything here. Just grass.
Applejack glanced around, nonplussed. “Well?”
Redheart gave a little laugh. “Three steps to the right, and you’d be standing on his head.”
Applejack blinked and turned, scowling. Nothing. Her eyes were getting cloudy, but they weren’t blind.
No…there. A mound of dirt, barely raised above the ground level. Home to generations of grass and wildflowers. She’d miss it easy if she wasn’t looking for something. How many ponies had climbed up here these past years without knowing what lay beneath their hooves?
“No tombstone, or marker or nothing?” Applejack raised an eyebrow. It had taken Redheart this long to part with the secret, but Applejack was still expecting a little more than an unmarked grave.
The old nurse smiled, gaze turning to the distance. “I…I don’t think he would want one.”
She closed her eyes, trying to remember his face. The photographer. For Equestria, it all started with him. An unknown man from a strange land, carrying his horrible pictures. The one who brought them to war. All ponykind turned on its head overnight, and the one responsible just vanished in the aftermath.
Only one pony knew where he went.
Now, there were two.
Redheart’s voice trembled a little as she went on. “I don’t think…I don’t really think he wanted to be remembered. When they brought him to me, I asked him the questions a nurse is supposed to ask. What was his name? Where was he from? He just waved the questions away, coughing his rattling cough until he lost the strength to even do that. ‘Don’t ask, don’t ask,’ he said.”
She swallowed hard. “He didn’t have anything that gave us any clues about him. Nothing that told us his name, or country, or religion. Just a camera. The one little thing that woke us all up.”
“And…this.”
She passed a weathered, black-and-white photograph to Applejack. The image was worn and faded, but still unmistakably a pony. It looked like a candid picture, its subject gazing away as if unaware. White and a darker color mixed beautifully atop her head. She was an earth pony, looking out with fear and hope.
Applejack flipped the picture over. No name or date written on the back. Just two words that brought her heart to her throat.
”You lived.”
“Who…?”
“Who knows?” Redheart sighed. “A pony with dreams turned to ash. Life cut short. Not even a martyr – just a victim. Murdered without cause. One of them. ALL of them.”
She gave the little mound a gentle touch with her hoof. “Anonymous, just like him. He couldn’t leave them to die unknown, so he carried them all here on his back. Maybe leaving his name behind was how he dealt with it. To become a ghost, even though his heart was still beating.”
A sad smile. “But maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe he just didn’t want his name to be hated.”
Applejack tilted her head. “Hated?”
Redheart tapped the farm mare’s shoulder, then moved a hoof up to touch a ragged orange ear. “Some days I hated him. When I read about the Driel Massacre, or when we took to the front lines and lost so many. I wondered if it was on his hands. Your own pain, too. If it wasn’t for him, you would never have fought, never have suffered from war.”
Applejack smiled, her own gaze turning to the mound. “No hard feelings here. He didn’t make us do anything. Just gave us the facts and let us make the choice. We chose to sprint towards the horror, knowing there were folks who needed help. Everything that followed was on us. And I’ll go to my grave knowing that we chose right .”
“I hope so,” Redheart said. “I believe so. But who could say it at the time? After all he’d seen, maybe he stopped believing in our better nature. Maybe he thought grey, steel hate was all that was left. That’s why…”
She shook her head, tears coming from her eyes. “That’s why I set him here. From up here, he can see all of Ponyville. See the foals play. See us laugh and work together, and help each other when we need to. See us fight without killing, and forgive when the squabble is done.”
Applejack reached a hoof over to hug her. Redheart was sobbing now as she spoke. “He showed us that there was hate and pain engulfing the world. There was misery, rage and indifference and death.”
“I guess I wanted to show him that Love lived on.”
With the last words out, Redheart calmed herself. She sniffed and smiled, her breathing growing normal once more.
They stayed up there a while longer, chatting about grandchildren and the planting season. Only when the sun began sinking did they turn to leave.
Applejack loitered a moment, looking back to the little mound.
Poor guy, she thought to herself. She walked back to him and settled a hoof down on the mound. The grass was sun-warmed and soft. Felt nice.
A thoughtful silence. She wanted to say something. But what? Not to thank him – Redheart had a point, talking about the pain she never would have gone through if not for him. Not to yell at him, either. He did what he thought was right. She thought it was right, too.
Say goodbye? No. She never met him. Him and countless others that the war killed. He died in Equestria, but it killed him just as surely as ol’ Manny.
“Be at peace,” she finally said.
The words felt good, so she went on. “You, and all of you down there. Be at peace. I’ll try ‘n do the same.”
Nothing else to say. Applejack softly brushed her hoof across the grass, feeling a smile grow on her face.
Maybe one more thing. “Next time, I’ll plant some flowers.”
Author's Note
”The sick are healed when you let go all thoughts of sickness, and the dead arise when you let thoughts of life replace all thoughts you ever held of death.”
-From A Course in Miracles
I'll publish the Afterward a few days from now...just want to sort through which of my references and ramblings are worth showing, and which should be left unsaid.
First off: Thank you for making it through this project with me. It has eaten up many hours of my life, and – for all its flaws – I am extremely proud of it. It is my tendency to affectionately refer to my writings as “scribbles.” Not so with this work, into which has gone significant research and emotion.
I hope to have entertained, first and foremost. Such is the purpose of fiction. I hope to have provided a few historical insights too, though this is in no way intended to replace actual educational literature (READ A BOOK! ). And I quite enthusiastically hope to have made at least one person reading this pause and THINK . All those involved in the war were human, like you and me. Humans do not wake in the morning and randomly decide to be heroes, or send their soldiers to pointless death, or commit mad atrocities. They are brought to such decisions by human motivations and reasoning.
I believe that trying to understand these motivations brings with it a kind of humbling wisdom. But for chance of birth, that Nazi man committing murder may have been us. And you or I may have been him.
If you’ll indulge me a soap-box, that is why we must act with tolerance towards our fellow man. Everyone believes that “I” am a reasonable, basically-good person. No one believes themselves to be evil. “Evil” is not an intention. It is an action, one almost certainly committed by a person who believes themself to be doing right. If you want to know if what you do is right, don’t ask yourself. Of course you’re “right.” Instead, look at what effect it’s having on your fellow human beings. Resist the urge to act, speak, and vote with the intention to silence dissent and ostracize groups. No matter how extreme you find another’s ideals, you must not infringe on his right to speak it. Otherwise…
…Well, liberal philosophy aside, we’re all enthusiastic adult fans of a show for little girls. The hypocrisy is doubled when it’s us doing the ostracizing and judging.
Alright, I’m done. On to my sources of inspiration, all of which come highly recommended.
-If You Survive (book) by George Wilson, a first-person account of his own experience as an American infantryman in the European Theater. It strikes me as a quintessential infantry memoir: Tactics, facts, and feelings are all covered from the grunt soldier’s perspective, giving a good picture of their struggles without becoming mired in drama or details. The “Bitter Woods” chapter was heavily inspired by his description of an artillery bombardment, and it is not the only time Wilson shows men die in utter waste. It is not all “War is Hell,” though, as he also takes pains to convey the grim sense of duty to see the job done. Thus, a good balance is struck between peaceful and patriotic instincts in the writing.
-Killer Angels (book) by Michael Shaara, a fictional account of the Battle of Gettysburg. Not a WWII novel, but one with a brilliant writing style that I could fanboy on about. One or two word sentences abound in it, conveying emotion and action rather than proper sentence structure. The result feels very close to human feeling: simple and sharp. It also means that much is conveyed with few words, allowing the story to proceed at a rapid pace with no lost tension. I find it to be an excellent, accessible style, and recommend it for anyone interested in writing military fiction with an emphasis on the ‘human’ aspect of war. It also gave us an excellent monologue from Buster Kilrain, one of the characters:
“The truth is, Colonel, that there's no divine spark [in Humanity]…There's many a man alive of no more value than a dead dog. Believe me, when you've seen them hang each other. Equality? Christ in Heaven. What I'm fighting for is the right to prove I'm a better man than many. Where have you seen this divine spark in operation, Colonel? Where have you noted this magnificent equality? The Great White Joker in the Sky dooms us all to stupidity or poverty from birth. No two things on Earth are equal or have an equal chance, not a leaf nor a tree. There's many a man worse than me, and some better. But I don't think race or country matters a damn. What matters is justice. 'Tis why I'm here. I'll be treated as I deserve, not as my father deserved. I'm Kilrain! And I God Damn all gentlemen. I don't know who me father was and I don't give a damn…”
“…The strange and marvelous thing about you, Colonel darlin', is that you believe in mankind, even preachers. Whereas when you've got my great experience of the world you will have learned that good men are rare, much rarer than you think.”
-Stalingrad (1993 Movie), about a German “band of brothers” during the Battle of Stalingrad. Made by a German director, it is a brutal ride through every single horror war could ever conceive. What really distinguishes it from Insert any war drama here is the stark humanity and realism. No one mans up and saves the day, spits death in the face, or even goes down in a blaze of glory. Their wills are crushed, their best efforts are pointless, and their deaths achieve nothing. It is a movie of friendly fire, of starvation and atrocity. It is a horror movie far more terrifying than anything I could ever put on paper.
-Sabaton (music), a Swedish Heavy Metal band that – no fooling – creates its songs around historical battles and events, mostly in the WWII era. I basically recommend their everything, but “Rise of Evil” in particular sends chills down my spine (and was running through my head during the Prologue and Kristallnacht chapters), and “40 to 1” (focusing on the Battle of Wizna, the “Polish Thermopylae”) always gets the blood pounding.
And that’s that for that. I was tempted to jabber on about scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor, but I think I’ll call it here. Thanks for coming along with me on this very rocky ride through a very different war.
