A Field, Somewhere in Belgium
"FIIIIIIIRRRRRREEEEEEE!"
The guns belched loudly, slinging their .50 caliber ammo across the field in a matter of milliseconds. The enemy had no idea what hit them. They took the bait, and now they were getting cut to bits by an M2 .50cal. Good old Browning knew what he was doing when he made that puppy. Or perhaps pit bull was a better analogy. Wow. Even in the midst of a war, Army Colonel Noah "Bullseye" McDonough could make time to think about such things.
"YEAH TAKE THAT YA BASTARDS!" This remark came from McDonough's second in command, Major Timothy Fruit. "NOT SO TOUGH NOW, ARE YA?"
"Easy, Tim. Let's not celebrate until we take a body count."
"Yes, sir." He calmed down, though not by his own accord. If he'd had things his way, he'd open a bottle of Scotch and drink to the beat of the machine gun fire while writing the names of his fallen comrades on the bullets he'd use later. He was poetic in that kind of way.
"Still a fine day for a Nazi massacre, though, ain't it, sir?"
"Sure is."
"Do you think that I will be able to find a nice Luger? Or a Mauser? Oh man that would be cool!"
"Oh please. At this rate there won't be enough left to properly identify their remains, let alone their weapons. They'd be lucky to find intact teeth amidst the many gallons of red jelly."
"Sir I thought they were infantrymen?"
"Not anymore they're not."
"Meh, still can't tell the difference, sir."
These two had been working together long enough to play off each others jokes effortlessly. Though they shared a particularly dark sense of humor, it was unmistakable how close the two were. It wasn't so hard when one had a close friend to help one get through it all. They both felt bad that they weren't up there with their men on the front lines, as they were both Rangers with skills exceeding even the combat skills of the Marines.
The machine guns fell quiet. There was a lot of debris and dust in the air around the field where so many had been laid to bullet-ridden rest. The dust had settled, and the men looked upon their masterpiece, their enemy's blood painted over the canvas that was the ground of Belgium. But there was a problem.
"How many men were we supposed to kill?" asked the Colonel, brow furrowed.
"About 250. Why?" Tim looked over to Noah, and saw his face. He looked over to the field, and got the same look on his face. He stood up and grabbed his binoculars. There couldn't have been more than 70 or 80 bodies.
"Where the hell are the rest?"
He and Noah looked at each other, sudden, horrible realization dawning upon them. They turned and ran. Tim immediately set up shop on his radio, while Noah sprinted to the bunker to bark orders.
"GET TO YOUR GUNS! GO GO GO GO GO! GET THE AA GUNS UP, NOW! I WANT SNIPERS LOCKED AND LOADED COVERING EVERY INCH OF THIS FIELD!"
This was scary. Over 170 unaccounted for German soldiers meant that those horrible fiends sent out over 1/3 of their men to be slaughtered so they'd know the American position. What was wrong was that their men didn't even have a chance of any kind. And that they knew the Americans would be waiting for them. This did not bode well at all.
"SIR! We have enemy fighters inbound!"
"Are the AA guns up and ru-" he stopped himself to listen. It was a buzzing sound. But not of propellers. "Do we have any artillery units offshore?"
"No, sir," responded the Corporal.
"TIM! Did you call for air support?"
"No, sir."
Noah's face fell, just before Hell itself did the same to his bunker.
German Research Facility Der Riese
"Sir, we have successfully opened and maintained a portal. We believe that the enemy has left their mounts in the area we have arrived in. We can hear voices coming through, as well. They have armored mounts so there is a high probability that they are low tech, and will be no match for our weapons," said the scientist.
"Good, good. Send a squad in to investigate and establish a rapport."
"Yes, sir."
This was good. Technologically inferior, somewhere in Africa, presumably, perhaps even South America if they could be so lucky. Hans turned to the window, and watched his men step into the threshold. His radio crackled to life.
"Sir, we are on the other side of the portal. The initial reports were correct. Armored steeds, they are multicolored, and there are no humans around. Some of them appear to be wearing..." he stopped speaking for a moment.
"Wearing.. what?" asked Hans, suddenly apprehensive.
"Well, labcoats! I have no idea what FICK SCHEIßE!"
There was gunfire. At first only a burst but then there were multiple distinct weapons firing. After a few moments it was over.
"WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?!" shouted Hans. He was angry. What could have possibly provoked the greatest military in the world to such a childish action?
"Sir, one them, they frikken SPOKE to me! To us! And they spoke ENGLISH!" the Squad leader said, practically incomprehensible.
"What?" Hans could not believe what he was hearing. "I am coming through that portal, and if I don't hear a talking horse I will execute you myself, do you understand?" He didn't plan on giving the man a chance. By his calculation, the squad leader just wasted one and a half billion franks on a joke on his superior. This was unforgivable. He loaded his own Luger P08 and cocked the finger slide back, and put it in the holster.
