EaW: From Front to Front - The Great War

by Warpony72


On the Edge pt 2: Hero

July 11, 1011
0114 hours
Fort Ord Royal Army Base, Mariposa
33rd Air Reserve Wing

Past midnight on a Royal Army post normally meant silence.  Gear and vehicles shut away and personnel resting their heads for the night, MPs and patrol sentries out on duty at gates and doors, attempting to stay awake.  But tonight, like across the northern Equestrian border, Fort Ord was lit, alert and ready. Ponies constantly rushed back and forth between barracks and offices, delivering reports and showing up to late night duties.  Planes touched down on the runway, parked just long enough for a refuel, a maintenance check and swap of pilots. Fort Ord alone played host to five-hundred Spitfire fighters, with dozens of bombing craft and several assorted ground attack wings.  But it was only one of two air bases in the north, with the other in Vanhoover serving an even smaller air host. Princess Luna’s preparations had given them a fighting chance, and little else. Their odds were still grim at best.

She sat at one of the picnic tables in one of the grassy break areas, quietly watching the runway and airfield.  From here, she could just spot her craft, #83. Where before during the Crystal War, a Blenheim had looked big and fearsome, after watching what was filling the sky to the northwest it looked clunky and fragile, not at all fierce like a warfighting machine.  Not like the aerial apex predators the Changelings flew, the Silver Slayers as some of the pilots who had witnessed their astounding speed and maneuverability had dubbed them. If the Changeling craft were like sharks, the Equestrian aircraft seemed more like whales.  The metaphor was chilling.

Beside her, Static leaned over, nudging her navigator/bombardier.

“Hey.  Snap out of it.”

Paige blinked, looking back to Static as the latter used her magic to pluck the smoldering cigarette from her lips, blowing out a cloud into the air.  The two had been passing the smoke back and forth the past hour, trying to figure out how to relax enough to finally go to sleep. They couldn’t. Recon flights were buzzing overhead on a regular basis, and the constant rumble of tanks and trucks overlapping the plane engines meant there was no way to pretend that the possibility of the war they knew was coming was remote.  Because, at best, it was inevitable. On one hoof, it might take some time to arrive, allowing the Royal Army the time it needed to actually fully mobilize and organize. On the other, the level of activity suggested it was imminent, within the next few nights for sure. Not many were getting the level of rest they needed until they collapsed from exhaustion

Paige didn’t reply at first, just extending a wing and carefully taking the smoke back from Static, wedged between feathers as she pulled it back, taking a drag of her own, the red coal tip flaring in the night.

“When the hell did it all get so bucked up?” she finally asked, looking off at a squad of infantry troopers hustling by, rifles slung over a shoulder as they trotted in formation.  “A year ago, our biggest worry was making rent.”

“Technically, it still is,” Static quipped, magically stealing the cigarette back as Paige blew out a cloud of smoke.  “We just put it on hold until we get back.”

“I had my studies,” Paige continued, ignoring her sarcastic crewmare.  “You had the radio. Things were getting better.”

“C’mon, we all saw this coming,” Static pointed out.  “When the Changelings took Olenia and nopony did anything about it, the invitations were sent.  Even Cyril could see what was happening, and he’s halfway round the world.”

Paige simply sighed, opting not to retake the smoke when Static levitated it in her direction.  “I guess you’re right. Wonder if they would have come after us if Equestria had been better prepared.”

“Oh yeah, they would have,” Static replied, and Paige frowned over at the red unicorn.  “You weren’t here when they invaded the first time. Got real close to taking Canterlot and everything too.  If it weren’t for the Elements, this war wouldn’t be a question. The invasion would have happened, and we would have been even more bucked than we are now.”

It was quiet between them at that point, watching the planes on the tarmac preparing for night patrol.  Some of the bombers were being attended to by crewponies, doing maintenance while the flying crews slept so they could be ready to go at a moment’s notice.  Occasionally, a pair of MPs could be seen on patrol, watching for suspicious activity. Changelings were shapeshifters after all. Though, in all honesty, another reason they were watching the planes so closely was that a lot of the groundcrew were thestrals, batponies who had been allowed into more technical jobs than just combat arms with Luna’s reforms.  The first batch of actual batpony pilots were still in training, but for now the Royal Air Force was happy to use thestrals’ natural inclination for night schedules to cover maintenance shifts for the other ponies that were much happier during the day. And yet, despite the new tolerance laws and regulations paving the way for thestrals to come back to society, old barriers still remained.  Silent and unspoken, but it was hard to kill an idea, and this one would be thrashing in its death throes for some time to come.

“How’s Cyril?” Static suddenly asked, grinding out the cigarette and tossing the butt towards the trashcan nearby.

Paige blinked, surprised.  While Static wasn’t quite uncaring, it wasn’t in her nature to ask about affairs across the sea.  For the most part, Paige told it to her best friend at will, and had to judge when it was time to shut the spout to stop the flood of words.  Static mostly asked about things like rent money, her job, information on politics or what the Empire was doing that contrasted Equestrian stories.  Never about Cyril, or her parents or brother (though last she’d heard, Brook had skipped down to Macawia to slip away from the inevitable fight between the Empire and Asterion over the Friestaat).  So, this was a new mood for the red unicorn.

“He’s...well as he can be.  Last I heard, the Empire was absorbing Prywhen.”

“By conquest?”

“Actually, from what he sent me, it looks like the griffs are giving up.  The famine’s hit hard, and the communists haven’t fixed much more than the old kingdom did.  I think they just want someone that isn’t going to buck things up even more.”

Static chuckled, shaking her head.  “Funny. That used to be anygriff -but- the Empire.”

“Cyril’s just happy he doesn’t have to shoot as many griffs,” Paige replied, smiling back.  “He’d rather take on a surrendering enemy. I think he’s still haunted by the Herzland War.”

“From what you told me and what I read up on, that’s understandable.”

Silence again, as the two mares stared out into the darkness, their eyes no longer truly focused and instead following the crews more out of habit than actually watching their activity.  Finally, Paige once more broke the silence.

“What are we going to do, Static?”

Sweet Static didn’t respond at first, watching the activity in front of them with an equally blank face.  For a moment, Paige wasn’t certain she’d heard her, but then Static sighed, shifting on the bench as if she’d come to a conclusion.  She turned to Paige, fishing the aviators out of her jacket and perching them on her forehead, just under her horn.

“Same thing we did in the Crystal War, I suppose.  Fly, and fly, and fly again. And survive. No different here.”

“Except the enemy has decent aircraft this time.”

Static laughed, but it held no mirth to it.  “Better aircraft. We’ll have to be the better fliers.”

They let that impossible statement hang between them for another twenty minutes, watching nothing happening at all while waiting for possibly the largest war the world had ever seen, before they finally left to get what sleep they could.  Static headed towards the barracks. Paige made her way to the ready strip.

Paige had made it her habit to walk by No. 83 every night before bed. With a smaller crew than her old bomber, there was more for each pony to do, so keeping aware of what was happening was important. Plus, with the current crisis the ground crew were busy with dozens of other planes. She wanted to make sure for herself that 83 was ready to fly when they needed her. This routine was calming, assuring, and helped with some regularity in the current time.  Paige saw no reason to stop. 