Author's Note
So there miiiiight be an extra chapter coming out, concerning a sub-plot in the late war that occurred to me early in the writings. No promises, though, so for all purposes this is the end.
On July 3, 1943, Equestria declared war on the Axis Powers.
Like many other bronies, part of the appeal MLP holds for me is its unrelenting optimism. Equestria serves as a charming diversion, both from reality and from the more violent medias we enjoy in games and television. No matter how many orks I kill in a game, I always seem to meander my way back to the realm of ponies. It is a land of bright colors, good intentions, and happy endings. A utopia, or at least close to it. While humans are inclined towards ambition, I imagine that ponies seek contentment above all else. If there is enough, there is no need for more.
A longstanding hobby of mine is studying history, particularly World War II. And I do mean STUDYING - I read the big books and dig online for unusual facts and details. Combining the two interests became a project of mine, and so “A Great Endeavor” was conceived.
Its premise is self-obvious: Equestria exists on Earth, and enters the sprawling conflict known as World War II. But what could bring the peaceful species to war? How would they work with their human allies? What tactics would they develop, and what counter-tactics would the Germans use? Would the presence of magic lead to ruin or salvation?
Such are questions for the ‘big picture.’ But what of the individuals? Ponies at war would doubtless see their naïve outlook shaken to the core. But wouldn’t they also bring this outlook with them to war-torn Europe? Could their good intentions and gentle kindness make this very dark time just a little bit brighter?
The ‘big picture’ will be included, but the stories within will be about individuals. I could wax on and on about politics and strategy, but it is the individuals who truly make up the face of war. It was them who smelled the smoke, them who died for their homelands and ideals. It was them who saved their fellow man, or doomed him, or stood by in utter indifference. It was them who lost their innocence, and them who – at last – brought the madness to an end.
While the stories are obviously fiction, I intend to back them with historical fact. There will be no “Robo Hitler.” The Allied soldiers will not be saints, nor will the Germans act with senseless evil. The line between evil and ‘necessary evil’ can be a blurry one, however, though such judgments are yours to make.
The era carried with it unprecedented atrocities, and I believe it is irresponsible to shy away from this fact. As a part of this world, ponies will bear witness to them: as saviors, survivors, and victims. Like the humans around them, they will struggle to keep their better nature, and emerge from the war changed for better or worse. If you do not feel that such events and emotions belong in a pony fiction, then please read no further. But also please remember that this is history, and no pony shall endure that which has not been endured by millions of your fellow human beings.
With or without ponies, World War II was a strange time. Progress and barbarism leapt forward hand-in-hand. Hope was crushed, then flared again in the unlikeliest places. Nations and armies shattered in the space of days. The worst of humanity rose to power, yet this drew out the best in others, who risked and suffered death for the sake of strangers.
In these stories, the ponies are a part of those strange times. What will they find, and what will they leave behind?
May you always find what you seek.
-Dan
”Equestria will not know of our actions. If they do find out, they will not go to war. If they do go to war, they will not be effectual. There is no danger from that quarter.”
-Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmer, 1940
September 15, 1939
It was silly. The horses were stupid beasts, far dumber than even the goats of Equestria. But the steeds towered head and shoulders above Sweetie Pie, and she couldn’t help but be a little scared of them.
Most of the cavalrymen ignored her, thoughts turned towards the crisis at hand. A few sent her sly glances, mentally comparing their huge chargers to the stubby pony. Others frowned – the Poles had no love for Equestrians, or any other outsider for that matter.
Still, it was better than Germany. She went to Konigsberg University to study physics, but it had gotten…bad . Bad enough for her to make an unscheduled move to Poland.
She poked her companion with her hoof. “Are we done? How many pictures of horses do you need?”
“The editor loves cavalry,” the human offered with a shrug. His camera flashed once more, and he stood up.
They were an odd pair, to be certain. Sweetie Pie was a deep pink earth pony with an enviable mane: its red and white twisted around each other like a candy cane. Her Polish wasn’t great, but she had been blessed with a patient partner. The photographer – she didn’t catch his name – was a lanky, quiet man, with a trim black mane and brown overcoat.
She frowned, tilting her head as the man stretched. That was…basically all she knew about him. He never seemed to speak unless directly addressed.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
He shrugged again. “You couldn’t pronounce it.”
Sweetie Pie snorted and punched him playfully. “Try me, I’m sharp. You’re looking at the first earth pony EVER to get her master’s at Konigsberg.”
The photographer grunted, but a wry smile was playing on his face. “You couldn’t even get the editor’s name right. ‘Marcodovich,’ it’s not hard. What did you come out with, ‘Marco-dove-ick?’ During your own interview? ”
“Oh, shut up!” But she laughed as she spoke, the two of them walking side by side.
She needed money, and the Warsaw newspaper was the only thing that bit. It wasn’t her greatest interview, but the editor didn’t care for her brains. He saw a horse that came cheaper than a real horse, and assigned her as the photographer’s transportation. It was a bad fit – he was too tall to ride her comfortably. But he didn’t seem to mind walking, moving everywhere with long, stork-like gaits.
The pair followed in the cavalry’s wake, an amicable silence between them. Sweetie Pie inhaled deeply – the wind smelled like good, honest dirt. She was a city pony and proud of it, but somehow she never lost her love for the simpler things. Maybe Grandma was right, and the farm ran in her blood.
Grandma was DEFINITELY right about one thing: she never should’ve left home.
Grandma…and Mom and Dad, too. Maybe she wouldn’t see any of them again.
Her throat bobbed as Sweetie Pie swallowed. Her last letter had been months ago. If she died here, that would be the last they heard of her. Excitement that she was one year away from her doctorate, a few complaints about her roommates, then…nothing. It would be like she just vanished.
She sighed, allowing her head to droop.
“The war will be over soon,” the photographer said, evidently reading her somber mood. “Warsaw will hold, France will strike from the west, and Hitler will topple.”
He stepped a bit closer and tousled her mane. “And you, I expect, will be on the first boat to Equestria. You could even leave from Konigsberg, once they let ponies buy tickets again.”
It wasn’t that simple, and they both knew it. Sweetie Pie bit her lip, eyes still to the ground. “You know what I’m really scared of?”
“Hm?”
She shook her head. “Dying, sure, dying is scary. But I don’t have any children. I’ve never really made anything, or did anything. I haven’t even kept in touch with my family. If a bomb hits me or something, that’d be the end. It’d be like I never existed.”
Sweetie Pie swallowed again, looking far away with tear-stained eyes. “I wouldn’t leave anything behind. There’d be nothing to prove I was here. I’d just be…gone …”
The camera flashed in her face, startling her out of the introspection.
“Problem solved.” The photographer smiled slightly as he clicked his camera to the next slide. “But I don’t think I got your good side.”
“They were breaking cameras in Germany,” she grumbled, but the old smile was starting to show through.
“This isn’t Germany.” He said it matter-of-factly, without the heady patriotism other Poles were exuding. “Now, let’s see if this colonel will talk to us.”
Theirs was a low-budget newspaper, where a photographer and his mount would readily double as reporters. Conscripts talked to them without complaint. The soldiers were nervous and chatty, and spoke readily of their ‘real’ jobs as farmers and factory workers. The pair hadn’t had much luck yet with people of higher rank.
As the headquarters came into view, they both knew this probably wasn’t going to be an exception. Brown-uniformed soldiers were dashing to and fro, trying to find the best positions before the storm came. And come it would – they were outside Warsaw’s easternmost suburb, astride the most obvious attack route. This ground would not be spared the war.
The colonel commanding them was just as harried. The scowling man was shouting at everyone he saw, barking orders and extolling them to make every preparation they could. They needed to move, move, MOVE, and he didn’t have time for-
“Warsaw Free Journal, Sir, a moment of your time?” The photographer leaned forward past a guard, raising his hand. “Colonel Sosabowski? A few questions, Sir?”
The officer paid them no heed, continuing to brief several lieutenants. “…And I want a dedicated runner at each of your command posts. You see panzers, send him back and let the artillery know. They’re all we’ve got to stop the tanks with. See to it, and if you’re stationed outside the city, I want every man in a trench or foxhole. No easy targets. Any questions?”
One red-faced lieutenant raised his hand. “Colonel, my men have no spades to dig with.”
“Then dig with your hands,” Sosabowski said curtly. “Dismissed.”
Sweetie Pie stepped forward, stopping as a guard raised a warning hand. “Colonel, Sir? Care to make a statement for the people of Warsaw?”
Her high voice must’ve caught his attention, because Sosabowski actually acknowledged them this time. He turned toward Sweetie Pie, then did a double-take and squinted.
“An Equestrian? Here?”
His surprise was valid – Pony wanderers could go as far as their passports would take them, but such roads rarely led to Poland. A few unicorns made good livings aweing crowds with magic, but they stuck to wealthier, friendlier nations. More intellectual ponies sought out the great physics schools of Austria and Germany, studying the natural laws their land defied on a regular basis. But now…
Her mouth opened to speak, but Sosabowski was faster. “Doesn’t matter,” he said abruptly, turning away to some other task. “Go home. This isn’t your fight.”
“Oh, if ONLY it was that easy,” she snapped, but the colonel paid her no mind. The guard shrugged sympathetically, but still gestured with his rifle. No more harassing the officers.
The pair turned and left without protest. It would be an hour’s walk back to Warsaw, but the photographer made no move to mount her.
She paused as a dozen sharp whistles screeched. Muted crumps sounded in the distance as artillery shells exploded on their targets. But her and the photographer were moving away from the fighting – the shelling continued, but the noise diminished, then stopped altogether. This far behind the lines, all was peaceful.
Just like home.
