//------------------------------// // Ashes // Story: All Quiet on the Equestrian Front // by Tempest Wind //------------------------------// We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender. -- Five Ashes The mare wheezed as she sat up, followed by several hacks and coughs, trying to expunge the dirt from her throat that had congealed there. “Easy, Sarge, we just dug you free,” came the familiar voice of Corporal Hooves, as she felt a hoof brushing something- dirt probably- off her left shoulder, as the Sergeant herself rubbed her eyes with her forehooves. “Take a minute to sit back and get your bearings.” “Shit.” Sergeant Major Cheerilee, Vanhoover Garrison, whispered, as she blinked rapidly, taking stock of the well-ruined fortress. “Shit, I…” The middle aged mare paused, as she took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Help me up.” “Yes’m Sarge. Up you come.” Letting the pegasus mare help her to her hooves, Cheerilee took the momentary pause to check her own state of being- uniform ripped and torn, maybe from shrapnel, and there was definitely something wrong with her left forehoof, judging by the lack of weight she could stand placing on it. A tendon, maybe, torn or shredded from artillery.” “Thank you, Corporal. What's the situation?” Cheerilee questioned, gruffly, as she turned to face her fellow Ponyvillian. Ditzy seemed in no better shape, one wing clearly torn and bent at wrong angles. If the wrong bones had snapped, she may not fly again, though Cheerilee wasn't a doctor, and had no way to tell for sure. “Fucked, Sarge. Captain’s dead, as is the first and both second lieutenants. Officer’s mess took a direct shell hit. I uh.. I think you're the highest rank here still coherent. Gunny Brook’s… out of sorts.” “Out of sorts?” “He's gone off the deep end, Cheers. Won't come out of the ammunition room. Just… sittin’ there, on an ammo box.” Ditzy shuddered, tucking both her wings back inside her uniform. “R..right. H’kay. Who’s… who’s still alive?” Cheerilee began, gazing about at the ruined fortress again, this time looking for survivors. “Haven't gotten an exact count yet, Sarge. We’ve mostly been digging ponies outta holes. Doc Heart’s treating those she can. Making those she can't, comfy.” “I… ok. Let's start there, then. I need to see her anyways. Left forehoof has shrapnel or something I think.” Cheerilee gestured to the hoof with her muzzle, to which Ditzy nodded, and the two began walking over to the impromptu medical tent, where a single pony with a type K rifle grasped in his hooves was standing guard, looking rather shell-shocked himself. He hardly noticed as the two ponies walked inside. Inside the medical tent smelt of blood and death so repugnant that Cheerilee nearly stopped dead in her tracks as she walked in the large, hastily raised tent, Ditzy’s urging the only thing pushing her forward. Injured and dying ponies on makeshift stretchers took up nearly the entirety of the tent, save the ramshackle operating table in the middle, with the Company’s Triage Nurse, “Doc” Red Heart leaning over- and midway through amputating the leg of- a wounded earth pony. A pile of discarded morphine syringe on a bloody tray next to her operating area told Cheerilee that this was not a good day to be an Equestrian soldier, doubly so not one wounded in action. Red Heart spared the two a glance as they entered, then nodded to Cheerilee, before going back to her work. “Sarge.” Cheerilee returned the nod, whether she was paying any attention or not. “Doc Heart. When you've got a moment, I need a check on my leg. Shrapnel I think. Not life threatening.” “Right. Not life threatening, wait outside. I'll get to you when I can spare the time.” “Yes ma’am, Doc. I'll be right outside.” --- Cheerilee winced, as Red Heart roughly raised her hoof to eye level, her clearly exhausted gaze still sharp like a hawk- necessary for her line of work, no matter how much or little sleep she'd gotten the night before. “Right. Definitely signs of shrapnel gouging and shock trauma, here. Not much I can do for the shock, except a half dose morphine to keep the pain down- and you still coherent- and I can dig the shrapnel out. It'll sting like a bitch, but it's better to get it out and wrapped than let it fester and get infected.” “Let's get it done then, doc. Got any anesthetics besides morphine?” “I've got a belt, Sergeant. Open wide.” --- Cheerilee sat in the open field, idly rubbing her now wrapped forehoof. The leg still sent up radiating stabs of pain if she leaned too heavily on it, as she'd expected, but it was, at least, no longer at risk of infection, nor was it an open, festering wound. That'd just have to be good enough for now. More important were the ponies assembled in front of her. Originally, her Company had been privy to a hundred and thirty some-odd fighting ponies, along with their support units and whatnot. Thirteen had been flat out killed by artillery fire, another twenty were not expected to survive the night, and about ten were in no shape to go anywhere or do anything. She'd already