But tonight, as she reached 83’s spot, she saw something a bit odd.  While she was more than used to seeing ground crew and officers inspecting and crawling over her plane, they’d already gone through maintenance checks to be on ready standby.  There shouldn’t be anypony near her. And yet, there was. A dark green Earth pony MP, white stripes on his sleeves clear in the dark, was peering under the wing, looking for something.  By all rights, she shouldn’t interfere, but this was her plane, and MPs were supposed to work in pairs. Where was this sergeant’s partner?

Suspicious, she moved closer.  “Evening, Sergeant,” she called out, her accented Equestrian distinct.  The MP started, whipping his head around in shock. “Something I can help you with on my bird?”

The pony checked the rank patch on her sleeve, squinting at her own sergeant’s stripes, a recent promotion upon her being activated.  Apparently, to her surprise, her time in service had actually meant she was a promotion candidate, and her experience had given her a hasty leg up.  In peacetime, there was normally a much more extensive process for NCO selection.

“Apologies, Sarge,” he replied, eyeing her up.  “We got word the bugs might be trying to sabotage some of the planes.  Last minute inspections up and down the tarmac.”

That...was actually a good point.  If the Changelings were about to try a first strike, they’d of course sabotage Equestria’s aerial readiness first.  Assured air dominance would let them wreak havoc on the ground.

“Where’s the rest of your crew?” the MP asked, looking past her down the runway, towards where the ground crew were preparing a small group of Spitfires for takeoff.

“Bed, I assume,” Paige replied.  “Which is where I’m headed. Just wanted to say goodnight to 83.”

The MP raised a brow under his brimmed Bronie helmet, but merely shrugged in acceptance.

“Carry on, then.  Just make it quick.  You know the orders on wandering personnel after dark.”

“I could say the same to you, Sarge,” Paige quipped, to which the MP merely chuffed, turning back to her plane and leaning down to peer underneath the craft.  She grunted as she shifted the Thundersplash strapped over her back. With the panicked state the force was in here, everypony on base was required to carry their weapons at all times.  Static had been given a revolver, designed by some creature with fingers, while Paige herself had been handed the SMG, a Hippogriff designed firearm.

She moved closer, running a hoof over No. 83’s aluminum hide.  Untested in battle, aging a little ungracefully with her rough and weathered paint job.  All the training flights they’d been doing lately had taken a wear on her, and compared with parts maintenance, redoing the camo when it was still mostly intact had been rated a secondary priority.  She sighed, taking a seat looking up at her plane, her mind everywhere else but here on the airfield. When had everything become so complicated and dire? A few years ago, she was a bright student on a scholarship to study her lifelong dream, a budding long-distance relationship with a cute soldier griff and a comfortable (if somewhat unstable) home to go back to when her schooling was up.  Now? Now she was a veteran combat pilot in an imminent war on the other side of the world against an enemy she knew next to nothing about, the one she loved was constantly out of reach and in danger around every bend and her home was, from the news stories, ripping apart at the seams. She had Cyril, of course, a small and sad smile coming to her muzzle at the thought. Her coltfriend’s next letter would make her feel better.  Though separated by an ocean and two continents, his words always made her remember their good times through the years. A shred of normalcy. Which she desperately needed. Her last letter had only just gone out. She’d have a whole month of waiting for his next message, and the news might still be bad.

Paige sighed, standing and saying her final goodbyes to the craft.  Old and battered it may be, but it was certainly faithful. Good, Paige thought.  They’d need that, if the worst came down. When it came down. The pegasus from across the world turned, finally ready to go lay down and get some needed rest.

The first plane exploded.

Paige’s head whipped around, short and curly mane bobbing around her head.  The craft had been a Wellington, parked on the bomber line and ready to taxi onto the runway in mere minutes.  It had been intended to be sent forward and bomb clusters of Changeling troops and armor, escorted by Spitfires and Blenheims.  In the regular Air Force, she was being replaced by the new Beaufort bombers. But now, she was little more than a pile of flames and scrap, burning brightly in the relative darkness of the airbase.  Paige held her breath as the alarms began ringing. A payload accident, maybe? Something gone wrong with the fuel?

But then another one, right next to it, exploded.  Another. And another. And then a Spitfire. It was as if a chain was being worked down, where aircraft were exploding in segments.

A dreadful realization crept into Paige’s mind.  A terrifying discovery that, upon making it, she both kicked herself for missing and suddenly knew she had to act on.  With little hesitation, she wheeled around, standing on her hind legs with wings flared as she brought the Thundersplash up, holding down the trigger.  The MP had been running, but not towards the explosion like other crewponies and MPs were doing. He’d been running -away-. The Thundersplash wasn’t designed for accuracy, and the recoil was strong when firing on full auto.  But at this range, with the Thundersplash’s legendary rate of fire, she landed half of the twenty round magazine on target. And .45 caliber rounds were designed to bring a creature down hard.

For a heart stopping moment, Paige was terrified she’d just made a terrible mistake.  That she’d merely shot a stallion who was panicking as hard as everypony else in the base was, and fleeing in the wrong direction out of simple fear.  Her paranoia had just led her to cut down a friendly. But then a sickening green flash engulfed the corpse as it hit the tarmac, and instead of an Equestrian Royal Army Military Police sergeant the figure turned into a black-hued, chitin-skinned soldier in an equally black uniform, splayed across the ground in a puddle of blood that wasn’t even red.  She galloped over to No. 83 as more explosions rang out, desperately peering under the craft. Sure enough, hidden in the landing prop, most likely hastily planted because of her arrival, was a trio of small, white tubes taped together and affixed with a mechanism. She didn’t need to see the front to know it was a clockwork timer. She could hear the ticking.  Immediately, she seized the bomb, needing only a second to find the button on its face to stop the timer. Simple and rugged. She breathed out a sigh of relief, only for another round of explosions to rock the airfield. More aircraft brewing up. More Changeling sabotage.

And then the gunfire started.

She heard a shout in the near distance over the alarms and the flames.  Then the chatter of the infamous “Arisian Typewriter”. More and more, and now pistol and rifle fire was added to the mix.  A battle had broken out for control of Fort Ord, and she couldn’t make hide or hair of where the combatants were. She trembled as she began fumbling for another magazine, unsure of what to do now but knowing she had to do something.

Abruptly, a weight slammed into her, and she flailed, certain she was being assaulted by another Changeling infiltrator.  But instead, the yellow visage of Lieutenant Solar Ace greeted her, impeccable dress jacket askew as if he’d been in the middle of taking it off.

“Where’s Static?” he shouted over the cacophony, that unflappable air he usually wore gone like it never existed.  Paige tried to focus, her eyes sliding from her pilot to the flames behind him as a fresh, new Lancaster blew spectacularly, consuming the nearby crewponies and the MPs battling Changelings for control of the site.  At this rate, the detonations would claim more ponies in the chaos than the fighting would. She blinked hard, shaking herself as she finally got her head straight.