Sweetie Pie glanced back, pondering what it would be like to be closer to the battle. She literally had no idea. Equestria had no wars, nor did it deal much with those who did. Humans weren’t even allowed beyond the ports. To stand beneath those shells, to hold a weapon…it was all alien to her.
She shuddered a little, imagining what it would be like there. When men died, did they scream, or just fall silently? Was there pain, or were they numb? Did blood trickle from a fresh corpse, or did it erupt like a geyser?
Those men marching to war, those farmers in soldiers’ uniforms…did they know?
Humans knew war best, she supposed. Sweetie Pie had read a little bit about fighting at the university. Her roommate’s boyfriend lent her a few books about knights, ogres and dragons.
Stauller, that’s what his name was. If his books were right, things would work out well enough. The black knight was always defeated, the ogre was always killed. Justice and virtue strengthened those who fought against evil. And no matter the odds, those who stood in the right would always find a way to prevail.
A thought crossed her mind, and she smiled a little. It sort of made sense, didn’t it? Princess Celestia was the most just and virtuous of anyone, and she was the mightiest being on Earth. Maybe the two things were related. Sweetie Pie knew those knightly stories were just old ponytales, but maybe their authors were on to something. No matter how bad things looked, Good would always triumph in the end.
The photographer caught her smiling and arched an eyebrow. He gave a confused smile of his own, doubtless wondering what she was thinking. No interview meant no bonus for the cash-strapped pony.
Sweetie Pie shook her mane and winked, keeping her little revelation to herself. It was a good feeling, this sense that everything would work out somehow.
“When I get my doctorate, I’ll hire you to take my graduation picture,” she said to her bemused companion, letting her hope carry the words. “Be sure to get my good side.”
Humans kept to humans, ponies kept to ponies.
Since the dawn of history, Equestria had always stood apart from the other nations. The separation was physical: inhabiting an island in the midst of the Atlantic, the land of ponies had never been seized by the conquering hand of Man. But even greater than the ocean's divide was the one between their hearts. Humans have ever been ambitious and unsatisfied, always seeking to improve their lot. Ponies, by nature, were content. So long as they had food, shelter, and friends, they would be satisfied.
Ponies and humans belonged in different places, and everyone accepted that. Students and traders would travel back and forth, but that was it. There weren’t even any diplomats between the species, for there was nothing to discuss.
Humans kept to humans, ponies kept to ponies, and that was that.
Until the photographer came.
Unheralded, he arrived on Equestrian shores and promptly advanced inland. No guard stopped him. Maybe his destiny would not be denied. Maybe his passage was Celestia's will, the goddess unwilling to stop him from delivering his terrible burden.
Either way, he passed through Ponyville in his stork-like walk towards Canterlot. Most had never seen a human before, though anypony could see something was wrong with him. The photographer had become pale and gaunt, with shaking hands and haunted eyes. He clutched a stained parcel in one hand, and a battered camera in the other.
Many ponies were surprised to see him, but nopony knew what to say or do. So they held their greetings, warnings, and questions, and returned to their lives. Maybe he was a refugee – a mare thought her cousin mentioned there was a war going on somewhere.
A single unicorn approached him, a blue-green mare with white in her mane. She was Lyra, she said with a smile, and he was the first human she had ever met. She was saving money to vacation in America, and wanted to know what the human world was like.
It was then that the photographer did cry. He knelt and wrapped his arms around the neck of the innocent, confused mare, and wept. “I’m sorry,” he said, over and over.
After a long moment, the photographer stood up again and looked down at her. "There is greed and madness, and blind indifference. And I carry it with me. I'm sorry for what I must do, but if I do not, they will have never existed. They will have vanished, and not another word would be said."
“Who is ‘they?’” Lyra managed.
“Soon,” he said. And he walked past, continuing his stumbling journey to Canterlot. Again, no guards stopped him, and he reached his first destination: the nearest newspaper office.
The unicorn behind the desk gaped at the human. But the grey stallion was a kindly sort, and knew what skinny looked like on any species. He wasted no time in fixing his guest a hay sandwich. At the last minute he remembered that humans didn’t like hay, but no sooner did the thought hit him than the photographer devoured the food.
"Have you eaten since you got to Equestria?" The pony – a disorganized old fellow named Header – asked.
The photographer shook his head.
"But that's four days' walk, at least, and you've only got two legs!"
The photographer laughed, a noise that sounded more like a strangled gasp. "I had to go two weeks without before I escaped to Switzerland. This was easier. No one shot at me here.”
He laid his package on the desk. “Now…I have tomorrow’s headlines, and the pictures to go with them.”
When the human showed the contents of his parcel, Header's eyes went wide and he reeled backwards. "I can't publish this!"
"You have to," the photographer said, voice tired, eyes pained. "Just as I had to bring them here. We're the only ones who can prove they exist."
Header looked down and swallowed, knowing the human was right. He looked up, and the photographer was already out the door, headed for the next newspaper office.
Humans kept to humans, ponies kept to ponies. The day after the photographer delivered his load, the old rule was gone. The front page of every newspaper carried names. Names like Sweetie Pie, Carnation, Noteworthy, and Flyby.
There were the names of places, too. Names like Dachau, Treblinka, and Auschwitz.
But it was the photographs that accompanied the words that truly shattered the old rule. A dirty pegasus with head low, eyes fearful. Her wings were already clearly broken in several places, but her captors had tightly bound weights to them. She stood in a line of sallow families wearing yellow stars, holding up hands as they were marched into a train car. A boy in one of the families had his hand settled on the pony's mane, offering what comfort he could. Human or pegasus, they were worth the same to the armed, uniformed men keeping watch.
A different newspaper, a different picture. A unicorn behind bars with a sawed stump where his horn should be. Reading unicorns gagged and swooned at the sight. Losing a horn was like losing a limb, and no less painful. Horns regrew quickly, too. Would his captors keep sawing it off? How could they?
An earth pony tied and humiliatingly muzzled, beaten to death and tossed in an alley. A pair of pegasi hunched against a stone wall, bleeding from pinioned wings. Several hornless unicorns trying to push boulders up greased stairs, bored guards looking on. A trench, where human and pony bodies were tangled so badly they seemed to meld into a single corpse.
A human might have seen these and frowned, then flipped to the sports section. But the community spirit and empathy that kept Equestria so peaceful now pushed it to war. Questions were being asked.
"Who are those soldiers?"
"Why us?"
"Why would they do this?"
"It doesn't make sense!"
Like humans, ponies despise feeling helpless. The dialogue of Equestria became focused around one sentiment:
"We need to help them. We need to act."
Long uncaring of the wide world, Equestrians now turned their eyes to it, frantically searching for news and information. Talk of apples and parties turned to talk of alien words like Allied Powers, democracy, and Nazis. Sailor taverns were filled as ponies listened to seamen telling of U-Boats and Pearl Harbor. Some men were happy to be fighting the Germans, some complained that they should fight the Soviets, and the ponies exchanged awkward glances, not following in the slightest.
They needed to learn more. After centuries of isolation, Princess Celestia dispatched emissaries across the globe. The Allies greeted her envoys with indifference. Mired in war for years, many were contemptuous of Equestria's sudden righteous indignation. They knew of the concentration camps, but what of it? People killed people all the time. Just because ponies were involved didn't make the act somehow viler.
A sympathetic Swiss leader arranged a meeting with Von Ribbentrop, the German Foreign Minister. Wishing to show strength, Celestia dispatched her own pupil to determine the truth. The meeting shocked Twilight Sparkle. The Nazi didn’t deny or dodge the claims, he acknowledged them with casual ease. Germany was in the process of "removing" Equestrians from Europe along with other "threatening races." The polite man offered vague explanations of the threat of magic, but Twilight was already leaving. She had heard enough.
Maybe Von Ribbentrop underestimated the sense of fellowship the ponies shared. Maybe he didn't think Equestria would ever go to war. Maybe he didn't care – in this age of panzers and artillery, what difference would a smattering of ponies make?
After the results of the meeting were made public, ponies began readying themselves as best as they could. It was no longer a question of 'if' they would go to war. It was a question of 'when.'
His destiny fulfilled, the photographer finally gave in to his failing health. He was rushed to Ponyville Hospital, but Nurse Redheart found a note in his pocket asking that they let him die.
For a while, it was as though he was sleeping. Behind him lay a long, lonesome journey, with not a moment of joy or hope. Everyone he photographed was dead. The only acknowledgements he ever received were bullets from the guards, and the howls of their dogs as they pursued him across Europe.
"Hey there, Sweetie Pie," he said without opening his eyes.
He gave that strange gasp-laugh one more time. He last saw her by that train. That damn train that would take her to Forever. Men with hearts of steel had done everything they could to make sure she never existed.
They failed. He proved Sweetie Pie was there. And now all the guards, dogs, and iron-hearted men in the world couldn't prove otherwise.
The photographer gave one tiny cough and tears sprang to his eyes.
Nurse Redheart placed her hooves on his chest, trying to keep her voice level as tears ran freely down her own cheeks. "It's alright!"
The voice came out like a squeak. She swallowed, and continued a little more calmly. "It's alright. You can rest. It's alright."
"I know," he whispered.
His grave was never found. Maybe a few ponies gave him a quiet burial in a forest glade. Maybe Redheart helped them move the body. Maybe he died in Europe, but refused to let death stop him. Maybe he was just a sad spirit who was finally allowed to vanish now that his task was done.
Maybe he was in Heaven, with all his friends. Maybe Sweetie Pie was there.
There were a lot of maybes. There were some facts, too, facts that proved the photographer existed. Hitler laughed when his advisers told him the news. The Allied chiefs greeted it with vague smiles and indifferent shrugs. But to the Equestrians, this was the time everything would change.
On July 3, 1943, Equestria declared war on the Axis Powers.
Chapter 6: What Poles us Together
"And in despair I bowed my head. 'There is no peace on earth,' I said. For Hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good will to men."
