Champagne
Evenings found herself staring at the roof of the company medical tent, as Fluttershy and another triage nurse tended to her wounds in better detail, the army surgeon off amputating a pony’s leg, that had been unfortunate enough to trod on a mine. Her Mannlicher 1903 lay next to her, half disassembled, as she'd been maintaining it when the pair of combat medics had come to check in on her.
As they weren't currently on the front line, Autumn, Berry, and Applejack were sat on an empty cot next to her, as she frowned.
“So you really want to hear about Champagne so badly you sought me out in a medical tent?”
“Figgur’d it’d be… ah dunno. Cathartic? T’ talk about it. Was f’r me an’ Autumn, back when we were at Verdun.”
Serene blinked, glancing over. “You served at Verdun?”
“For a time. Long enough, time.”
Grunting in agreement, Serene relaxed slightly, as Fluttershy asked the nurse to help her refill the blood drip. “Yeah. I know that feeling.” She paused, frowning. “Anyone got a cigarette?”
“Yeah, I-” Autumn paused, looking to Fluttershy, who nodded that it was okay. “I got a pack of strikes.”
A cigarette and lighter later, the Sergeant was quietly thinking, whilst she took long, methodical drags on her cigarette.
“Champagne.”
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The second battle of Champagne. I… wasn't there for the first battle, for obvious reasons.
Second Champagne. My first battle as a non-commissioned officer of the Equestrian Expeditionary Force. Before Champagne, I'd served as an enlisted soldier, same as anyone else, at Ypres. After Ypres, I made Squad Sergeant off the basis that I was the most experienced soldier in the squad.
By the time my company arrived at Champagne, however, the Equestrian and Prench offensive had begun winding down- we were part of a holding force whilst that section of front pulled off to re-arm and refit.
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“Incoming!”
“Take fuckin’ cover!”
And other, similar cries went out along the trench line, as Sergeant Serene Evenings leapt into a crank gun dugout, immediately feeling about the muck for her lost Enfield pattern Rifle, which she snagged after a second or so, curling up with the rifle held tightly, into as small a ball as she could force her body. Outside, all around and all along the line, Griffonic artillery fell like righteous fury from the heavens.
The world itself was artillery fire. Steel death from above cascaded across the lines, here and there kicking up the battered shreds of corpses along with torrents of muck and grime. For what seemed like eternity, Boche guns roared their hatred, as Serene curled up in the muck, praying vainly to whatever gods may be out there listening, hoping for her luck not to run out.
A shell burst outside the dugout, sending mud spraying into the dugout itself, coating all three EEF soldiers inside. That was the closest shell to come to Serene’s dugout, landing a mere few feet away, her only shelter being the wooden walls of the gun nest itself, that being thankfully enough.
Finally, after an agonizingly slow hour of shell after shell after gods forsaken shell, the Boche guns quit firing. Serene lay there, knuckles stuck tightly in a death grip, her breath ragged and harsh, as she waited for several tense seconds, her and her comrade’s breathing the only audible noises.
Then came the shrill calling of the whistles. High-pitched; carrying over no-pony’s land, and letting the Expeditionary Force know exactly what was coming next. Quietly and methodically, the Crank-gunners re-readied their .60 calibre Gatling model, one mare resting behind the crank and adjusting the targeting sights, no doubt thrown off by the bombardment, as the other leaned over the top loading magazine, double checking the ammunition seated within the feed.
With quiet resolve, Evenings drug herself back to her feet, shaking off a bit of the mud, though most still clung to her, and racked the bolt on her Enfield, satisfied with the audible racking noise itself. Slipping her way back out of the dugout, she crept her way back over to where her Platoon was gathered, her own squad- the base of fire squad- setting up its pair of crank guns in the in the middle of the platoon’s line.
“Here comes Boche!” Her Platoon lead began. “Let's get t’ work!”
And, sure enough, Boche came. Hundreds- perhaps a full brigade- of Griffons came rising out of the gloomy Prench afternoon, carrying an assortment of rifles, pistols, hand-cranks, and the most hated of enemy weapons: Flammenwerfers. The weapons didn't just kill- they burned, and scarred, and tortured.
