//------------------------------// // Four // Story: Of Monsters and Mares // by Tempest Wind //------------------------------// Alamein I New Recruit The dry desert heat of Northern Zebrica was stifling, even this late into the evening. Here she sat, drenched in sweat, and the ruddy sun wasn't even up anymore.   Bollocks to Zebrica.   ‘It'll get cool when the sun goes down’, they said.   Cocks, the lot of them.   Wiping her sun-scorched face gently, Private First Class Tempest Wind slogged her way across the desert sand, over to her assigned defensive line, only to be met by an Amareican made Thompson’s barrel. “Oh, Canterlot Bridge you twitchy prats. Private First Class Tempest Wind. Just rotated in from the rear.”   “Nice t’meetcha. Sergeant Applebloom Apple. Welcome to Baker Company. Sorry ‘bout the gun, Private; Scoots has been twitchy since El Agheila.”   “For good reason, ‘Bloom! That Schmeisser coulda sawed us in half!”   “Shucks, I wuddn’t sayin’ it were a bad thing. Jus’ ecksplainin’ stuff to th’ newbie. Tempest Wind, right?”   “Yes’m, Sarge.”   “Right. Well, hop on in, Private Wind. Ah’ll introduce ya.”   With a sigh, followed by a tired chuckle, Tempest did so, resting her No. 4 rifle- a tried and venerable design that’d served quite well during the last war- against the wall of the slit trench.   “Righty. Ah’m Sarge Applebloom, as y’know. This’n ‘ere’s Scootaloo, on th’ Tommy gun, she's our short range spec’list.”   “Yo.” The clearly Amareican- Manehattanite, maybe?- waved idly, chewing on a pack of gum. “Ain't you from Ponyville?”   “Oh, uh, yes.”   “Thought I recognized ya. You got your mom’s eyes, kid. Dad’s mane though, looks like.”   “Hey! I like my mane!”   The others simply giggled, as Tempest snorted in annoyance.   “Mov-snrk-movin’ on, we’ve got Sweetie Belle, resident radiomare, and if’n you happen to be lucky, singer, ‘fore the war broke out.”   “Truly?”   “Sure, Miss Wind. I sing a little. Maybe later, when we’re not being shot at, though. Griffs are poking at our lines, lately.”   Applebloom nodded, seriously. “Sho’ nuff. They're right assholes… movin’ on, though, we’ve got Tree Hugger on the Bren gun.”   “Like… ‘Ello. You the newbie, poppet?”   “Erm. Yes?”   “Cool.”   “Ayep. She don't talk much, but uh, she's pretty darn good on the Bren. Juuuuust don't smoke anything she offers.”   “I… I see.”   “Moving on, haulin’ up th’ end here is our token changeling, Powder Keg.”   “Eh, ignore her. She's just jealous. Keg or Bug’s just fine, whatever’s faster for ya.” The changeling shrugged, as he dropped his Pegasus disguise to show her that, yes, in fact, he was a changeling.   “Uh-huh. Complet’ly jealous. Keg’s great with explosives, and he's luggin’ our Boys AT rifle. Which leaves us short a sharpshooter. Ah take it that'n’s you?”   “I… yeah. I uh, guess so. My mother taught me how to shoot.”   “Yeah, she's solid, ‘Bloom. They used to hunt Everfree, last I heard.” Scootaloo chimed in, the former weathermare nodding as if to reaffirm her statement.   “Dang. No sights though?”   “Sights are stupid.” Wind grunted automatically, snapping up her rifle. “Too easy to see glint, especially off reflective surfaces.”   “Yeah? Who said that.”   “Stallion named Häyhä. They called him White Death.”   “Hay-ha?”   “Häyhä. Served during the 39-40 winter war. Five hundred and five reported kills.” Tempest shrugged, adjusting her reading spectacles.   “Ohhhh that dude. Shiiiiiite, poppet. I like… took a picture of him once.”   “Really, miss Hugger?”   “...Poppet, kiddo, Miss Hugger was my mom. But yeah, I was like… a journalist. For a while. Then I sorta got drafted. But yeah, I got like. All sorts of colts and fillies on film. S’cool.”   “Ayep. Anyhoo, settle on in, Private. Won’t be goin’ nowhere in a rush.”   “We won't, Sarge?”   “Ee-nope. ‘Least, not unless we go backwards. That ain't happened since we got back ta Alamein, though. Anyhows, might as well calm down for th’ evening. Ain't nothin’ happenin’ tanight.” --- Tempest was nudged awake late into the evening- about nine if her watch was to be believed.   “Up’n’attem, Private. We’re movin’.”   Tempest yawned, stretching in the dusty trench, the rest of the squad in various states of wakefulness. “We’re retreatin’ already?”   “Eenope. We’re movin’ forward. Get ready ta shoot, newbie.”   “Oh.” --- And that'd been that. Half an hour passed, and the squad had formed up into its Platoon, then it's Company, and so on and so forth.   