Pain. Her world was pain, and nothing more.
Before the pain, there were memories of a peaceful time. Righteous anger tempered with cautious planning. A word: D-Day. Flying above bloodstained beaches, watching the war hang in the balance. Men pinned down, dying in droves. This was it – if we lost here, we lost everything. We have to do something. A desperate plan. Pegasi rushing over the beaches towards the machine-gun nests and bunkers. Her mithral-clad hooves breaking a grey-uniformed man's ribs. The first time she had ever killed. His compatriot turning to her with a rifle.
But now it was all gone, leaving only the pain behind. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, the body behind it forgetting to breath. It was just her knee, but the feeling consumed the rest of her. Fractured bone grated on bullet fragments and muscle. It was a horrid, grinding feeling that banished everything else before it.
Hearing was the first thing to come back to her. The Germans had returned to their cannon, minus the man she killed. It boomed again and again, raining death onto the beaches. She hoped her other pegasi had fared better.
HER pegasi. That's right, she was their leader. Her name was Spitfire. She had forgotten for a moment.
The pain had turned to freezing numbness, but it still hurt. Her knee throbbed – each beat of the heart was pouring out blood.
She stiffened, but still didn't have the breath to cry out. The pain became fiery as someone clamped a cloth to her knee.
"Heidrich!" a voice called out. "It's time to go! Help us get the gun limbered!"
"This one's still alive," a rougher one spoke from directly above her. "Do we have room on the truck?"
Gravel crunched as heavy boots stepped gingerly over. "Well, yes, but we need to pinion the little bird or she'll just fly away from us. I wouldn't know where to start."
Spitfire felt her wing being roughly grabbed and spread outwards, and the second voice spoke again. "It's just carving out a bone in the wing. When I was a boy, my dad did it to a parrot we got. Here, give me your knife; I'll show you how. No need to kill when we don't have to."
"If I were her, I'd choose death over the Blackshirts." The officer grumbled, but Spitfire heard something being passed between them.
The pain that emerged at her wing joints was nothing compared to the one in her knee, but she was already at her limit. She whimpered for a few seconds and fell unconscious.
She couldn't remember many details of the days that followed. The wounds got infected and went untreated. For weeks she rambled, thrashed, and screamed, sickness ravaging her body and mind. Her only comfort came in fevered dreams and hallucinations of home. Good ol' Cloudsdale – city of bright clouds and daring racers. She babbled on about it for a while to Soarin before realizing Soarin wasn't there. She was talking to an American prisoner as he changed the cloth around her knee. He and other POWs had cared for her as best as they could. It was probably the reason she survived.
Men in black uniforms shouted questions and slapped her, but nothing she said made sense. She talked about Fleet Foot's love for pies for a few minutes before remembering it was Soarin's favorite instead. She told them that she was captain of the Cloud Kickers, but the men in black rolled their eyes and walked out of the room. They had stopped taking notes a while ago.
The infection ran its course, and one day she felt her mind fall back in order. They were on a train, others in the crowded box told her. To Warsaw. To a walled-in ghetto. Anyone who didn't belong in Hitler's Europe. Jews. Gypsies. Slavs. Equestrians.
Some said things would be better there – no mobs attacking them, no soldiers shooting at them. Spitfire knew better. She’d seen the photographs.
The train stopped in the "good" part of Warsaw. Polish citizens watched them be herded off the train. Some looked sympathetic, others uncaring. Some looked hateful, though Spitfire guessed they were looking at the German guards.
Their gazes distracted her, and she stumbled into a pallet of bricks. The corner caught her knee sharply, reopening the barely-healed wound. She cried out and fell. A few voices shouted at her, but the horrid grinding was back, and it didn't leave room for anything else. She gritted her teeth fiercely against the pain and wept. That saved her life – the guards had already shot a few who screamed too loudly.
Again, her hearing was the first to return.
"Just leave it!" A harried voice shouted in German. "We're behind schedule already!"
Spitfire moaned softly as the sounds of the prisoners and guards grew further away. The pain slowly deadened to the point where she could think again. She wiped her eyes with her good hoof and looked around, careful not to disturb the injured knee.
There wasn’t much to see. Warsaw looked very grey, and its people didn’t have much more color.
But wait…
There were two Poles close by, a tall man and a squat one. Neither of them seemed to notice her, or had just presumed her to be a dying straggler. She looked up just in time to see them quietly exchange something. The tall man showed a pistol as he pulled his coat back to remove a package. Without making eye contact, he discreetly placed the parcel in the other man's hands.
Hope tugged in her chest. If they were rebels, maybe they could help. She certainly wouldn't last long by herself.
Not wanting to spook them in the middle of the transaction, she watched in silence until the short one left. His friend paused to light a cigarette, giving Spitfire the opening she needed.
"Hey!" she called out, and was astonished by her own voice. It was hoarse and desperate. "Help me! Please!"
The hope sagged as he turned to look at her. The man was thin and sharp-chinned, with dusty brown hair and hateful eyes. He arched his head to look even further down his nose at her.
"Why should I? There's enough of your kind here already."
The words stunned her. Spitfire quickly shook her head and swallowed, desperately clinging to her last chance. "N-No. My name's Spitfire, I'm Captain of the Wonderbol…of the Cloud Kickers. Equestrians. Allied soldiers. I was captured in Normandy, and I'm hurt bad. I need help."
"Oh, I know what you are." The sharp-faced man gestured at her ratty blue uniform.
"P-Please, I'm on your side and I need-"
"You are NOT…" the man snapped. "On. Our. Side. No one is on our side, so we are on our own side. Poland for the Poles. No one else."
Spitfire flinched, fresh tears rolling down her face as the man continued to crush her last hope. "We don't have time to waste on a broken bird like you. Best thing for you to do is flap your little wings and get over the wall. Go to the Ghetto, where you belong. It's the one good thing Hitler did for Poland, so we might as well make use of it."
Her flightless wings twitched at their mention. Spitfire was strong – she held herself together as best as she could and shook her head, confused and despairing. "Please! We all fight the Nazis!"
"Poland for the Poles," he snapped again.
Spitfire looked down, sobbing openly now. This was the end. No one would help some crippled outsider. No one even wanted to. There would be starvation, exposure, and disease. The rest of her life would be very miserable and very short.
She tried to stand on her bad knee, but it couldn't support her weight. Her head snapped up to look him in the eye. "Then kill me," she whispered, breathless from pain and despair.
The man gave a wry smile. "Sorry. If the guards hear a gunshot, they'll search me, find my gun, and then it'll be a firing squad for ol' Zeke."
There was maybe a twinge of guilt or sadness on his face, but he turned away too quickly for Spitfire to be sure. The pegasus settled onto her side and got as comfortable as she could.
She didn't cry anymore. There was nothing else to do but wait to die.
This time the hallucinations were brought by hunger and thirst, and once more they were her only comfort. Some days she would stare at the gray city around her. But others – oh! Sailing above the clouds with the Wonderbolts. Stunt flying and racing, tossing around a never-ending stream of good-natured boasts with the other pegasi. Even in those fevered dreams her knee felt sore, but that hardly mattered with the wind beneath her wings and the sky beneath her hooves.
And then she would drift back to reality. She passed time in between the dreams by listlessly counting the people walking past, trying to identify which ones didn't notice her and which ones were just pretending. It was dull, but her time awake was growing shorter, the dreams themselves becoming more numbing and surreal. Death was coming, and she welcomed it. The world was grey, hateful, and hurtful. Just a few more fading dreams, and she'd never know pain again.
The pattern abruptly changed one day. One moment she was directing a tornado, the next she was snapped back into reality by a fresh fire in her knee. She screamed at the sudden pain and kicked, but a pair of hands held her firm. She felt herself be hoisted onto a human's shoulders and carried, and that was the last she felt for a while.
Some parts of the dreams started to become consistent. She was always warm – sometimes sunning on a cloud, but usually in bed beneath her quilts. Someone was always trying to feed her soup in these dreams. Usually it was her mother. The soup was awful, but Mom was so insistent that Spitfire usually gave up and had a little. Sometimes it was an old human instead, but she had no idea how he got to her room in Cloudsdale.
In one last dream, she became too warm. She tossed and turned, unconsciously trying to free herself of the heavy blankets. It was so hot, she couldn't breath.
And with a gasp, Spitfire woke up and launched her head from the blankets. They were coarse, brown, and entirely too warm. She kicked them off the rest of her body, wincing as her bad knee moved. Yet this was a distant, dull soreness, a far cry from the grinding pain she had endured. She stared at the fresh bandage wrapped around her knee and blinked slowly, wondering if this was another dream.
No, she was definitely awake. Moreso than she had been in a long time.
She shook off some of the sweat on her body and looked around. Thick stone walls rose around her, their high windows showing that she was in a basement. The sofa she laid on was worn and musty. Two tables occupied half the floor, littered with mechanical odds and metal junk.
Her uniform was gone, but she wasn't naked. Spitfire glanced back and flushed as she saw a cloth diaper pinned around her flank.
"What?!"
A voice boomed next to her with deep laughter. "After four children and two grandchildren, I don't think I'd know what to do with myself if I didn't have diapers to change! Still, I'm happy you're outgrowing them."
"You mean…you've been changing…" Spitfire shook her head and gazed at her benefactor. He was a human, and definitely an old one. Only a few wisps of white fuzz graced his head, and liver spots dotted his face. His chest was like a barrel, but his limbs were skinny and arthritic. More than anything else, though, it was his eyes that seized Spitfire's attention. They were mud brown, but there was a light in them. They seemed to laugh with innocent humor, a spark of childlike joy that grim reality had yet to conquer.