“She was heading back to the barracks!  Not ten minutes ago!”

“And now I’m here!”

Both snapped their heads over as Static herself appeared around No. 83, her horn glowing as she levitated several bags and flight caps.  Belatedly, Paige realized that her ready bag was one of those few things Static had grabbed, likely from their barracks as soon as the first explosion rang out.  The unicorn only waited a second before tossing the gear out, Ace grabbing his flight cap out of the air and his ready bag, Paige doing the same a little less gracefully, her cap smacking her in the muzzle and her bag clumsily hitting her chest.

“Wait!  Sir, what about the others?”

“The airfield is lost!” Ace retorted, shoving his bag up to Static in the Blenheim and tugging his cap down over his ears.  “Even if they root out all the Changelings, we have to make sure the plane gets up! Living pilots and flying craft are critical!  The bug have -got- to be crossing the border right -now-!”

She felt her stomach turn.  Of course, Ace was right. They had to get as many planes as possible out of the hooves (or mandibles) of the saboteurs.  The Changelings would exploit this confusion to swarm over the border. The fighting was likely about to start any second now.  And one way or another, they needed to respond.

They were away in less than two minutes.  Ace pulled the nose up far too short, flying over the heads of an active firefight on the tarmac, framed by the flames.  Horned and sinister looking infiltrators fired their stolen weapons at desperate ponies in Bronie helmets, fighting over the dying remains of the airfield as craft flew by in a mad flight, many crashing into wreckage or being brought down by delayed bombs.  As they pulled away, they were joined by a hoof-ful of other craft that had escaped the chaos and slaughter. Paige hoped more would manage to escape, because what was in the air now was a pitiful fraction of Fort Ord’s total air wing. What few craft had taken off now angled as a group towards the west.  They’d have to land in Vanhoover, get orders, find out the situation. And then, off to war.

She looked up, at Cyril’s picture taped above her bombsight.  Carefully, she reached a hoof up, smoothing out a corner and reapplying the tape to the metal.  She wanted to say something meaningful, poetic. Their world had just changed, again. And in the most drastic way possible, bordering on shattering.  Under any other circumstance, from all her novels and study of various languages and technical manuals, she always had the proper word or term for a situation or definition.

Now, words failed her.  As she flew on towards war, and Ford Ord burned behind her, she simply stared at the picture of the griff she loved but might never see again.  

Not even tears ran down her face.


July 10, 1011
2054 hours
Near Temsoar, Acute Forest, South Prywhen
41st Panzergrenadiers, 8th Heergruppe

The fire crackled hungrily, orange flames reaching up to tear at the darkness.  Here in the forest, they had plenty of wood to harvest, dump into the pit they’d dug and lined with stones.  As long as somegriff manned the fire, they’d have light and warmth. The chittering of insects filled the air as the night settled on the camp clearing, the firelight stubbornly resisting the darkness.  The griffons sat around the fire quietly, chewing on hardtack and jerky, gulping water from their canteens and contraband liquor from small flasks. This clearing held three panzers drawn around the area, with trucks of soldiers beyond settling into their own campsites while the sentries on watch defended the kompanie with submachine guns and flashlights, on alert for the hardline GLA fighters they’d been hunting the past month.  And other things, of course. These ancient woods held worse than just griffon guerillas. The electric torches swept the treeline, the sentries quietly and nervously scanning. Manticores and hydras were known to frequent places like these, stalking for prey in the gloom. The darkness conjured up childhood stories which suddenly were both more terrifying and not quite so far fetched all of a sudden.

The campsites were full of Imperial soldiers relaxing, the panzergrenadiers settling in for quiet stories, card games, reading letters from home and doing little meaningless maintenance on kit, cleaning rifles and loading magazines for pistols.  But under this air of relaxation, a sense of tension remained. They’d expected fanatical resistance from the GLA. But it seemed that the moment a figure of competence like the Empire had shown up, with healthy, hearty soldiers demanding surrender, the starving griffons of Prywhen simply gave up the revolution in exchange for a hot meal and a clean place to sleep.  After the Herzland War, it was sobering. And, ultimately, unsatisfying for many who had gotten their blood and battle lust fired up. Now, instead of armies of communists throwing themselves at their panzers, they were searching for band of resistance fighters, stamping them out and grinding south. The campaign for Prywhen was over, everygriff knew that. And with the Host in a state of tribal civil war (again) and Gryphus signing the treaty to bring them back into the fold, Operation Tartarus was (for a rare exception) proving to be far simpler than expected.  Aside from, of course, taking care of these last holdouts. Sydia would fall soon too, and that was it. No more help from Stalliongrad or the Republican socialists in the far north.

The camping area was split in two.  While regular Reichsarmee troops clustered around their panzers and trucks, talking quietly as they wondered what insanity their officers had planned at the headquarters not far away, Vollstrecker stalking amongst the platoons watching for disobedience, the other half of the campsite was a large, central area.  A much larger bonfire was in the middle, with sleeping bags and tents lining the outside in a ring. No trucks or panzers on this side, however. These were the Reformisten soldiers and Black Knights dispatched to this area, and they were in much higher spirits. Unlike the more subdued, frustrated panzertruppen, the Knights and their soldiers were instead enjoying their own drinks and meals, excitedly sharing battle stories and looking forward to the next day.  Their spirits were high. To them, they were on the path to greater glory and the redemption of Hellsword. Their own Prince Erich had delivered a speech over the radio yesterday, urging Reformisten and Imperial soldiers to final victory in the east, not that Cyril would care. He was most likely a spoiled griffon noble much like his father. With Gryphus returned, Prywhen all but reconquered and the Host embroiled yet another civil war, it seemed all that was left was to push the minotaurs out of Cyanolisia.  And nogriff expected the Sovereign Republic to put up much fight.

This campsite was quiet, the soldiers just happy to keep to themselves for this rare moment of peace.  The past year has been nothing but war, preparing for the next fight and suspicion from on high. Now, with Operation Tartarus beginning to come to a close, they were looking forward to going home for actual rest, instead of waiting for a possible execution notice.  The armored platoon consisted of two Calico light tanks, speedy and quick, as well as their beefier sister, a Stahlschild medium tank with its larger gun and impressive armor, with a handful of ADGZ armored cars, heavy scout vehicles meant to find targets for the panzers.  The platoon crews didn’t quite interact with each other, that was down to the sergeants who were clustered to one side. But this squad, this crew, were intimately familiar after a year of service, through several vicious warzones.  

Eihol snoozed next to the fire, a half-empty bottle of schnapps clutched in one claw as he snored, the brim of his cap tipped low over his eyes and beak.  Next to him, Spotsley read a letter in her paws, eyes skimming over each line. She’d read this letter several times already, evident in the worn folds from taking it out and putting it away multiple times.  No one else nearby knew what it said, as she had been especially cagey about its contents. Sergeant Hellseig was off with the other panzer commanders now, discussing their next step with the leutnant and trying to figure out the mess they had gotten themselves into.  And Haul...Haul was somewhere doing whatever it was he did. He had a tendency to disappear for some periods of time before reappearing as if nothing had happened at all.

