//------------------------------// // What It's Like // Story: Memoirs of My War // by Antiquarian //------------------------------// Interview Excerpt: Captain Fluttershy, Sister of the Ordo Solaris - Chaplain’s Corps, former Medical Officer First Class, Equestrian Army So, um, you want me to take you through what the Battle of Seaddle was like? Well, if you really want to know about the battle, you should probably talk to Twilight or Rainbow Dash or Applejack or— Oh, you want to hear about what it was like as a medic? Um… okay. It’s not really… nice. I mean, well… of course it wasn’t nice. It was a war after all. But, well, what I mean to say is… are you sure you really want me to walk you through a day? Well, okay then. If you think that’d be best. *Inhale* Phew! Okay. … Tracers light up the night, the only illumination besides the fires and the explosions. The sky is black – no moon, no stars – only smoke. Stallions and mares crouch behind whatever makeshift rubble they can arrange into sandbags; sometimes they use the bodies of enemy soldiers. They’re firing as fast as they can chamber rounds, lots of them panicking. Not just the rookies either; veterans too. They’re just firing, thinking that if they stop, that’s when they die. But the enemy’s firing more; it’s like their bullets are trying to chew through the rubble just to get to us. I huddle in the ditch, shaking, clutching my medical bag. I try to stop the shaking, but I can’t. I don’t just think I’m going to die, I know it. Any minute now a bullet’s gonna rip through my throat and no one’s even gonna hear me scream because I’m gonna die choking on my own blood just like Sergeant Rod and— “MEDIC!” I’m moving! Leaping over the bodies of friendlies, some too scared to move, some who’ll never move again! But I’ve got to move, I’ve got to find— There! Shadow of the bombed-out nursery. Mare. Late teens/early twenties. GSW lower abdomen. Hooves open my medical bag as my wings shift her uniform to get a better look at the wound. Through-and-through, no sign that it clipped an artery. Apply field dressing and painkiller. Safer to move her than to leave her here. Grab her by the scruff and shift farther back in the line. I sit in the building that I dragged her into for a second. Or an hour. Who knows? I think she’s thanking me. But I can’t stop shaking. I can’t keep doing this, I can’t face— “MEDIC!” I’m up! There! On the line! Stallion. Barely. Maybe seventeen with a bad case of foal-face. What’s left of it. Round ripped off half the right side. His buddy holds him down while I stop the bleeding. He passes out from the pain before I get it done. Just as well. I gave the mare my last painkiller. I drag him from the line and wipe some of his blood from my face. He’ll live. Probably. Sit down for a minute to catch my breath and— “MEDIC!” Stallion. Veteran sergeant. Thirties. Artillery. Shrapnel’s lodged by his heart. Can’t pull it out. That’d only kill him faster. He’s asking me if he’s going to die. I lie and tell him no. Then I give him a sugar pill and tell him it’s for the pain. I can see by the look in his eyes that he believes me as he slips away. I pray he’s in a better place— “Incoming!” BOOM! THE SHELL HITS RIGHT ON TOP OF US— Oh, my, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to knock over your drink. Are you okay? I can stop now, if… oh, you’re good? Well, okay then. *Inhale* Phew! The shell shreds the storefront where the forward machinegunners had set up. We hadn’t been able to pull them out when the Equalists started pushing us back. Ten yards of rubble and corpses between the line and the building; a couple wrecked vehicles and some craters are the only cover. It doesn’t look like there are any survivors in there. But there are. I can feel it. Somehow, the moan reaches me across the battlefield. Through the gunfire, through the screams, through the carnage, I can hear him. I can hear the pony who needs me. “Covering fire!” Flying in a killbox like this is risky, but I have to get there fast. I twist and turn like Rainbow Dash taught me, bolting in an uneven aerial sprint for the machinegun nest. I feel the heat of tracers whizz past, but I don’t stop. I hit the ground full speed and slide through the rubble, bullets kicking off the rock scree around me. I roll with the landing and come to rest a couple yards away from the stallion. Our eyes lock. He’s scared. Oh, Celestia, he’s scared. “It’s gonna be alright,” I tell him. “I’m coming to get you. I’m gonna get you home.” The only cover is the shallow pile of rubble we’re pressed against. I can’t rise from a crawl without getting my head blown off. So I crawl over to him. We lie muzzle to muzzle as I start to work on him. He’s pleading with me, telling me how scared he is. Maybe it’s with words, maybe it’s his eyes. I hear him either way. As much as I can, I make eye contact. “You’re gonna be okay,” I promise. “I’m gonna get you home.” With my hooves and wings I start patching up his many wounds. It’s a miracle he survived the shell. He’s riddled with shrapnel. His chest plate saved his life, but I can’t remove it to fix the damage underneath; it might be all that’s holding him together. I’ve stabilized him, but he won’t survive long if he stays here. I roll so that my back is to him and hook my legs through his gear so that I’m wearing him like a backpack. Can’t fly back; wouldn’t be fast enough and they’d gun us down. So I’ll have to crawl. “Medic up! Covering fire!” Then I crawl. I hug the ground like a worm, willing myself to sink deeper into the earth. In order to keep to cover I have to swing closer to the enemy line than I would like, but I don’t have a choice. Down into every crater, past every wreck, behind every body. The gravel and debris dig into my underbelly; I feel shards of glass tear into my flesh. But I can’t stop. Not until he’s safe. The body of a mare blocks my path. What’s left of her anyway. I try not to look into her eyes as I belly crawl through her blood. I can’t stop to think about that. I can’t look at her. Can’t see her eyes. Can’t think about how afraid I am. Can’t think about his odds of survival. I just have to keep crawling and crawling. One hoof in front of the other. Inch by inch. Almost there. Almost there. Wait, what? Why is his weight being lifted— Oh. We made it. They’re trying to get him loose. I fumble with the straps so they can rush him to the stretcher-bearers. I sag against a convenient wall. Somepony offers me a canteen and I drink. I’m not sure I can do much else. I don’t think I can feel my wings. I can barely move. “MEDIC!” Let me up! Let me out there! I’ve gotta help! Somepony needs me, I— wha? Another medic is already treating him? Oh. Okay. Well, I guess I can rest. For a while. … So… um… … *ahem* … … that’s what the Battle of Seaddle was like.