The Equestrian gunners held their fire, tense around their guns, as the Equestrian infantry followed suit, waiting impatiently to see the predatory eyes behind the Griffonic infantry’s gas masks. Seconds passed into minutes, as the Griffons crept their way forward.
Then the gates of Tartarus were swung open, as one hapless Boche soldier tread on a mine, getting torn apart as a reward for his foolish treading. Crank guns roared, as their heavy rounds raked back and forth across the advancing griffons, who took cover in the mud and artillery shell holes wherever possible, occasionally hitting another Equestrian mine, which sent the occasional Boche flying backwards in a heap of flesh and torn uniform. For her part, Serene simply continued firing at any enemy in view, as quickly as she could rack the bolt on her mud-caked, yet still operable Enfield, as the rest of the company did much the same, controlled bursts from Crank Guns, as Enfields cracked and barked across the trench.
A round from somepony’s enfield glanced off a Flammenwerfer tank, causing the temperamental weapon to ignite, still attached to the hapless soldier wielding it, taking its user and itself in a beautiful fireball of death, as those nearby who were unlucky enough to catch fire dropped into the mud, whilst the EEF soldiers cheered at the enemy’s loss of the despised weapon. Straight to the gates of hell, with any Flammenwerfer’s wielder.
For a couple seconds, Serene paused to watch in morbid fascination, as the weapon’s operator, engulfed in flames, staggered forward a few steps, almost like a zombie, before falling flat on their face, as the flames consumed the operator fully. With a shake of her head, she focused away from the ashes, and returned her focus to the still advancing enemies.
And, not a moment too soon. A Griffon unit charged the trenchline, bayonets fixed, one in particular singling her out, a guttural screech riding from his throat as he ran through the mud, steel blade raised high above his head, ready to stab downwards into her skull. Firing her Enfield without a second thought, she side-stepped, as the round buried itself in the griffon’s chest, racking her rifle bolt methodically as the dead enemy flopped into the trench.
But, now the surviving enemies were in the trench, and she couldn't risk firing and hitting an ally. Turning her Enfield about, she swung the rifle in an overhead cleave, cracking the butt-stock and grip in half from the rest of the rifle, as a Griffon soldier dropped dead with a fractured skull. Snagging a nearby entrenching spade instead, as she dropped the abused Enfield that had served her well, she turned about to focus on another Boche riflegriff.
Swinging the spade about, she buried it into his neck, right beneath the edge of his gas mask, as his bayoneted rifle dug its way into her shoulder with a wince. Gritting her teeth, she tore the spade free of the griffon’s corpse, his blood splattering her nowhere near pristine combat uniform, as she moved past the corpse to the next enemy.
A third griffon met her gaze, holding a metal-forged blackjack, spinning the thin club about in his claws, his grizzled, veteran gaze hawkishly studying the mare in front of him. Closing the distance, she acted first, swinging the spade towards the griffon, who easily batted it away, burying it blade first in the side of the trench, as he followed through and slammed the blackjack into Serene’s chest, lifting her off her feet and knocking her back several feet, into the trench. Groping about frantically, and painfully aware of the burning in her chest area, she looked away for a split second, snagged a pistol of some sort out of a dead griffon’s hip holster, took aim, and emptied the magazine- apparently six or so shots- into the blackjack wielder, who slumped in the trench where he stood.
Staring at the dead griffon, Evenings took several ragged breaths, nearly deaf to the rage of the battle going on about her, as rifles cracked overhead, guns chattering as soldiers roared and screamed and cried, shattered and furious, all at once. Standing to her feet, her chest sucking for air, as she looked about, mud splattered and intermingled with blood, her upper torso feeling like a burning fire where she’d been struck with the billy club. Almost in a daze, she watched as the rest of the company drove the last dregs of the griffon attack out of the trenchline, hazarding a breath of air, wincing slightly; she must have broken something, she supposed.
The gunfire slackened off. Mostly the dead and the dying, of both sides, remained in the trenchline, here and there a pony of the EEF still clutching a rifle, and still very much alive.
The survivors met along the center of the line, several minutes later.
---
Wait, what happened during that time? Did you just sit down, or…?
I don't really know. Can't remember. Can I continue?
Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry.