Vise Korporal Cyril Duskwing grunted, poking the fire with a stick, his mind elsewhere.  A claw came up, adjusting his service cap for the thousandth time. The lack of proper battle had given him plenty of time for reflection, something he hadn’t taken much time with during the Herzland War.  Now, though, he had too much of it. In truth, he was not really here. His mind was across the sea, in a land he had never visited but he knew quite a bit about. Paige’s letters had been bothering him of late.  Both in terms of what was happening for her and where she was. For all he knew, Equestria could be at war by the time her next letter arrived. Ten damned weeks to hear if she was okay, at minimum. It didn’t help that he was stuck out here, in this damned backwater away from the newspapers and the radio programs.  All they had out here was Der Reichswehr Rundfunk, and everygriff knew a good portion of that was propagandized nonsense. Just yesterday, the radio had announced that relations with Vedina had reopened, and negotiations were underway to reintroduce them to the Empire. The lack of details meant all the soldiers knew there was a hell of a lot more to the story than that.  The same with the report that Skyfall partisans had apparently attacked a Feathisian radio station yesterday. While that one he was a little less certain on, it made no sense for Federation militia to come over the border and attack an Imperial target.

But for all this, the lack of any news on Equestria, and now the word that the Riverlands were collapsing into complete chaos, meant he was isolated, uninformed and left to wait.  Letters from Paige’s parents had stopped due to the difficulty in both location and traffic. Now letters from Paige took forever to arrive as well. As isolated from her as the world could make him, it seemed.  He took a drag on his cigarette, his mind clouded and occupied.

“Fucking officers,” Sergeant Hellseig grunted as he abruptly took a seat next to Cyril, wings rustling in irritation as he settled.  “Same damn thing that we’ve been doing. Press on into the woods, secure the region and prepare for the next stage in the offensive. They don’t know what we’re doing, same as us on the ground.”

“I take it the meeting was a success then, Sergeant?” 

“Gah, no more than usual,” Hellseig agreed sardonically, tugging a pipe from out of his coat and lighting a match from the bonfire.  “This time, the Leutnant actually knew which direction we were going. I can only hope the Kapitan has the same idea.”

That was unfair to Leutnant Stonefeather and Kapitan Greybeak, who were both competent commanders and had proven themselves in combat just as much as the two enlisted veterans.  But it was common habit to blame the griffs in charge when something went wrong, especially when things weren’t making sense. Cyril merely grunted, stubbing out yet another cheap cigarette as he went back to staring at the fire, Paige’s last letter folded in his claw. She’d sent it to him back in May, and he had managed to get her a response in June. With the extended need to circle through army post offices, that was the going rate of letters. Sometimes, it was hard to remember what he’d written to her, it was so long ago.  He was grateful she wrote such extensive explanations to help him recall.

And a photo. He held that in the other claw, carefully examining it in the firelight. For a pony, she was beautiful, her curly mane and tail cropped for military service and her attitude, if tired, still said she was ready to take on the world. What he wouldn’t give for some of that boundless optimism and confidence she always had.  Actually, what he wouldn’t give for her.

“Got a response from Paige?” Hellseig asked, puffing on his pipe. Cyril shook his head, holding up the photo. He’d seen it, he knew the letter she’d sent it with was old. The veteran sergeant merely nodded in reply, puffing another cloud.  “Chin up, lad. She’s in the safer place. Long as you keep yourself in one piece, it’s only a matter of time.”

Cyril merely nodded again, looking at her picture one last time before tucking it and the letter into a jacket pocket, taking care to wrap the photo in the paper. It got hot in the daytime quite a lot, and he didn’t want to risk the picture getting warped by his sweat. The letter he’d receive more of.

“Sarge, can I ask a question?”

“Axle grease,” Hellseig shot back, to which Cyril frowned in confusion. “For the grey spots.”  From the smirk on his sergeant’s beak and the twinkle in his eye, Cyril could tell he was joking, and let out a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sigh of exasperation, thrown for a moment from his own pitiful reverie. Which, it seemed, was what Hellseig wanted. “Go on, lad.”

“I’ve never asked you but once...how do you do it, Sergeant? All these years?”  Now it was Hellseig’s turn to frown in confusion, and Cyril cleared his throat, trying to move past his own awkwardness. “Away from your family.”

“Ah,” the veteran responded, comprehension dawning. “The greatest of a soldier’s struggles after he’s avoided death; keeping his loved ones close.  It’s not easy. Many fail. Especially hard for young couples.” Here, he gave Cyril a meaningful look, to which the young gunner blanched and looked away. “Scheiße, lad.  I’m not telling you to give up on her. But sometimes reality takes the lead. And reality is, you haven’t seen her in, what? Four years?”

“About.  She gave me a call on New Years’.”

“My Adelaide lived in my hometown.  We grew up together. She said goodbye to me when I boarded the train for Krona.  And she’s been there every time I’ve gone back.”  

Hellseig’s face darkened as now he too looked down into the fire, his cap brim rugged low over his brow and casting the features behind his beak in shadow.

“Terrible things I’ve put her through.  Separation, loneliness, doubt, endless worry.  But the fact that I could come back at any time made it worth the struggle, for us both.”  He glanced up at Cyril again, his expression now one of pity. “You don’t have that. You’re halfway around the world from her.  All your interaction is boiled down to a claw full of letters and a phone call. She’s cheated on you. You’ve both nearly died, and the other would never know it.  Any other creatures would have moved on by now. Found somegriff closer.” He paused, studying Cyril’s now-stoic expression. “Except you, it seems.”

Hellseig sighed, tapping the loose pieces of out his pipe before taking another puff, considering the facts carefully.

“You’re outside my realm of expertise, lad.  I’ve had times where leave was cut short or canceled.  Sure. But...there was, at least, always the chance. The possibility.  I missed two of my kinder being born. More holidays, birthdays and anniversaries than I can count.  They’re all the reason I’m here, and I can’t be there for them.” He paused a moment, then chuckled abruptly.  “Though by Boreas, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I retired. -When-.”

They were quiet again, these two soldiers separated by at least a whole generation. Across the fire, Eihol still snoozed, while Spotsley was looking very determined to not be eavesdropping on their conversation, staring intently down at some novella from Strawberry.  Inside Sabine came a clatter, likely from Haul making adjustments to the shells’ timing heads, being the single-minded obsessive stallion he was.  The night air was otherwise quietly overlapped with the buzz of low conversation from the other fires, where the rest of the kompanie did the same thing this crew was doing.

Finally, Hellseig sighed, tapping his pipe again.

“Look, you love this formel?  This mare? I mean -really- love her?  Ready to pass over any easier, less troublesome alternative that pops up until you see her again?”

Cyril thought it over hard, eyes fixed on the fire, grey beak set firm as he considered the facts, trying to puzzle out some great formula in his head, about a female not of his own species, not of his nation or even on this continent that he might possibly not see for even years after, or possibly ever if the war he feared was coming actually came.  There was already a massive distance between them, and the fact that he had already felt a huge amount of doubt told him some part of his brain had accepted the likely reality that this relationship was going to go nowhere. Too many things kept happening to keep them apart. They’d spoken one time since that day in Rottendedam, and it had been for a few minutes at best.  What if they were both just fooling themselves? What if he was just being a massive idiot?