spoken to Said ten. They’d remain behind, and see if they could recover amidst the fort ruins for as long as there were food and water supplies. After that, they didn't know. “Alright.” She began, as the ninety-two remaining ponies- a mixture of luckily unharmed and walking wounded- listened intently, in mixed stages of readiness and fitness. “We’ve been attacked. Probably by the Changelings. That was…. several hours ago. I don't know for certain how long. Maybe a day. Point being that we are not the front line. Nor anywhere near the front line.” The Noncommissioned officer paused, licking her dry lips. “So we’ve got four choices, basically. One, we find the nearest Changeling rear guard unit, assuming they even have one, and surrender.” Cheerilee waited to let the thought sink in, before continuing. “I won't be doing that. Fuck Changelings, fuck being a prisoner of war. They attacked us without warning, and I'm pissed as all Tartarus.” After waiting a minute for a response, and getting none, she continued. “Secondly we stay here, and hold out until the Equestrian army retakes Vanhoover. Then we.. link back up with them I guess. But I won't be doing that. I have no idea how long it'll take for Equestria to get back here. By that time for all I know we’ll have starved to death.” She paused again, throat suddenly rather dry. “So I won't be doing that. Thirdly… we take to the hills and mountains, and fight a Guerilla war. And that's tempting. Gods that's tempting. But I won't be doing that, either.” She paused again, gauging the crowd. They were exhausted, battered… some still shell shocked. Possibly permanently so. But she owed it to tell them what her plans were anyways. They'd been through enough that they deserved the chance to disagree and say no. “I plan on marching through the mountains, as long as I have to, until I hit Equestrian lines. After that.. I'll regroup with the army and.. go from there. You're welcome to join me, or not, at your leisure. There's no guarantee I'll make it, or anyone else. And I won't force anyone to join me. I’ll be heading out tonight, after I gather up what I can carry with me.” Having said her piece, the mare sat back on her haunches, and waited to see what the general response would be to her plans. The ponies to her front- the battered, worn survivors, who’d been forgotten by the changelings- looked quietly amongst themselves. For a minute or so, dead silence reigned in the fortress. Ditzy spat on the ground, to her own front, and snagged up a type K rifle, before slinging it over one shoulder. “What the hell, Sarge. Let’s go hiking.” The mare practically growled, reseating her helmet. “I’m not stayin’ here on my ass for a year plus.” The pegasus trotted her way over to Cheerilee’s side. After a few seconds, a couple more followed. After that, Red Heart followed, bringing her medical kit- or whatever remained of it- with her. For the better part of a few minutes, most of the ponies moved over to Cheerilee’s side. Private Steel Edge met Cheerilee’s gaze, with a nod, as he looked to the four or so other ponies that had elected to stay behind. With a grim, but determined nod, he gave Cheerilee one last salute. “We’ll keep the wounded safe, ma’am. After that, we’ll bugger off to the foothills… Just… Don’t forget us, ma’am.” Cheerilee nodded, just as grimly, if not as determinedly. “Stay safe, Edge. I’ll find you, if it takes two months, or two years. Godspeed.” Steel chuckled, dryly. “You’ll need it more than we will, ma’am. Let’s get you supplied and ready to go.” --- The Eighty-so odd ponies that left Fort Vanhoover spared one last glance at the ruined fort, from the nearby foothills. “Almost looks peaceful from here.” Ditzy muttered, using her good wing to retrieve a cigarette from her overcoat. Lighting it with the same wing, the mare placed her cigarette in her mouth, before re-pocketing her lighter. “Yeah, it Almost does, I suppose. Artillery holes and tank treads sorta ruin that.” Cheerilee replied, bringing forth a snort from the Corporal. “Pft, yeah. Guess we gotta keep moving… You uh.. You think Edge and them'll be okay?” He’d have made a good Corporal. Cheerilee looked over the now decaying fort for another long moment, then turned about and took the cigarette from Ditzy’s mouth, taking a quick drag on it before replacing it in the mailmare’s mouth. “Let’s get moving, Ditzy. I’ve… Got a company of lead.” “Lead to where, Cheers? No telling where our ponies are, now.” “Wherever the goddamn they happen to be. If we have to march to fucking Tartarus, we’ll march to Tartarus, and I’ll sing Minstrel Colt the whole goddamned march. We’ll march until we can’t march anymore. Whatever that ends up meaning.” Ditzy waited for a moment or two, as the Sergeant began making her way to the front of the marching column, taking a long drag on her cigarette. She took one last look back at the fort, shrugged her shoulders, and got to moving, flicking the cigarette away into the bushes, after stamping it out. “Off to hell we go, then. Singin’ and cheerin’ like proper damn soldiers.”