---
The survivors met along the center of the line, several minutes later. There was perhaps a third of their original 100-odd company still combat capable.
“Who's in charge?” Sergeant Evenings croaked, as she held another Enfield rifle, snatched off a riflepony who didn't much need it anymore. The griffonic pistol she’d borrowed off its dead owner remained holstered in its own holster, now wrapped around her own hip, spare magazines in mud-caked chest pockets.
“I…” one soldier began; a corporal, by the chevrons. “I think you are. Ma’am.”
Evenings blinked, then looked about, taking in the survivors’ ranks. Corporals. Privates. The occasional Private First Class.
Sergeant Serene Evenings was now the most experienced and highest ranking soldier in the entire company; for what was left of it, anyways.
“Okay.” She paused, wincing as her chest wound prodded at her, again. “Okay. Gather… gather up weapons and ammunition. They'll… probably be back… Stallions, Mares… there's not many of us left. Allied lines are back that way. Griffon lines are in front of us. If you're leaving, I won't stop you. I'm going to stay.” And that was all she said. She'd never been that eloquent of a speaker, anyways. That was always Celestia’s forte.
But, she supposed it was enough. The shattered remnants of the company shrugged, and began preparing themselves for another attack. Rifles were gathered up and distributed along the line, making sure that every pony had a loaded rifle, of whatever make or model they could scrounge up. The crank guns were re-crewed, and re-positioned to different dugouts, so as to confuse the boche, should they barrage again before their next attack.
A small, ineffective barrage that fell far short of the trenchline came, a few hours into the wait, followed by the shrill shrieking of whistles again.
“Hold the line!” Came somepony’s cry, as the whistles halted, and the griffons took the field again, rising from their trenches once more. Serene nodded grimly to the loader of the crank gun she sat behind, as she took up the gunner’s position, being careful not to put any more pressure on her chest and shoulder than necessary.
Seconds passed.
Once more, the griffons entered no-pony’s land, toting their hand cranks and light crank-guns- probably MG-08/15 types. More worrying was the lack of the normal Griffon soft caps that most enemy infantry wore. No, there were no soft caps in sight. Just the gleaming steel spikes of Pickelhaube helmets of griffon storm troopers; elite trench-fighters.
The crank gunners wasted no time or energy opening fire, as Serene and the others in the unit began cranking their weapon handles, the loud and powerful weapons churning out cartridge after cartridge as fast as the lever would spin. The griffons marched in smart formation regardless of the rapid-fire guns, stepping over or around casualties, as they held their fire until they could guarantee enemy casualties.
Here and there, a griffon trod across a mine, blowing up themselves and occasionally a fellow soldier, but they unnervingly remained in their formations. The crank gunners continued to rake their guns across the front, shredding numerous shock troopers, yet they continued marching, until they finally closed to firing range, and took up cover and shooting positions wherever possible.
One enemy trooper, spotting Evening’s nest, primed a grenade. Her loader, spotting the enterprising grenadier, drew a service revolver of some sort, and snapped off two rounds, dropping the griffon with a live grenade, before quietly returning to the work of loading the heavy crank gun, pistol back in her holster. The explosive itself detonated a couple seconds later, sending mud and shrapnel flinging about the immediate area.
Slowly and steadily, however, the griffons continued to advance despite their heavy casualties. Here and there, an Equestrian fell, dead or dying, cutting sharply into the small amount of remaining Equestrian firepower. But, what the hell, no one lives forever, so the soldiers of the EEF stood firm regardless.
The eight barrels of the Heavy Gatling model crank-gun whistled as they spun about, snapping off Cartridge after cartridge.
Then the low rumbling sounded out in the gloomy early evening, as dusk fell. The griffons themselves had contented to shooting and harassing the few beleaguered ponies- now down to under twenty- and keeping their heads down in the trenchline.
For several tense seconds, the Equestrians strained to see what was causing the noise. Then, when they did spot the culprit, their hearts sank.
Two Land Battleships of the Griffonian Imperial Cavalry Corps. The two box-like vehicles rose out of the gloom, main guns in the front swinging towards the two heavy gun nests. Serene let off the crank, blinking, as she made eye contact with the loader.
The two shared a look, for what seemed like the longest second of her life.