But it came to him in that second; of course they were idiots.  Neither of them went with the safe, simple option. For better or worse, they were both cursed to the struggle, the idea of suffering for what they wanted.  And that meant she’d be there for him when they finally met. And it would make it all worth it in the end.

He turned to Hellseig, nodding firmly.

“Yes.  I do.”

The sergeant quietly watched his subordinate, whom he’d mentored the past four years.  There was a fire burning in Cyril’s eyes, a passion Hellseig knew had been burned out of himself a long time ago.  Good. The kid would need that if he was going to survive the emotional hell he was putting himself through.

“Then keep it up.  Keep it alive. That’s all I can tell you, Duskwing.  It’s up to you after that. All I can do is show you the door to how it works.  Down to you to open it.”

A shriek split the air.

Cyril and Hellseig looked up, sharply.  They knew that sound, quite intimately in fact.  Spotsley snapped up straight, ears perking in alarm as Eihol fell off his seat, awake and sober instantly.

“INCOMI-”

The griff who started shouting the warning never had the chance to finish, as the artillery shell that fell on the camp detonated two trucks, a fireball brewing up and blasting a shockwave out around it in a cloud of black smoke.  Soldiers and knights were sent flying, some in tatters and others merely stunned, trying to shake off the impact of the concussive force that hit hard as a god’s fist. But then there followed another, and another, and another. The shelling rocked the camp, artillery bracketing the campfires and parked panzers.  Luckily, whoever had done the sighting seemed to have screwed up, for the second volley landed wide, splintering trees and pockmarking the ground.

“Get to the panzers!”

Crews scrambled.  Wings flared, claws clattered on steel, weapons were tossed and readied.  The screams of the wounded were almost drowned out as the next barrage rocked the camp, more on point the time.  More panzers and more soldiers died, trucks and ammunition brewing up. The shelling seemed determined to wipe the armor from existence first, the choice of someone with at least a mind for tactics.  The grenadiers and knights flew and ran to prepared defenses, dodging and weaving through the barrage as they went. But before they could reach the dugouts, a mighty bellow rang out from the treeline, half bestial and filled with primal rage before the empty space was abruptly filled with the crushing surge of a line of heavily muscled, khaki-clothed figures surging towards the Imperial line, horns down and weapons up.

“Minotaurs!”

The cry went up, and was repeated up and down the line.  Bayonets were hastily fixed, shotgunners looking for flying infantry clumsily reoriented, and Knights drew swords as the charge continued towards the defenses, ready to meet the bovine surge.  The few troopers actually on the line realized the direness of their situation, beginning to fall back under the press. Weapons which were chambered to kill griffons and ponies faltered against the lumbering mountains.  Minotaurs were huge and muscled, and even as lean as these soldiers were (evidence of a once deprived diet only just beginning to normalize with fertile fields back in their hands) they still towered over the largest Imperial soldier.  A barrage which would have normally decimated a griffon surge only took down the enemy piecemeal, and then they were among the panzers and trucks, bellowing and roaring, shouting and clubbing. The battle descended in an instant to a furious, close-range melee as talons and fists traded blows, shotguns boomed and pistols snapped, stocks used as makeshift clubs, swords and spades slicing in the darkness, fire at close range ending on bloody bayonet points.  In an instant, the Asterion charge had negated the Empire’s firepower advantage, bringing the fight to -their- field.

It happened slowly.  Not expecting the surge, and not equipped for it, panzergrenadiers began to fall back into the camp, firing as they ran, some flying to clear more ground.  Panzer crews, still attempting to start their engines, poked their heads out of their vehicles, only to be shot upon rising or dragged from their steeds to be carved to pieces.  One Stahlschild had a grenade shoved into its hatch, the boom reducing the crew inside to tatters or flesh and uniform.

And then, a boom and a shout.  A panzergrenadier fell, his head a mess as blood spurted from the mass of shredded flesh and feathers that was once his neck.  His fellows paused, hesitating. Over their heads, a Vollstrecker landed on a nearby panzer, shotgun in claw as she pointed it down at the retreating troopers, racking the slide and ejecting a spent shell.

“Pathetic!  Get back in and fight!  Show the enemy your backs and you will get no mercy!  Neither from the ‘taurs or from ME!” A minotaur pushed through the gap between two panzers, bellowing in fury as he clutched his rifle, charging towards the frozen grenadiers bayonet first.  For his trouble, another boom rang out, blowing away half his skull and dropping the Asterion like a lead weight, plowing into a campsite firepit. “There!” The Vollstrecker griff cried. “You see how it is done!  Now, follow me!” With that, she gave a single pump of her wings, landing on the far side and shouting the charge, leading the now frightened but recovered grenadiers to surge back in for the counterattack, their weapons chattering wildly.

In a strange turn, the Hellswordian troopers were holding better.  Their weapons, designed primarily after rifles meant for hunting monsters on the frontier, were taking chunks out of the larger, beefier taurian charge.  Though they were still forced to give ground in the face of such suicidal determination, they had not devolved to a route like their Imperial comrades. But the gap was still ever closing.  They would not be far behind.

Cyril stood behind Sabine’s turret, SMG held steady as he gunned down one invading minotaur, then another. The damned things took half a mag each to put down, though he was certain the frenzy of the battle may have contributed to that. It was a much different experience, fighting outside of Sabine, his soft skin and feathers feeling exposed and frighteningly vulnerable. The engine of the panzer coughed as Eihol worked frantically, trying to warm the engine’s glow plugs without flooding her diesel carburetors, Spotsley hollering abuse at the driver between her flurries of howling on the wireless for air or fire support.

“Duskwing!”

Cyril turned, in the middle of a reload, as a Minotaur clambered up onto the engine hatch, a broken rifle held in meaty hands as the bovine trooper closed in. Thinking fast, Cyril kicked upwards quickly, boot meeting groin and dropping the taur where he stood so Cyril could draw his sidearm, blowing his enemy’s head off.

“Thanks Sarge!” he hollered as Sabine rumbled, finally starting up.

“Get your tail inside!” Hellseig returned, feeding a new belt into the MG and chattering off a burst into the chaotic frenzy of violence around them.  “I need you on the gun!”

Another cluster of rounds smacked off the turret next to him, sending the young panzertruppen scurrying up in a hasty flurry of feathers and tan cloth, Hellseig moving aside and taking the weapon, firing a birst over Cyril’s head.  Inside, Sabine was almost as chaotic as outside, with Eihol, Spotsley and Haul all yelling at each other over the noise of the engine and the combat outside, arguing about some ridiculous thing he didn’t catch. Cyril merely clambered over to his seat, swapping his cap out for the leather hood and goggles, pressing an eye to the gunsight as one claw came up to his chest, feeling for the pocket for just a moment.

Then, it was action time.