"Sir, one of them was glanced, and not killed. He, I mean, she, can talk to you."
This had to be a joke, and he would not give heed to it a moment longer. He put on his lead suit and proceeded through the portal. It was uncomfortable to say the least, but it was like walking through a door into a new room, no difference. He took off his bulky suit, and began to draw his pistol. He would walk up to the man, put the gun to his head, and pull the trigger. No one wastes his time and gets away with it. He was just about to flip the safety when he heard something that intrigued him. Crying. By a woman. He thought hard. No, there were no women in their squad, and why would there be anyway? Women don't fight on the front line, they are too valuable. So then what could possibly be-
"Oh my Lord." There it, she, was, just sitting there with bullet wounds in two of her legs, crying in a human like voice. He turned to address his squad. "Do any of you speak English?" The grenadier raised his hand.
"I do sir!"
"Good. Ask it some questions. Ask it where we are."
The grenadier turned to the animal, and talked to it. The English tongue felt so alien to Hans, since he was at war with all those who spoke it, and more. It was somewhat ironic that his own men knowing the language was vital to success.
"Sir! She says that we are in the Everfree Forest, in the land of Equestria. She says there's a town about 1 mile away."
"Is that all?"
"No, she wanted to know if I am going to kill her."
"You can tell her 'no."
The man turned to her, looked her in the eyes and said 'no'. The Hans drew his pistol and shot the mare in the head.
"Because that's my job."
"Sir?" the machine gunner said.
"Yes?"
"Well, I have never heard of... 'Equestria'. Have you?"
"No. What is your point?"
"Well, then we don't know where in the world we are, or if we're even on Earth. I mean, no one has ever seen any talking horses before!"
The man made an excellent point, and now Hans realized that seeing and serving so much with the SS and Nazis in general had started to turn him into one. Before he never would have simply executed s prisoner of war for no reason, but now it came so effortlessly. That probably meant he is in fact a full Nazi, in mind and spirit, not just uniform. This was troubling, but it was a concern for later.
"True. But we can't have anyone telling what happened here." One of the men fidgeted and looked down. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
"Well sir, there were two that got away."
This was bad. They lost any element of surprise. Surely if they spoke English they'd get into contact with the US or the British and then they would be intercepted or bombed before they could set up acceptable defenses.
"Back into the base. We'll come back later, after we get a new plan."
A Field, Somewhere in Belgium
It truly was a sight to behold. He had seen many engagements, but something was different about this one. Probably because he was deaf, the world was spinning, and half his camp was now gone. The artillery was still raining down on them. The fighters were now in sight, which means that the artillery would soon stop. Not that it mattered. Slowly, his hearing came back, and he got up and looked around to take in the damage and develop a counterattack strategy. His AA guns were untouched, remarkably. There were bodies strewn about the rocky debris. Tim was lying across the room, bleeding. He didn't know whether he was dead or not, but he didn't have time to find out. He looked over at his men, taking other men to safety. He knew what he was about to ask them would kill them inside.
"LEAVE THEM! GET ON THE GUNS!" he shouted, knowing exactly what they would do.
"SIR! WE CAN'T LEAVE THEM HERE!" one of them responded.
"GET THEM INTO COVER, AND GET! ON! THOSE! GUNS!" He shouted back.
"SIR, THE INFIRMARY IS RIGHT TH-"
"THAT'S AN ORDER, SOLDIER!"
That did it. The men stopped arguing, pulled their wounded buddies into cover, and manned the guns. The introduction of flak kept the planes at a distance. While the guns themselves were untouched, the ammo reservoir was hit. They only had what was loaded in the guns, and after that they were all out. Noah rushed to make sure Tim was ok. He was just knocked out, though his head wound suggested possible concussion, and was bleeding badly. Noah grabbed the mike from the comm unit, and began to call for backup and air support.
"Sierra Foxtrot to base, we are under attack, I repeat, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! I need immediate air support, my men are wounded and we are almost out of flak! Over."
"Sierra Foxtrot, this is base, we copy. Sending P-51's your way, and medical transport is en route. Copy, over."
"I copy, what is the ETA on those birds? Over."
"3 Minutes, over."
"Copy that, base. Sierra Foxtrot OUT!"
With that said and done, Noah made his way to a machine gun nest. There was no crew there, presumably taken out in the attack. He picked up the .30 caliber 1919, mounted it on the sandbags, and took aim at the overhanging enemy planes. If he could lighten the load for the AA then he could make their flak last long enough for the fighters to get there. It was a long shot, but it could be done.
Authors Note
Ok, I realize that there is not a lot of pony so far, but that is because I need to make this a legitimate story, and I want it to be in-depth. There will be plenty of pony, I just need some time to get to that point. This is my first fic, so please be nice :)