As they formed up into their Universal carriers, whose steam engines chugged quietly into the late night, Captain Heart surveyed her company, making sure to take the rounds to each squad. Halting at Applebloom’s squad, she nodded, stiffly, standing perfectly straight, her uniform dusty and obviously worn. “I see you've picked up your replacement, Sergeant.”   “Yes’m, Captain, ma’rm. We’re good ta go… Any idea whut’s goin’ on?”   “Some. The Division is to advance on Jebel Kalakh’s right flank, covering for a main advance from seventh armoured, and the Prench on our left. That's all I know.”   “It's enoug’ ma’arm. Thank ya.”   “Godspeed, Sergeant. You're on point.” The Captain warned, as the two saluted, before the Captain moved on.   “Damn. We’re point again.” Scootaloo groused, jamming a cigarette in her mouth, before shrugging. “Guess it could be worse. Could be the Sappers.”   “Sappers?” Tempest inquired, sat across from Scootaloo.   “Engineers; minesweepers.”   “Ah.” Private Wind nodded, looking out over the desert. “Aye, can't say I envy them.”   Sweetie nodded herself, tuning the squad radio, whilst Keg made doubly sure to keep the Boys clear of dirt and other debris. “Me either. We’ll probably be covering them, though.”   “Seems like it, yep.” Applebloom sighed. “You all good then, Hugger?”   “Like, I’m always good, Sarge. Just locked and cocked and loaded to harsh someone real good.”   “Alrighty then. Jus’ don't f’get yer extra ammunition this time.”   “Yeah, yeaah, Sarge. We’re all good in the neighborhooood. I've got like…” the green earth pony mare paused, counting with her fingers. “Like fifteen magazines shoved in my pockets.”   “Sure it's not five again, Huggy?”   “Like, not cool, Keg Brah. Don't harsh my mellow, man.”   “Pipe it down, y’all; we’re moving forward.” --- Artillery flared across the desert night echoing thunder following shortly behind, as the infantry carriers and crusader tanks left their lines, rumbling across the desert dunes. The Universal carriers chugged, pale smoke churning into the air and disappearing into the night sky, as the small squat troop carrier Tempest sat in jostled the squad, the bumpy ride rather uncomfortable but quick, which mattered on this Zebrican evening, where speed was key.   The drive continued for a short sprint across the dune sea, before the column began taking Griffon gunfire, and Tree Hugger began tapping out staccato replies with the light machine gun, a far cry from the crank guns of the last war. That particular change had been for the better, probably.   “Alrigh’, squad dismount, w’ got some work ta do! Wind, start pickin’ machine gunners, Scoots, help Hugger load until we get closer! Sweetie, on mah ass an’ stay there! Keg, save yer ammunition f’r cars an’ Panzers!” --- “General, Sir, first reports from the line coming in.” His aide de camp saluted, as the General nodded, sipping from his Brandy snifter, whilst he poured over a large map of the area of operations.   “Well, out with it, Lieutenant.” General- normally prince, but… desperate times and measures, and so on and so forth- Blueblood gestured, as his fingers thrummed across the map table, a frown present across his face.   “O-oh, right, uhm, sorry, General, I'm still new to all… this.”   “Quite alright, Lieutenant Glimmer. The report?”   Second Lieutenant Starlight Glimmer blinked, then nodded, clearing her throat. “Right. Thirty Corps is bogged down in the devil’s gardens, but holding and advancing slowly. No armour has broken through as of this report, thirty minutes ago.”   “And the Prench of thirteen Corps, down south?”   “Much the same, sir. Slow advance under heavy fire. Apparently they're being fought by the Folgore division.”   “I'm… sorry, Lieutenant, but who?” --- “Bitalians!” Scootaloo swore. “We’re fighting fucking Bitalians!”   “Hey Sarge, isn't your cuz’ Bitalian?”   “Shadapp, Sweetie! Gimme a fire mission on that gun nest at bearin’ one fifty!”   “Break, this is Bull Four, over! I need a concentrated barrage at azimuth three hundred, bearing one-five-zero! Three rounds HE!”   Tempest, off to the right, racked the bolt on her No. 4, re-settling behind her peep sight, finger brushing against the trigger, as she lined her foresight up with the staggered flashing of a Bitalian machine gun position, the outline of the pony behind the gun framed against the rear of the gun nest.   Slowly and methodically, Tempest eased into the trigger, the No. 4 kicking against her shoulder as the rifle’s bark joined the chorus of gunfire echoing across the desert, as she grimly noted that the gunner was no longer firing.   