“Duskwing, Spotsley!” Hellseig shouted over the intercom.  “Squirt that treeline! Buy our lads some time! Eihol, roll us up to cover the others!”

The coax and hull machineguns added their fire to that of the top mounted gun, while Sabine turned, her treads grinding through the muck, engine roaring in fury as she crushed a pair of tents, surprising a cluster of minotaur troopers on the other side.  Not having their own anti-tank weapons, the bulls fired with their rifles, only to get mowed down by the three machine guns as their rounds spanked off her armor plating. Nearby, her sister panzer Rosenknospe moved into accompanying formation, her 5 cm gun booming before a direct hit from the sporadic artillery ripped her apart in a fireball, spewing flaming shrapnel in all directions and adding further to the chaos.  Sabine’s own cannon boomed, a countering fireball blowing through the treeline and mulching a cluster of Asterion soldiers. Rallying at the sight of friendly armor, Imperial and Hellsword soldiers fell in on her flanks, renewing the advance and sweeping forwards.  They were finally back in the fight.

But all was not well.

“Team, listen up!” Hellseig called out as his MG chattered.  “I just got word that the Kapitan is dead. A sniper got him during the shelling.  And Leutnant Stonefeather is unresponsive. The medic thinks he took a shot in the spine.  It’s down to us now.”

“Sounds familiar!” Cyril shouted back, traversing right and letting another shot out, reducing more of the minotaur charge to tatters and splinters.  Response fire was intense, as the ‘taurs realigned their own MGs onto the rolling armored vehicle. The amount of bullets hitting Sabine was so thick, he almost couldn’t see his surroundings, and he feared the vision block might take a hit, rendering him blind.  With a clank, the next shell was levered into position, the breechblock slamming shut.

“Clear!” Haul shouted as he moved out of the way of the gun.

“Duskwing, enemy panzer moving through the treeline!”

Calling the lumbering hulk a panzer was stretching things quite a bit, as the boxy, rhomboid shape and slow speed told them all this was clearly an outdated and far inferior model.  It’s own stubby cannons poked out of either side, and Cyril didn’t even wait for the shell to be swapped to armor piercing, letting the 5 cm do its work. The HE shell, as it turned out, was more than sufficient to demolish the poor imitation, the enormous fireball of her petrol engine setting fire to the surrounding woods.

But more shapes were emerging now, and while some had the same outdated look as the first landship, there were profiles of far more modern panzers in amongst them.  Shapes Cyril instantly recognized.

“Wingbardy panzers!” he shouted, and Haul didn’t need to be told twice, immediately slamming an AP shell into the breach.  

“Clear!”

“On the way!”

Cyril didn’t even wait for the order, and Hellseig didn’t need to give it.  Cyril stamped on the trigger, the gun boomed and the shell tore through a Lend-Lease panzer.  Fortunately, they were lighter models, and the vehicle slewed to a halt, its turret aflame and its armor holed.  They were doing it. So long as they held here and matched whatever the minotaurs threw at them, they could act as an anchor for the rest of the armor to get on line and the infantry to dig in here.

But up top, Sergeant Hellseig had a different view of the field.

“General, we’ve stopped the charge for now.  I think the Asterions are about to break.”

”Sergeant, that’s not a factor anymore.  From what I’m hearing, ammunition is at critical levels.  Your trucks are destroyed and casualties are mounting. I need you to fall back from that grove before you’re overrun,” came the voice of Vollstreckergeneral Wolfheze, commander of Hellsword’s own Vollstrecker division.  With the Kapitan and Leutnant out of commission, the nearest command post in radio range was the Vollstrecker’s own down the hill. Normally removed from the chain of Reichsarmee command, these circumstances proved anything but normal.  ”Are you sure this is an armored offensive?”

Sabine’s gun boomed again, and Vise-Korporal Duskwing chalked up another panzer kill.

“That’s confirmed, General.  We’re seeing battalion to regimental numbers of attackers here.  We’re dealing with the infantry as best we can, but our panzers have sustained serious losses.  They caught us unawares.”

”Then Asterion somehow got a panzer division over the Creeper Mountains.  This war has gotten much more serious. I’ll need your panzers to regroup back here.  That’s an order Sergeant. I’ll get you what support I can, as soon as I can. Godspeed, Hellseig.  Wolfheze, out.”

Hellseig cursed as the radio to Feldkommando went silent, replaced instead by the chaotic chatter of the platoons here on the ground.  The battered kompanie was finally reforming, and until the enemy panzers had emerged it had certainly looked like they had the situation in claw.  Now, however, the ‘taurs had gone from on the verge of breaking to nearly suicidal once more, surging towards newly prepared positions, right into MG fire.  He added his own fire to the noise, considering the situation. Options were not great. While they were holding as best they could, if the General’s prediction was correct and an entire division was heading their way, they needed to form up with the rest of the 41st to respond effectively.  But at this rate, movement would be on the backs of panzers and by claw and wing. None of their trucks were getting out, and only a few armored cars remained. He fired another burst, cursing the gods, cursing the Empire, cursing the Reformisten and by Tartarus cursing the minotaurs for this surprise attack.

He was supposed to be home by now.

“Fuck it,” he hissed, gunning down another cluster of minotaurs.  One of them had been rushing towards a Calico with what looked like satchel charges.  A grim fact that only underlined Wolfheze’s words. “All platoon leaders! I need a tally and an orderly fallback by fire to the other side of the grove, to the north!  Gather the wounded as you can! Leave the dead and what equipment you can’t run with.”

”Duskwing!”

“I see it, hang on!  On the way!”

The 5 cm boomed again, and another Lend-Lease panzer slewed in the mud, having tried to sneak around a wrecked Asterion landship to get a shot on them.  Hellseig glanced down into the turret, watching his crew in action. Haul smacked another shell into position, coughing as the turret filled with acrid smoke, hollering out the clear as he closed the breech.  Duskwing had his eye pressed against the sight, now switched to the MG as he mowed down yet another charge, the high-caliber bullets tearing bulls to bloody chunks. Up front, Spotsley was spitting insults at the same rate her gun spat bullets, until it ran dry and she lit up a storm, fumbling for another belt in her fury.  Eihol twitched, watching his surroundings through the vision blocks, one claw on his shotgun, ready and waiting for another suicide charge.

They were a good crew.  Hellseig had been with the Panzerwaffen since its creation, and before that had led infantrygriffs.  This group was the best he’d ever worked with, coordinated and dedicated, skilled and experienced. Which made what he would ask them that much harder.  He closed his eyes, breathing out as he absorbed the reality of what he needed to do.

“Eihol, prepare to advance.”

There was a pause as the whole crew absorbed what their sergeant had just said, and honestly Hellseig didn’t blame them.  The order was an insane one, considering their position. Outnumbered and under constant assault, the idea of advancing into that storm was practically suicidal.

”Uh...a-are you sure, Sergeant?”

“As I can be, Korporal.  We need to buy time for the kompanie to fall back.  They’re never going to make it under this kind of pressure.”