He grinned, showing ugly, tobacco-stained teeth. "Well, you couldn't rightly change yourself, now could you?"
His cheer was infectious. Spitfire smiled back at him, nervously at first, then growing into a grin. She felt just a little bit like her old, cocky self again. "Well. Guess I'm grateful to your kids."
"As am I, as am I!" The old man laughed again and slapped his knee. "They brought me so much joy!"
"Seriously," Spitfire said, bowing her head. "Thank you. You're…"
She hesitated, then continued. "You helped me. You’re the only one who did. I always thought we were all on the same side."
"Things are different here." The man's smile vanished and he turned his back, stooping to pull bread from a cabinet. "It's not 'all of us against the Germans,' or 'some of us against the Germans,' or even 'some of us against some of us.' It's Poles against Germans against Jews against Ukrainians against Russians against Romanians…and on, and on."
He gave a little laugh as he turned back with the food, but it was a sad, quiet laugh. "I think one enemy is too much already, but what do I know?"
Hard bread and beet soup never looked so good to Spitfire. She ate slowly, gears turning in her head. Things were looking better than they had in months, but…
"What happens now?" She asked.
"Now? Now you rest and get your strength back." The old man looked at her empty bowel and laughed. "You can feed yourself now, too? My, they grow up so fast…"
A week later, Spitfire saw the thin resistance fighter again. She woke up to see him sitting on one of the tables, berating the old man.
"Where's my tank, Old Man?" he kept repeating.
"It'll be done soon enough, Zeke," the old man grumbled, readying Spitfire's soup.
Zeke shot Spitfire a deathly glare, but turned his head away. "Don't piss away your rations like that, Old Man. Every Pole will need all their strength for the Uprising. Especially you, you'll be needed to maintain my-"
"-'Tank,' yes, I know," the old man snapped. "You won't let me forget."
"Leave him be!" Spitfire shouted. She was never one to stay quiet.
"The tank's important." Zeke turned to fully face the mechanic, ignoring Spitfire.
The old man clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You were never so persistent when it came to Sophie."
Pain and rage flashed across the young man's face. He grabbed the elder by the collar, the two humans glaring into each other's eyes. Spitfire crouched, ready to spring. She wasn't sure how good a lame pegasus was in a brawl, but she'd damn well stick up for her benefactor.
"This is for Sophie," the young man snarled.
"Did she ask you to do this, hm?" The old man didn't back down an inch. "To turn your love into hatred?"
Zeke shoved him away. "She's DEAD, you old fool! They killed her, remember? Your last living daughter! How can you not hate them?"
"Because the world is already filled to the bursting with hatred." The old man pinched his brow and shook his head. "Because this tank my son-in-law wants is going to kill someone's son. Maybe someone's last son. How can I carry a grudge knowing that?"
"Just have it ready by August." Zeke shook his head, tired of the argument. He turned to leave, sending one last glance back. "And eat your own damn rations. The pegasus has been pinioned – that means she's stuck here. That means she'll die here, so don't waste your food."
Zeke came by again two days later while the old man was at one of the tables, mending a broken valve. Spitfire was resting and they thought her asleep, but she heard every word.
The soldier was a lot more subdued, starting the conversation with a roundabout apology. "I checked on the tank in the garage. That valve’s the last part, right? You've done good work."
The old man remained engrossed in his task, ignoring the compliment and asking a question of his own. "Zeke. Let me ask you, what in the world is worth anything ?"
"Philosophy?" Zeke laughed. "Fine. For us here, it's Poland. It's all we have. It's bigger than all of us, an idea and an ideal. It’s hope. It’s something to call our own. Any sacrifice, any hardship, is worth it for even the barest chance to see it restored."
"No, you fool," the old man snarled with anger. "The answer is innocence . Without it, the flag is just cloth and hatred. The Cross is wood and suffering. Kindness is the slave of convenience, and love…"
He sent a pointed glance to his in-law. "…becomes hatred."
Zeke stiffened, his proud soul rising to the debate. "Is that why you care for the pegasus? She's a soldier, the very opposite of innocence."
"No." The old man shook his head. He settled back from his work and sighed, eyes looking into the distance.
"I do it for my own sake. I…I must have been very wicked in a past life, to be required in this one to bury my children and grandchildren. It's just a selfish old man's wish, to finally create something that will outlive him. That's why I won't be stopped, Zeke. This is my last chance to change this world for the better."
The young man gave a "tch," but it lacked the bile he showed earlier. "What about her wings? If she can't fly away, one day she'll be discovered. The Nazis will kill her and your kindness will be in vain."
"Then I'll make her fly again," the mechanic said with conviction.
Zeke laughed at that. "She's been pinioned. She's missing bones, Milo."
Spitfire gave a small smile. Milo. That's the old man's name.
"I'm a craftsman.” The certainty never left Milo’s voice. “If bones she needs, then bones she'll have."
Milo knew nothing of wings, but the old man could learn. He would retire to the basement with books and diagrams of birds, studying them behind thick wooden glasses. He compared pictures to Spitfire's own wings, and brainstormed ways to make them work again.
Pinioning was unheard of in Equestria, so Spitfire was just as uncertain. The pair tossed a few theories back and forth, wondering what the best way to restore her flight would be. Milo tinkered together a few fake bones of metal and rubber, but the surgery needed to insert them would be dangerous. He put them in one of the toolboxes, saving them for a last resort.
"It sounds strange, but it's good that they pinioned both wings." Squinting through his glasses, Milo summarized one of the anatomy paragraphs he was reading. "Otherwise your balance would be thrown off and you'd likely never fly again."
Spitfire nodded. “Makes sense. The big issue is force. I'll need to be able to get enough wind under my wings to support my weight. I'm missing some feathers needed for maneuvering, but I won't exactly be stunt flying."
"…Ever again." She looked down, heart sinking. Even if she somehow made it home, her days as a Wonderbolt were gone.
"Heh…I used to be a stunt flier.” Her voice was wistful. Saddened. “I've been one all my life. Guess I'll have to find a new line of work."
Milo glanced over. His friend was pawing at the ground with her hoof, mentally recalling all the daring maneuvers she would never do again.
He had a way of infecting others with his optimism. "To fly again after being pinioned is one heck of a stunt, no?"
Spitfire looked over, seeing his ugly grin, his shining eyes pleading her to cheer up. She laughed softly and nodded, feeling the moment of sadness pass. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
The solution they found was bizarrely simple. Spitfire was missing the triangle of flesh, bone, and feathers that formed the tip of each wing. Rather than inserting some replacement inside of her, they fashioned an external creation to be attached in its place. It was made of wood and canvas, as light as Milo could make it. Metal clips would pin it in place on the wing's edge.
It wasn't even close to perfect. She couldn't go fast or high without shaking the whole thing to pieces. Although only a few pounds, they still felt heavy on her wings. Her flying would be clumsy at best. Any sort of accident could shift the clips on her, possibly with disastrous results. Even if all went well, the clips would bite into her from the moment she put them on. They had to be tight, or else even a slow flight would shake them off.
And yet…she would fly again. Fly.
Maybe. If they actually worked.
The pair was beside themselves with excitement. Spitfire posed in the attachments, wincing slightly as they pinched the flesh but grinning ear to ear.
"A cloudy night," Milo repeated, eyes twinkling brighter than ever. "Just a low, short flight, to test them. A few of those, then it'll be off you go! Go north. Germany is in the west, and the Soviets are to the east. I do not know how the Russians would greet you, so go north. Over the Baltic to Sweden or Finland, and make your way home from there."
Five minutes later, three Poles kicked down the door to Milo's house: Zeke, a young woman, and a squat man who Spitfire vaguely remembered. The two strangers had submachine guns in hand, Zeke had his pistol.
Milo and Spitfire stood up in panic. Zeke gestured with his gun. "Sorry about the door, but this place isn't safe. The Germans just overran our positions the last block over and they're swarming this way. The bastards are smart, they're searching everywhere."
"What positions?" Milo shouted as they stumbled outside. No one was on the streets, but gunfire seemed to echo all around them.
"The Uprising's begun!" Zeke yelled, exulting in the words.
He laughed, but didn't slow down as they ran through the streets. "It began last week! You really need to come out of your basement more, Father!"
The squat man was the first to round a corner. He gasped and tuned back, motioning for them to go the way they had came. "Panzers! Three of them! With infantry!"
"Which way are they going?" Zeke paused to ask.
The man didn't slow down as he tore past. "This way!"
"No good!" the woman shouted. "We're just running back to the ones that chased us here!"
Zeke pointed to an alleyway, and the band turned into it with the wolves at their heels.
For a breathless fifteen minutes they were hounded by the Germans. Zeke led them this way and that, but everywhere they turned there were men in grey, firing rifles and machine guns. In a final bid for time, they scrambled into an apartment flat and fled to the roof.
Zeke sent the squat man to run for help. He was only gone for a few seconds when gunshots sounded on the floor below. A scream of pain followed them, then some shouting in German and one last gunshot.
"They must've been right on our heel," Zeke growled, drawing a second pistol. The woman took up a firing position by the stairs.
Spitfire was craning her neck, trying to peer over the side of the building. Maybe there was a fire pole, or even a big dumpster they could…
A spotted old hand settled itself on her neck. She stopped looking, and her eyes went wide.
"It's time for you to go," Milo said quietly.
She turned back to look at him. That kind, ugly face was creased in a gentle smile. His eyes were watering, but that light within them shined as brightly as ever. She shook her head, but he nodded insistently. The vision of him blurred – Spitfire was crying herself. Milo crouched, and without a word spoken the two of them shared a tight embrace.
"Thank you, thank you," she said over and over, trying to smile even though she was crying. Even though she knew what was about to happen to him.