Tree Hugger, meanwhile, continued laying on the Bren, the light gun chattering brashly into the night, the same bemused smile from earlier plastered across her face, as her gun barrel swiveled almost lazily across the enemy line.   All of a sudden, a crack echoed out between gun bursts, along with the wet sound of a gunshot impacting flesh, and Tempest watched Hugger slump back, writhing and groaning, as the squad tucked deeper into the depression they’d taken position in.   “Dude, like, what the heck? I was settin’ such a nice pace, too.”   “Shite, where you hit, TH?” Keg grumbled, as Private Wind began scanning for the Bitalian sharpshooter, eyes straining against the dark, teeth lightly squeezing her tongue in concentration.   “Uh, like… in the chest somewhere.”   “Oh. Oh, fuck, okay, Scoots, I need the aid kit.”   “On it, Bug!”   Across the way, Tempest’s sights settled on a lump of something that definitely wasn't desert sand, and she squeezed the trigger again, nodding with satisfaction as a spray of some sort- probably blood, but she couldn't tell with the evening’s darkness- splashed out behind the mound, which slumped and didn't move further.   “Okay, shit, shit you're bleeding bad…”   “Rad.”   “No! Not rad you bloody addict! How the hells are you so damn calm with a focken’ hole in your chest?!”   “Shit, my good stallion, I dunno. Hey, and, like, eyes up here, dude.”   “I am trying to stop you from bleeding out and you're worried about your fuckin’ tits?!” ---   “Folgore; Bitalian paratroopers. Right, they may break more easily than Rommel’s griffons. I don't know, though. They're good troops too.” Blueblood mumbled, pacing back and forth across the field command post, fingers crossed behind his back, eyes not particularly focused on anything in particular.   “General, sir?”   “I'm thinking, Lieutenant.” Blueblood groused, biting his lower lip. “I want you to get me on the radio with the 4th Division as soon as possible, Glimmer.”   “Aye, General, right away.” --- “Alright, Sarge. Tree Hugger’s stable and lucid.” Keg frowned, Boys Rifle slung over his shoulder, as the squad sat around in the dune’s depression, relatively safe from rifle fire at the moment.   “Good ta here, Bug. Private Wind?”   “Yes’m sarge?”   “Ever been to Bitaly?”   Tempest blinked, caught wrong-footed. “Erm. No, Sarge. Why?”   “Cuz they've got hot mares.”   Scootaloo snorted. “Yeah, I’d drink to that.”   Tempest couldn't help but chuckle along with the others, as artillery softened up the Bitalian line.   “Man, ‘Bloom. Soon as we get back to Ponyville, I'm gonna call up that cute cousin of yours, Bab, and I’m gonna take her out for a drink or two.”   “U-huh, Scoots. An’ ah’m sure that's all ye’ll do wit’ mah cuz.”   “Well, I mean, if she’s offerin’.”   “Ahhh fuck off. Alrigh’, Sweetie, tell ‘em correct to one seven seven.”   “Yes’m, Sarge. Breaker, this is Bull four, over.” --- With morning came the desert heat, as Tempest wiped sweat away from her brow, her squad taking another momentary break from gunfire to stay hydrated, and eat some cold chow. They hadn't moved too far, really; the Bitalians still held their defensive line on the ridge, despite being battered by artillery, which was still shelling their line hourly.   Snorting, as Tree Hugger tossed her combat tee at her, Wind folded the offending piece of clothing, chucking it back at the still jolly Bren Gunner. “Oi, you better keep y’pants on, else you're liable to die nekkid.”   The Bren gunner shrugged, discarding her helmet, instead tying her dreadlocked mane back with a bandanna. “Can't take them off anyways dude; I don't got no panties on, they were, like, full of sand and stuff. Got itchy.”   “I did not need to know that, TH.” Keg grumped, cigarette shoved in his mouth, as he ran a hand across the back of his neck, wiping away sweat of his own. “Just keep your damn bra on, you absolute nutter.”   “Well, like, duh.”   Sighing and shaking her head, Tempest took the momentary lull to slide out a small journal and pen, and a pencil, and started scribbling out a note. --- Mother,   It's me, Tempest. I've arrived in Northern Zebrica, finally, and begun settling in with my squad. I can't tell you where I am, right now, aside from such broad strokes, but, I am in combat; that much I've been told I am able to say.   Please pray for both me and my unit.                               Tempest