Then, there was a roar, like that of a howitzer, and the gun nest exploded in a blaze of explosives and cooking off gun cartridges. Evenings found herself slumped against the back wall of the trench, coughing, as the smoke cleared, and she drug herself away from the destroyed gun nest, shakily feeling around herself, and finding some minor shrapnel cuts in her legs- nothing too dangerous having missed her arteries, but painful. More pressing was the fact that she couldn't see clearly out of her right eye, which was foggy and as blurry as the morning fog.
Griffon crank guns from the land ships cracked, as they tore apart the few shattered remnants of the defensive line, as others crawled their ways back towards the rear lines.
For a few moments, Serene was tempted to join them, but then, had a thought.
They couldn't just abandon the trench line, after all.
Coffee. She needed to find Coffee.
Reaching down for her holster, she shakily drew the pistol she’d earlier liberated, and readied the pistol, pausing momentarily to gaze at her blood-slicked left hand, not quite sure if that was her own blood or not.
Shaking off the queasy feeling rising once more in her stomach, she snuck down the trenchline, pausing at every little crack or noise, fearful of griffons moving into the trench, as the gloomy evening gave way to a gloomy, moonless night.
Finally, she stumbled upon Coffee, in a secluded corner of the front left gun dugout.
She gave the corpse a wistful gaze, as she knelt over Lieutenant Coffee, rooting through the harsh stallion’s belt pouches.
She'd never really liked Coffee. He'd been a hard-ass on all of them, almost like a drill instructor. But, harsh as he was and as much of an utter ass the stallion had been, he'd been a damn fine Lieutenant.
And, if the six griffon corpses at his feet, as he clutched an empty Webley revolver in his right hand -left fingers still curled about a fist full of six thirty-eight caliber rounds- were any indication, a damn good shot with a gun.
After a few tense seconds of searching his pockets, she sighed in relief, wincing at the harsh, sharp pain still permeating her upper chest, as she retrieved a cylindrical grenade from his pouches.
Specifically, a blue smoke grenade, helpfully marked with a large bold “B” near the handle.
B for blue, or, more importantly, “barrage”. Hazarding a peek out of the front of the gun dugout, Evenings pulled the pin on the grenade, slowly, squeezing the handle, as she pulled her arm back, heaving it towards the two idling land ships.
She immediately hit the dirt as a burst of crank gun fire flew her way, amidst angry griffon shouting, and she sprinted down the trenchline, rifle and hand-crank fire crackling around her head, as the mud and muck of the front line trench began to give way to the planking of the second line trench. Her chest burning, and black spots flashing across her left eye, the right still incredibly blurry, she tripped and fell, a few meters from the second line trench, as her legs finally gave way under her. Shouting-in Equestrian, thank the gods- rose up from the line, and a group of soldiers slid their way out of the trench over to her, two of them lifting her up between their shoulders, walking her back to the trench, as the other four guarded the three.
Evenings made it into the trench itself, with their help, and finally, after hours of fighting with several wounds, passed out due to blood loss.
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Sergeant Major Serene Evenings simply continued to field strip and maintain the Mannlicher 1903 pistol on the side of the medical cot she was resting on, discarded cigarette resting in a provided ashtray nearby, as Autumn Yearling and Applejack Apple sat nearby on an empty cot, whilst Fluttershy continued to check over her wounds from the recent skirmish near the base of the hill.
“Last count said that about twelve of us made it back to the second line trenches. The artillery I called in made short work of the Land Ships- one of the privates made sure to show me pictures of their corpses whilst I was recovering in the field hospital. Still can't see perfectly out of my right eye, but I see well enough to shoot straight. Still waiting for some corrective lenses to come in.”
She paused, looking over the Mannlicher once she'd finished putting each piece back in it’s proper position, and nodded, sliding the stolen enemy pistol into its holster, hanging on the frame of her bed.
“That's my story of Second Champagne.”
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“It was said, by the great ancient philosopher, Hayrodotus, that in times of war, fathers buried their sons. But, over the course of this bitter war, so many sons of Prance have died that barely any fathers remain to bury the few sons we have left.”
-Attributed to Capt. Fleur Dis Lee, future Prench Field Marshall, following the battle of Verdun, Prance, 1915.