Milo pushed her away a little. He took his knotty right hand and raised her chin so she could look him in the eye. "No. Thank you , Spitfire. You've given this old man a purpose. I'm happy, happy as can be. The only way I can be happier is if you fly away. So please, fly. Live."
He gave her one last hurried hug and stood up.
She looked up at him for a final second. The words sprang too her mouth without thought, yet they felt so natural. "Goodbye, Grandpa!"
Milo laughed and tussled her mane. "Ha! Goodbye, granddaughter. I'm a very lucky man, to have had three beautiful grandchildren. Now, it's time to fly."
Spitfire took a deep breath and flexed her wings. The attachments pinched, but they'd have to do. She turned and faced the opposite edge, knowing she'd need as much of a running start as she could get.
She caught Zeke's eyes. He gave a little, nervous smile. "Guess you have to live for all of us."
He shook his head. "Feh, listen to me. Forget me. Just live. Live for him ."
The pegasus nodded and ran forwards. She focused squarely on the sky beyond, ignoring the height. If she thought about falling, she'd hesitate and fall for real. In under a second, her gallop brought her to the edge and she jumped.
Spitfire spread her wings, the same way she's done since she was a foal. She felt the pressure build beneath them. She felt her height sag as gravity pulled against it, and felt the clips bite into her like teeth.
A few flaps of the wings…and she didn't fall. She was in the air, and she wasn't falling.
She was flying .
A few more flaps, and she was above the apartment. She turned back with practiced ease, hovering with slow, easy sweeps of the wing.
There was Milo, jumping like a schoolchild. He was waving his hat in his hand, cheering her onwards and upwards.
The woman soldier fired a burst down the stairway and fell backwards, blood erupting from her throat. Grey coated men stormed up the stairs, rifles lowered.
"Don't you dare look away, Spitfire." She whispered to herself, fighting to keep her eyes clear of tears. "You'll regret it forever if you look away."
With one last wave, Milo turned calmly to the Germans. Zeke had crouched low and fired his pistols, getting off three shots before a bullet found his heart.
The soldiers fanned out in a half-circle, surrounding the man standing on the roof's edge. Spitfire saw an old man in their midst, and a freckle-faced youth. Some of them were already pulling the trigger, moved by the adrenaline of combat.
Milo smiled gently at them, and his eyes seemed to glow as the sun caught them. "Do what you must, you poor men! I am as happy as I can ever be, and there's not a thing you can do to me now!"
Spitfire heard the crack of the guns. She saw the blood come from his body and watched him fall backwards off the rooftop. But by the time Milo hit the streets below, she was flying away. A few bullets chased her, but none even came close.
Her eyes were dry now. She angled her body with perfect instincts, seeking the most aerodynamic position. She'd need to save her energy, to husband every ounce of lift if she wanted to make it to Sweden.
There was no "if" in her mind. Spitfire was going to make it to Sweden, and from there, back to Equestria. She was going to live. Not for her own sake, although she loved life. It was the only way to repay Milo, and Spitfire wasn't about to disappoint him.
The sun warmed her from above, shining as brightly as his eyes. It watched over Spitfire's journey, never setting until she at last landed in the neutral country.
"Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: 'God is not dead, nor doth he sleep.' The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail With peace on earth, good will to men."
-From "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" by Henry Longfellow, 1864
Author's Note
Thanks for reading. This one is very different from the rest, so I hope it was enjoyed. Not really a battle or anything like that, but…I dunno, every once in a while a writer had an idea that he just has to write. This was one of mine.
As a side note, Longfellow’s poem was made into a Christmas Carol by numerous singers. Bing Crosby’s version is definitely something to write home about. It’s pretty much the only song that has ever made my manly eyes cry. And yes, I’ve heard The Highwayman. And Dante’s Prayer. And The Lady of Shalott.
Now have your history lesson of the day:
Poland holds some of the great honors and great sins of WWII, and its fate is among the war’s tragedies. Of all the nations conquered by Germany, it was the Polish people who resisted the hardest. The largest percentage of their population joined the resistance, and they fought the Nazi regime with fanaticism and desperate ingenuity. Church bells were turned into cannons, firing piles of garden tools like massive shotguns. Armored cars were built in garages, weapon factories operated out of forests, even Panzers were stolen and turned to the cause of the resistance.
The uncompromising nationalism the Poles held had a darker side as well. While they were the fiercest resistance, they also conducted ethnic atrocities of their own. Jews and Germans alike had little reason to surrender to the rebels.
The Warsaw Uprising has long been romanticized as a ‘charge of the light brigade,’ a gallant, doomed attack made for honor and pride. The accepted history is only partially true. While certainly desperate, the Polish leaders had sound political reasons for launching the revolt. The Soviet army was on Warsaw’s doorstep, but they were coming as conquerors rather than liberators. Stalin had created a puppet communist government to rule after the nation was “freed.” The existing government-in-exile and military forces were labeled as criminals and traitors, including much of the anti-Nazi resistance. If Polish nationalists could take Warsaw before the Soviets did, it would put them in a position to bargain for an independent Poland.
From August 1 to October 2, the Polish Home Army engaged in a bitter street war with the German Wermacht. The Germans were no less desperate – they needed Warsaw to hold back the Soviets. Neither side could afford to lose. The fighting was relentless and brutal: About 200,000 lost their lives, mostly Polish civilians.
The battle proved Polish fears of Soviet “liberation.” The Red Army refused to support the uprising with air or ground attacks, and ignored attempts by the Home Army to establish radio contact.
After 62 days of battle, the Polish Home Army was fought out. Out of supplies and pushed back to their last few strongholds, they negotiated the right to be treated as uniformed combatants. When this was achieved, they surrendered. The Soviets entered the city in January 1945, and the government they installed would rule for the next two generations.
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Chapter 14: Even in Graveyards, the Flowers Bloom
”More than machinery: We need humanity. More than cleverness: We need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent. And all will be lost…”
-From The Great Dictator
Konigsberg, Germany November 9, 1938
The Night of Broken Glass
Like the rest of them, it was the shouting that got North Star’s attention. The purple unicorn frowned pensively, trying in vain to see its source from the window.
He may have shrugged and gone back to his studies if not for the smoke rising above the buildings. Smoke meant fire, and fire was bad news in the cramped city.
A purple glow encased his horn, and the textbook snapped shut. Studying could wait. If people were in trouble, his magic might help a lot.
After a moment’s hesitation, he called Sparkler to his side. His daughter wasn’t quite old enough that he felt comfortable leaving her alone.
Honestly, he wasn’t too comfortable taking her into the city, either. Things…weren’t going so well, here. There was a lot of poverty, and a lot of crime and pent-up anger. But it was better to keep an eye on her, especially with a fire brewing less than a block away.
Sparkler – a shade lighter than her dark-purple father – smiled up at him as she pulled a scarf on. Dad was leaving to help people, and she would come so he didn’t have to worry about her. Just like when Stauller lost his books, or when the baker’s basement flooded.
North Star’s trepidation diminished a little as he opened the door. Other tenants of the apartment were also coming out, drawn by curiosity and worry. A lot of them were also students, and he swapped books and services with them all the time. The way things were these days, it was much safer to travel in a crowd of friends.
One in particular brought a smile to his face. Sweetie Pie was a close friend, one that both father and daughter had taken quite a shine to. It had been a while since Sparkler had a mother, and North Star was wondering…but such thoughts could wait.
“Any ideas?” He asked.
“No.” Sweetie Pie shook her head, tossing that wonderful candy-cane mane back and forth. She grimaced. “Well, I hope not. I heard a diplomat to France was killed, and some people were saying it was a Jew who shot him. But…that can’t be related, can it?”
Last year, the answer would be ‘Of course not.’ But these days, who could say?
“Of course not,” North Star replied. “It’s just a fire. The police would break up a riot before it even got started.”
Sweetie Pie nodded, and they hurried onward. North Star led the pack. Someone might be in trouble.
A crowd had already gathered, deep and thick enough to block their way. Some of the people were pensive, appraising. Others were…laughing? Clapping?
North Star pushed through the crowd, using a bit of gentle telekinesis to ease the way. Shorter than the humans, he had to work his way to the front to see what was going on.
”Juden raus!”
‘Jews out.’
He grimaced.
The bulk of the crowd was standing well back from where a dozen Nazi “Brownshirts” were at work. Smoke was coming from a few shops and a synagogue, with flames licking out of the open doorways. A few of the brownshirts and some children were tossing rocks at the stained-glass windows, laughing and cheering each other’s hits. Another party thug and two men in dockworkers’ clothes were darting out of a store, braving the flames to loot the cash register, a few vases, and a brass Menorah. The last one out had to roll as his pants caught fire, drawing laughter from the crowd and from himself.
Not everyone was laughing. North Star had emerged next to Otto, the chubby local baker with a fabulous moustache and no other hair. The middle-aged German was rubbing his hands and sweating, glancing from side to side.
“Where are the police?” The man asked, fear growing in his voice.
“Didn’t see them.” North Star glanced back, noting thankfully that Sparkler was right behind him.
“Where are the God-Damned police?” Otto said again, wringing his hands helplessly.
Once he looked down from the rising flames, North Star saw the worst of it. Three men with long beards and a woman, forced to kneel with the brownshirts standing around them. One of the thugs had taken a dagger and was sawing off one of the men’s beard. The older human cried out in pain – there was as much ripping as cutting involved. Another turned his head to look back and received a club to the neck. He doubled over, coughing. The slim brownshirt raised his cudgel to strike again.
North Star wouldn’t – he couldn’t stand by. These were people. Just like the men in brown uniforms. Why couldn’t they understand that?
He glanced to the side. There were women in high-class garb, laughing and pointing. But also people looking upset, even angry. Why don’t they do anything?
Why don’t you? He chastised himself. Good doesn’t start with a herd. It starts with a pony.