“We’re with you, Sergeant!” Haul shouted back, saluting up from his loader’s seat, any trace of doubt erased from his face.  “We’ll all win Iron Crosses for this!”  

Hellseig had no doubt the stallion would go with whatever he had said.  Spotsley was quiet, for once, as if trying to consider the odds before she finally spoke.

“Okay.  Let’s do it.”

Duskwing looked up at him now, goggles pushed up to expose his eyes.  In that gaze, Hellseig saw doubt, a hint of betrayal, questioning and a bit of sadness.  But the Sergeant merely nodded, silently telling Cyril that this was the only way. The gunner paused before he nodded back, firmly, a new determination in his eyes as he pushed the goggles back down.

Eihol, meantime, was less certain.

“Sergeant, we’re gonna fucking die!”

“Not if we’re fast enough, Korporal,” Hellseig shot back, chattering off another burst.  An idea came to him. “C’mon, what are you afraid of? I’ll buy the beers when we get back.  All rounds on me!”

A pause.

Then, Eihol chuckled.  It was mostly out of shocked realization, an acceptance of fate, finally squaring up to embrace what was inevitable.  The chuckle turned into a laugh, which spread to Spotsley, who snorted into her radio before she too busted up. Then Duskwing, who just shook his head and smacked the gunsight, guffawing at the situation.  Haul was, predictably, the last one to join in, but he did indeed chuckle, more as if he was trying to figure out what was so funny here.

A bullet ricocheted off the turret, but Hellseig was beyond caring now.  Laughing as well, he fired back, then ordered “Advance then, Korporal. Für den Kaiser!”

“Voor de Keizer, Serjeant!” Eihol replied, gripping the levers and cranking them both forward.  Full frontal assault.

Sabine rolled off her position, down into the hell.  As the other panzers were falling back, supported by panzergrenadiers, knights and Hellsword regulars, the Stahlschild advanced into the storm, bullets and grenades ignored as she practically soared in.  Confused queries over the radio were ignored, in favor of the crew focusing on their task. Three MGs chattered, interspersed by the 5 cm claiming the occasional panzer. But the charge had left the minotaurs fumbling.  They hadn’t expected a counterattack, and even one as small as Sabine on her suicide run left them fumbling. They had no reliable anti-tank weapons, and with their own armor appearing incapable of stopping the oncoming panzer, the bulls finally halted, faltered, and finally began to break.  The retreat was slow at first, but picked up speed as Sabine advanced further, finally clearing the killing ground and parking herself right into their positions at the treeline itself. From here, they could see down the forested hill, as flares lit the ground head in a ghastly dull red. The estimated division was moving into position, spreading out across the valley below and preparing to move on the unprepared Imperial line.  With this assault regiment blunted, it would only be a matter of time.

“Panzer, 9 o clock!”

“I see it!  On the way!”

The gun boomed, another enemy panzer gone.  How many had they killed, just here in this one fight?  Seven? Eight? How many would the enemy send up at them?  How many did they have?

“Eihol, keep us moving!”

Reality came crashing back down as Hellseig ducked under a thrown grenade.  A minotaur, not twenty feet away, roared in defiance, firing his pistol up at the sergeant who, caught blindsided, drew his own and put four rounds into the minotaur’s head.  But the enemy were getting their bravery back, realizing there was but one panzer in their midst. The only way they could survive was to keep mobile, fire and maneuver and not get swarmed.  Eihol pulled Sabine back as the MGs chattered, retreating off the high ground back into the killing field. Their charge had become a mad struggle, suddenly surrounded and now the sole focus of attention.  The retaliatory fire seemed to quadruple, rapid fire rounds pockmarking the already cratered hull. The paint was nearly completely stripped away, the unit designation, camouflage and kill count on the hull little more than smudges now.  The gun boomed again. And again. Hellseig brought his MG around, chewing up another suicide bomber, the satchel charges detonating seconds after the soldier fell. Where once the odds were against them and they laughed, now death was certain the crew only got furious, cursing and yelling and spitting.  Smoke filled the panzer and Spotsley threw a fit as her MG overheated, the barrel glowing red hot. Haul opened the shot locker again, only to pause as he took stock of what they had left before silently hauling out another shell.

But Hellseig could count in the middle of the fight.  And he had been.

“Scheiße!”

A minotaur had landed on the tank, right over the driver’s hatch.  Hellseig tried to bring the MG down, but the angle was too steep, and the bull put the gun tube between them both.  He went for his pistol, but the driver’s hatch popped open, and the barrel of a shotgun emerged. With a muffled boom that sounded like it was almost underwater, the buckshot blew out the minotaur’s lower torso, and the corpse tumbled away.

“Ja! Fuck jou, en de koe die ons met jou vervloekte, jij doorweekte hoop!“

“Eihol, look out!”

But it was too late.  Distracted dealing with the first boarder, Eihol missed the second, who hopped onto the track guard, bellowing in their strange, southern tongue.  Neither Hellseig nor Eihol had the chance before, with twin blasts that rocked the panzer, the satchel charges detonated in the bull’s hands, ripping her track and the front sprocket clean off.  Sabine, still going full tilt, crashed bodily to a halt, skidding through the dirt and roots, finally halting as she crashed into the trunk of a tree.

Silence.  Aside from the panzer’s still rumbling engine, their surroundings were quiet.  Their mad charge had bought enough time and space for the kompanie to retreat. They’d likely be heading down towards Wolfheze’s command post by now.

The crew recovered slowly.  Bruised, battered, coming down from their battle fury.  They slowly began checking systems, counting ammo, taking stock.

Hellseig stood, looking at where they’d crashed.  A tree was nothing to the panzer, but the blast had crippled her, tore up the armor, ripped apart her suspension and road wheels.  Even without the crash, Sabine would never drive again. The damage was too great. It was a wonder they weren’t all dead.

He turned, looking towards the abandoned campsite.  They could run for it, try to catch up to the kompanie’s rearguard.  But Eihol was nursing a head wound and a concussion, a consequence of both the crash and having the hatch open when the charges had gone off.  He’d never be able to run. But they had to do something. Now they had been taken out, the minotaurs would be one them in seconds. Minutes if they were lucky.

Hellseig dropped into the turret, sighing as he laid back in his seat, dabbing at his own temple and the blood there.  Shrapnel, maybe. Perhaps from the blast itself. His cap had caught it and spared him the worst.

Duskwing and Haul were going over the gun.  The hydraulics were a wreck, meaning the gun and turret would have to be operated by claw crank.  And the shot locker was nearly empty. Maybe ten shells left, only three of those AP. Spotsley was quietly seeing to Eihol, asking him questions and bandaging his head, trying to keep him conscious.  Hellseig groaned, taking his cap off as he considered the situation. If worst came to worst, and they were overrun, Sabine would be their best chance of survival, a place to hole up. Their one way trip had done a number to the enemy panzer force, and certainly bought them time. But with Eihol’s injuries and the distance they had to cross, leaving was not an option anymore.

“Weapons,” he croaked, picking up the SMG he’d taken from Duskwing and handing it back.  The gunner took it quietly, checking the mag and then swapping with a full one from his satchel.  Haul peered out his loader’s hatch at the darkness beyond, watching carefully for the enemy, while Spotsley took Eihol’s shotgun carefully, having to reach for shells.