He screwed up his courage, and the cudgel came down again on the helpless man. Enough wasting time.
“STOP IT! ” He roared, as loud as his lungs could muster. The volume gave him courage – North Star took a bold step forward, even swatting at the club with a bolt of telekinesis. “Stop it! What did they ever do to you?!”
The skinny brownshirt choked up on the club, regaining his grip. He half raised it again, but let the arm hang back down at his side. He seemed to regard the unicorn with something between a snarl and a sneer, but at least the beating had stopped.
Now that he got a better look at the face above the brown shirt…North Star recognized him. Klaus, another student at the university. A compulsive prankster, usually partnering with Fritz and Derek to make their professors rue their careers.
They only talked once…he nicknamed North Star “Merlin” for his ability to use magic. Maybe he called all the unicorns that.
What happened to him?
Klaus nodded just a little bit in recognition. He strode forward, club still dangling at his side.
A few other brownshirts fell into step with him. North Star swallowed, but stood his ground.
He felt the crowd part around him. From the high-class women to Otto, all of them shied away. He was alone.
Klaus stopped within arm’s reach. North Star swallowed again, but didn’t budge. You stood for those who couldn’t stand for themselves. It was what the Equestrians believed. It was what the humans believed, too. Klaus would see it.
The grip on the cudgel tightened. One of Klaus’ lips twisted upwards in a queer, toothy smile.
North Star took a half-step back. Panic rose in his chest. This was all wrong. Where were his friends? The other students, the people who followed him here…why wasn’t anyone standing by him? North Star felt alone. He was alone.
This would never happen in Equestria, but Equestria was very far away.
Where were the police? Where were the good people? Where were his friends? Such a large crowd around them…
The club moved.
He tried to channel a spell, but it was too late. Klaus’ hand whipped out, swinging the club against the side of his head. There was a sharp crack, and North Star groaned and staggered.
Another brownshirt struck the senseless unicorn with his own club, knocking him to the ground. Then a third joined in as Klaus raised his weapon again. The lanky student screamed as he set to it, swinging his club with wild speed.
The man who had been cutting beards laid a hand on Klaus’ shoulder, hoping to stop him before he hurt himself. Instead, Klaus turned and snatched the knife from his hands. He raised the blade over his head, still screaming with wordless bloodlust.
Sparkler saw the whole thing. She saw the hair still on the blade as it came down towards Dad’s neck. She saw Dad exhale and feebly twitch a hoof.
It had been eight years. Mom had died in labor, so he was all she ever had. Always so patient and careful with her, his little Sparkler. He was an intellectual and he was raising her to be one: Always asking her questions, and encouraging her to ask them. Always reading to her – sometimes boring books, but sometimes they were about pirates, alicorns, and sea ponies.
The blade hit the neck. Klaus twisted and ripped it outward, splattering red into the street.
Eight years of loving and reading, of caring and raising…and that was it.
Klaus howled and brought down the knife again. Then again, and two more times before his comrades pulled him off.
One of them gave the fallen father a kick. “Pferdes Raus !” tore from his throat. Many in the brownshirt gang and some in the crowd began echoing the words. Equines out.
The rock-throwing children stopped their game and stared at North Star, at the red pool growing around him. One began to cry. Others looked on with morbid curiosity, like they might watch an insect’s dying twitch.
The oldest of the boys pointed, calling out to the adults. There was another Equestrian, right behind the first. Another damn Merlin, flaunting their magic while Germans went hungry. This one was a lot smaller.
Sparkler hadn’t moved. She was watching the body along with the other children. Tonight, Dad and her were going to finish Treasure Island . That was the plan. She knew he was gone, but…what to do? What COULD she do? She had no idea, so she just stared as the bloody pool finally stopped growing.
Klaus was doubled up, panting after his violent exertion. A brownshirt who had taken the knife leaned in to mutter something at him. The student reached up to wipe his face, grunting in annoyance as unicorn blood smeared over his brows.
Sparkler felt a painful tug on her rump. Sweetie Pie had come up behind her, gripped the little filly’s tail in her teeth, and hoisted her onto her back in one fast motion. The child didn’t resist. Sweetie Pie only hoped she had the presence of mind to hang on.
The sudden motion caused some consternation in the crowd. A few brownshirts stepped forwards, but none were making any move to attack.
Sweetie Pie wasn’t going to give them a chance to change their minds. Around she turned and away she sped. Shouts of dismay came as she tore through the crowd, not slowing down a lick for their sake. The slower humans were simply bowled out of the way with every ounce of strength the panicked earth pony possessed. She felt a hand snap beneath a hoof and she winced in sympathy – but she kept running.
It took scant seconds for Sweetie Pie to clear the crowd, and even then she kept running as fast as her legs could carry her. She passed their apartment and slowed, then stopped.
The instincts faded. The mind took over.
Sparkler had held on, thank the stars.
They had to get out .
Equestrians couldn’t buy boat tickets. That meant leaving by land. They’d need food, money.
She took a few breaths to steady herself and turned around. No angry mob chasing her. Everything was still in the apartment. Had to go back.
At a brisk, paranoid trot she retracted her steps until she arrived at the dirty plaster building. One more nervous glance around – the street was deserted. She dashed inside, even reached a hoof around to pull the door shut quickly.
Sweetie Pie took the steps two at a time, heading up to her own flat. “Just hold on, Sparkler. We’ll only be a moment.”
“I can walk.”
The tiny unicorn dismounted Sweetie Pie, then turned to look up at her. Not a tear in the child’s eye.
But now they came. Before Sweetie’s gaze, Sparkler’s eyes went from dull and dumbstruck to teary and fearful. Her tiny legs buckled, quickly growing so weak that she squatted to the floor.
Her quiet voice was high-pitched, pierced with fear. “What…”
The thought finished at a whisper. “…Do I do without Daddy?”
There was no time. But that didn’t matter. Sweetie Pie crouched down and gripped the filly, pulling her close enough for them to feel each other’s heartbeats.
“You come with me.” Sweetie’s eyes were watering, but she kept the fear from her own voice. “We leave. Honey, I promise – I PROMISE, I won’t leave you. We can talk, we can cry, we can do anything you want. But we have to do it later. We have to leave. I’m getting my stuff right now, just…wait here.”
Sweetie Pie cursed herself as she fumbled with the key in her mouth. Not exactly the best way to handle a kid, but what could she do? The panic speeding her actions had shrunk, but it was still there.
The leather saddlebags were right where she left them on the table. She slammed open the cupboards, throwing in two loaves of bread in one bag and a head of cabbage in the other.
The wallet was in her desk. Sweetie Pie turned and strode up to it.
On the desk sat her typewriter. By its side were the chewed pencils she used to type with the infernal machine and the papers it had spewed out. One painstakingly-typed page after the next. North Star had offered to type it with his magic, but this was the thesis for her doctorate! Of course she had to type it herself. Even if it meant navigating keyboards meant for human hands.
She picked up the wallet in her teeth and turned away, knocking a few of the papers onto the ground. Didn’t even look back. There was no time.
Sparkler was still in the hallway. After a second’s deliberation, Sweetie broke into North Star’s apartment. Students didn’t have much money, and who knows how far she would need to stretch it?
A little extra food. A little extra money. So many books, so much knowledge that would be left to the looters.
A picture. A full-color picture, no less – taken with an Equestrian camera. Him and his little Sparkler, smiling with the sea at their backs.
Sweetie Pie swallowed hard and kissed the image of North Star. It was just a picture, but…
Tears came to her eyes and she nuzzled it, sobbing.
“Why do you have to be so good?” Her cracking voice whispered. “We never should have come here, and now…”
She sniffed hard, forcing the tears back. They had to go.
“I’ll take care of her, I promise!” She kissed the image again and set it in the bag. It didn’t weigh much.
The saddle bags were light enough for her. So was Sparkler. The filly insisted she could walk, but there was no time. Who knows how far these riots had spread, or when they’d end.
Even if they did end…who would die next time? No, this was no place for her. Every instinct screamed at her to leave, and she only hoped the Jews and Communists and Equestrians and whoever else they were killing would get out as well.
Eyes glancing nervously behind her, Sweetie had already dashed halfway down the stairs when she saw them.
Three other students, loitering in the lobby. Quiet, studious Stauller, and his two friends who were anything but. Derek, with a bad habit of trying too hard to be funny, and Fritz, majoring in motorbikes and loose women.
The three of them were smoking, soot-stained, taking a break.
In their brown uniforms.
Silence fell as they turned to her. Sweetie’s face was tear-stained, and her teeth showed in a panicked grimace. Sparkler peered nervously from her back, trying to hide in her benefactor’s mane.
“Uh…hey, Candy Cane.” Fritz weakly waved, giving a confused smile along with his nickname for her.
Derek snorted, squinting at her with befuddlement. “The Hell are you doing with North Star’s kid?”
The panic burst out. “THEY KILLED HIM!” She screamed.
Stunned silence – these men didn’t know how bad things had gotten. A tear came down her face. “YOU killed him!”
Derek staggered back as if punched, holding the side of his head.
“This is insane,” Stauller said quietly.
“You think?!!” Derek wheeled towards him, hand outstretched. “I’m up for paying the Christ-killers back for our embassy, but North Star? Shit. Where are the damn police?”
“Well they’re not helping,” Sweetie Pie snapped. She gestured angrily with her head towards them. “They’re probably out there somewhere, getting blood all over their brown shirts. ”
The humans glanced down awkwardly at their uniforms, but not a one addressed the subject. Fritz held a placating hand up. “Okay…just get you and the kid upstairs. We’ll cover for you until this blows over.”
Derek shot him a dirty look. Sweetie Pie stomped a hoof. “What, so they can get us next time, instead? It’s not getting better. It’s getting worse . It’s been getting worse for years, North and I just ignored it.”
“We were too late. But it’s not too late for Sparkler and I, we, just need to leave before it is.”
Fritz shrugged, doing his best to smile comfortingly. He was failing. “Candy Cane, you know they’ve put that hiatus on Equestrian passports. Until that sorts itself out, you’re stuck here. ‘Might as well be stuck with us.”
“No,” Sweetie said, resolute. “No more waiting for it to get worse. I’m running the border, if I have to.”
Fritz threw his arms out, smile fading. “Okay, that is all kinds of illegal. You know people are saying that ponies think they’re above the law. You trying to prove them right?”
“Fritz!” Stauller shot commandingly. The handsome biker caught himself, yielding the floor.
Stauller gestured to the door. “Derek, Fritz. Outside.”
Derek opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He strode outside, rubbing his hands together like he was washing them. Fritz followed a little slower, fumbling with a cigarette package.
With them gone, the bespectacled man sighed heavily. He matched gazes with Sweetie Pie, seeing the determination in her eyes. The mourning would come later. She had to go.
He was as blunt and business-like as ever. “For real. You’re leaving the country.”
“Yes. For real.”
“Do you have money?” Stauller continued without missing a beat.
“Uh, yes.” The words were there, but the hesitation was noticeable.
“Here.” Stauller fished out his wallet and strode briskly towards her. Eyeing his uniform, Sweetie Pie retreated a few steps.
He didn’t even acknowledge the movement. Stauller just caught up to her with fast, purposeful strides and deposited the wallet in her saddlebag.
Another sigh. Stauller gave her shoulder a companionable slap and rubbed a hand over Sparkler’s head. His hand had no blood on it. His face was locked in a tight frown.
“Go South, to Poland.” He spoke grimly. “West lies Germany. East lies the Baltics, and war will come there soon.”
Sweetie Pie gave a bitter laugh. “I had to learn three human languages, but no Polish.”
Stauller smiled tightly. “They’re Poles , Miss Pie. You’ll be the smartest one there.”
The casual bigotry struck a bad chord in Sweetie…but she was in no position to argue.
“Thanks,” she said, a bit more sharply than intended.
Bitterness made her finish the thought as she brushed past him. “Thanks for not stabbing me. I guess that’s become a thing to be grateful for.”
Crueler than he deserved, she knew. Stauller winced, fighting with himself for the right words.
Finally, he came out with the best he could manage. “Let’s meet again, when this is all over.”
“Once you’re done with the ‘Christ-killers,’ you mean?” she shot back.
And then she was gone. Sweetie Pie shouldered the door open and was outside without a backwards glance. Fritz and Derek were there, pointedly on the other side of the street. They smoked in silence, avoiding eye contact with her. That was fine. She passed them by, briskly, but not too fast. She was going for endurance. The more ground she could cover, the better.
She was out of the city when she felt a wetness in her mane. Sparkler was crying again.
They had made good time that day. Sweetie Pie crept into a barn and settled them into the cow stalls. None of the heifers seemed to mind. She laid back into the hay and hugged Sparkler tightly to herself, murmuring gently into her ear.
“It’s okay, kiddo. It’ll be okay. I’m here, I’ve got you.”
“I’m not going to leave you…”
But she did leave. And Sparkler was alone.
It wasn’t Aunt Sweetie’s fault. She tried to keep them together. Even after the Nazis conquered Warsaw. Even after they were arrested and contained in a prison camp.
When the guards began separating the unicorns, Sweetie wouldn’t let them take Sparkler. First she asked to go with her. When they refused, she begged. Then, desperate and wild, Sweetie tried to push them back.
So they shot her. Right in front of Sparkler.
And she was alone.
Sparkler didn’t cry. There was no one left to cry for. Tears only emerged when they came to take her horn, and that was just a physical reaction. When the pain dulled, the eyes dried. She didn’t talk, either. The other prisoners wondered if she was touched in the head.
She ate. She slept. She stared off into space, wondering what to do, what to do, what to do.
When the Americans came, Sparkler followed their orders just as she had the guards’. She didn’t really notice the difference, not even when they herded her outside.
“That’s Sparkler. She’s…always been like that.”
The human woman shrugged, accepting the blanket Derpy wrapped around her. She was very ugly – or maybe not, just molded that way by hunger and hardship. Her name was Antoinette, and she didn’t answer when Derpy asked why she was imprisoned here.
Derpy had gently set the blanket around Sparkler. The hornless little unicorn just stared into space, unmoving as it slowly slid off her.
Antoinette shrugged again, looking away. “Too much for her. Too much. My Mariel, not much older. Where is she, I wonder?”
The woman pulled the blanket a little tighter around herself, gratefully smiling at Derpy. The pegasus smiled back, brushing a hoof against her shoulder.
Derpy’s heart broke for all of them. She cried, both with them and for them.
But it felt so right, to be here.
Stupid, klutzy Derpy who was no good at anything. But they didn’t need someone who was smart or coordinated. They didn’t need someone to herd and count them the way the soldiers did, keeping them at arm’s length. They needed someone who could hug without care for the lice. Who could listen, even if she didn’t understand the language. Someone with a heart big enough to fit them all in it.
All the teasing Derpy had endured, good-natured and otherwise…none of it would ever faze her again. She could love, even filthy, ugly strangers. What talent, what skill, could be greater than that?
She turned, striding purposefully back to Sparkler. The filly wasn’t oblivious or anything, she just…didn’t seem to care. Expressionless, she gave Derpy a little nod as she approached.
Fillies weren’t supposed to be like this. Derpy’s smile shrunk. “Um, you’re losing your blanket, there.”
“Hm,” Sparkler returned flatly, not even opening her lips.
A second passed, and Sparkler broke eye contact. That seemed to be the end of it. To anyone else, that would have been the end of it.
But Derpy was a bit more persistent. Sparkler drifted her gaze back to the front, realizing the adult wasn’t just going away.
Derpy shuffled and coughed, giving another weak little smile. What could she say? She was never good with words.
So…maybe just skip the words for now.
She leaned down and hugged the little filly. Sparkler gasped in surprise, stiffening against the foreign gesture. She looked up, seeing the odd-eyed pegasus looking down at her with a smile. And tears in her eyes.
“I wanna tell you something. It’s okay for you to feel again.”
Derpy went on, hoping to get the message across. “It’s okay. Feelings are hard. They make you sad. But you need them! You just do, or nothing’s worth it. They can make you weak, but you don’t need to be strong anymore. You don’t need to be a wall the feelings break on. You can be you. You can be weak, because you’re safe now. The humans who did this…they hurt you, didn’t they?”
For a moment, Derpy wondered if the filly had even listened. But then came a nearly imperceptible nod. So she soldiered on. “And they took things from you? Things and…people?”
Sparkler bit her lower lip. Again a nod, this one a little shaky.
Derpy grabbed her, pulling her in all the tighter. The resistance softened as Sparkler let herself be embraced. Derpy cried as she went on, and soon the little unicorn was as well. “Well they’re GONE, Sparkler. Those men, those monsters, they’re gone forever. They’re never coming back, never going to hurt you or anyone again. I don’t know why they ever did it, but they’re gone.”
“I don’t care.” The bitter words came from the filly’s mouth. “Dad’s gone. Sweetie’s gone. I might as well have stayed inside.”
“NO!” Derpy’s eyes widened. Those grounds…bodies in the mud…bodies in the ditches…
She gripped Sparkler to her with trembling hooves, for a moment lost in her own horror. Derpy finally pushed her away a little bit to lock eyes. “No. No, you can’t. You’ve got to live . Live for them, live for you. You can’t just leave yourself here. There’s nothing here! I can’t bring back your family – I wish I could, but I just can’t! If they’re dead, Sparkler, then you’re everything they have left. All of their hope, all of their love, it’s towards you now. You have to live and laugh again, Sparkler. You have to come home.”
“WHY?!!” Sparkler’s wall finally shattered. The purple unicorn shoved her away, eyes crying beneath the sad little nub of a horn. “They’re GONE! They don’t HAVE any hope or love anymore! Who am I going to go home to?!!”
Derpy took a sharp breath inward. The barest of seconds, and she made her decision.
“Me.”
Perhaps she was a fool. No one ever accused her of having too much common sense.
But perhaps the world needs a little more of this particular brand of foolishness.
Sparkler gave a start, blinking, not believing what she just heard. She was sniffling. So was Derpy, leaning down to smile shyly at her with watery eyes. “There’s room for you in my home. In my heart. My daughter, too – she’ll understand.”
A hoof slipped slowly backwards. “W-why?” Sparkler asked in a breathless whisper.
“Because you’re worth it.”
Derpy embraced Sparkler again, and the two of them slowly slid down to lie on the grass. They lay there through the evening. Sparkler blubbered and cried, blowing her nose wetly and screaming the questions that had no answer.
Why?
Why?
Derpy didn’t have an answer. But she did have a warm wing, nestled gently over the little unicorn as she talked about Dad’s stories and Sweetie Pie’s crush.
They laid there as dusk turned to night. Sparkler’s sobs softened to quiet breaths, the back of her head settled on a grey-furred arm. Her odd-eyed guardian smiled down at her.
Face stained by dirt and tears, Sparkler offered the tiniest of smiles back.
As the filly’s eyes began to flutter closed, Derpy softly sang a lullaby. She didn’t have a good voice and she couldn’t remember all the words. But oh, how beautiful her mother sounded when she sang it so many years ago…
“Now cry all your tears
For I am here
Author's Note
”Better to light a candle than curse the darkness.”
-Peter Benenson, Co-founder of Amnesty International. Other co-founders include Eric Baker (British Activist) and Rarity Belle (Equestrian Author).