“Okay, someone needs to scout the area.  The rest of us are going to get ready for-“

A bellow only the woods cut off Hellseig’s statement, and he cursed as it was answered in a chorus from further back.

“Or we could go for the desperate final stand now, then!”

He stood at his station fully now, checking the belt on his MG before cocking it, steadying his aim. The treeline was teeming with movement now, indistinct in the darkness as the panzer’s headlights were pointed in a different direction. But the sergeant barely had to aim, as muzzle flashes showed them pushing so close together he simply had to point in one direction and hold down the trigger.  The MG stuttered, and in the flashing lights he could see chunks torn out, meat fed into the grinder. The turret rotated slowly, and the coax chattered too, adding it’s fire to the sergeant’s own. Spotsley popped open her hatch, the shotgun in her paws as she fired, rack the slide and fired again. The surge of bulls was truthfully only a few seconds long, maybe twenty at most. But to them, it felt like they held for an hour, adrenaline coursing as lights flickered in the darkness.  Hellseig’s wings were fully flared, though he struggled to tuck them down out of danger.

As the troopers finally broke and run, leaving behind a slope covered in meat and uniforms, a clattering came to Hellseig’s ears, that of treads and armor plating.  Another Asterion landship, struggling and primitive, but with Sabine helpless as she was, even the small cannons it carried would be enough to deal serious damage.

“Duskwing!” he hollered down.  “Minotaur panzer! Four o clock!”

“Roger that!” Cyril hollered back, cranking the handles furiously, the turret inching around. The gun tube swept over through the dark, almost in slow motion.  Hellseig held his breath, beak clenched as he hammered away. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d slip a round in through a vision slit, or hit some critical part. But all he saw were the sparks of ricochets, and the cannon on the right flank swiveled towards them…

Then, Sabine’s 5 cm was aligned.

“Target acquired!”

“FIRE!” Hellseig screamed over the MG, the blood rushing in his ears.

“On the way!”

The gun boomed in the night, her muzzle flash blinding Hellseig. But even more blinding was the Minotaur landship brewing up, its primitive sides splitting and fuel and ammo cooked off, ripping the plates asunder as the wreck slewed to a halt.

“Yes!  Kill confirmed!”

The crew cheered.  Already an ace several times over, Cyril Duskwing punched the air.  This felt like the most important kill of his career. Even Haul broke, leaving over and throwing his hooves around the gunner’s neck in a half-hysterical, half astounded hug.  Spotsley howled, though her ears had to be ringing too. Hellseig laughed, smacking the top of the turret. They’d done it! Now they just had to figure out a plan to get out of-

He heard it before he saw it.  In all the noise, none of them had realized that even though the panzer was dead, the clattering continued.  Hellseig turned, feeling slow though he swore he was moving as quick as he could. There, in Sabine’s headlights, resplendent in the light, was a Wingbardian M11 medium panzer.  A brand new, freshly painted model, passed on to the Asterion by the look of the black flag painted on her hull. And it’s large, very modern 5 cm cannon was lined up directly on them.

“PAN-“

Hellseig’s world went white.

The Stahlschild was an excellent medium panzer. A solid gun, good transmission and easy to manufacture.  But she was the Empire’s first true foray into medium panzer design, and as such this carried multiple problems.  A rather cramped interior, a separation of radio operator and commander to either end of the panzer and, most critically, flawed plate armor standards.  While a good panzer, these issues had consigned her to already be replaced by her successor, in development even now.

The plate buckled.  Then split.

Cyril awoke in fire.  He blinked, trying to figure out why he still couldn’t see anything.  But after a moment, he finally got his panzer goggles off and away, and blinked blearily.  The lenses were covered in blood. And from the glow, the panzer was on fire.

He started, attempting to stand.  Then he realized two things. One; he was in excruciating pain, which when his brain finally caught up left him staggering against the turret of the panzer.  Two; the reason for this was the twisted metal wreckage of the gun assembly, combined with the peeled innards of the turret’s armor which was currently crushed together around the catastrophe of flesh and feathers that used to be his left wing.

And he was screaming.  High, raw, unchained shrieking at the top of his lungs.  He felt understanding give way to panic and fright, and automatically tried to pull away, which gave a -tearing- sensation.  Oh gods, it fucking hurt so much, what in Tartarus was this shit! He felt like the flesh was slowly being ripped off his back, ligaments in the wing connected to him pulling and tugging in ways they were not meant to.

Abruptly, Haul’s visage filled his view, shouting and hollering something that Cyril couldn’t hear over his own white hot agony.  Luckily, Haul managed to pin the gunner down long enough that he could still, finally hearing the stallion’s words.

“Duskwing!  You need to stop thrashing around!  I can’t get you out like this!”

Behind him, Sabine -was- on fire, fully alight.  The paneling, the fuel, the ammunition. Flames licked at the turret walls, and all power seemed to have gone from the panzer.  Cyril’s eyes, if possible, opened even wider at the realization, Haul’s words drowned out again. He was going to die here. If that Wingbardian panzer got another shot off on them, and there was no reason it wouldn’t, they’d finish the job.  The enemy crew must have assumed they were brewed up. Cyril took a quick role call of himself, awkwardly patting himself down. Legs were good, arms were okay, head fine. In a strange twist of fate, he seemed to be unscathed aside from his wing.

And then the answer presented itself.

“Cut me out!” he screamed, the small actions he’d done incurring an agony in and of itself.  He couldn’t help but thrash in his seat, feel the bones and flesh grind in the twisted metal.  Haul shook his head.

“I can’t!  I don’t have a torch!  Just sit still as you can, I’ll try to pull you out!”

“No, Haul!”  Cyril reached over the wrecked gun assembly, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling the stallion closer.  “Cut it off!”

Haul was dumbfounded, staring back at Cyril in astonishment.  “You...your wing? Cut your fucking wing?”

“The bones are powder anyway!  Even if I get out, I’ll never fly!” Cyril shot back.  The reality of that statement would hit him later, and the grim remorse to come with it.  But right now, in the pain and suffering that was anchoring him to Sabine’s burning hulk, all he knew was that he had to get out by any means necessary.

“Cut!  Me! Out!”

It took Haul another few seconds to come to terms with what he was being asked to do.  But finally, he gulped, nodding as he clumsily turned, fumbling through the burning wreck to pull out the toolkit.  The flames were closer now, the smoke suffocating and blinding. Neither could see clearly. But Cyril could just make out the blurry form of Haul, rising with the hatchet from the toolkit.  He would have forced himself to watch. But between the everlasting pain and the smoke and the heat, his eyes closed.

It didn’t come off in one stroke.  He felt the impact, but the flesh was suffering so bad he almost didn’t feel the pain.  Almost. A second stroke. Now he -did- feel the pain, and with that panic set in again.  He screamed, feeling his blood spatter the turret. He almost asked Haul to stop, begged him, but somehow he managed to keep his beak clamped shut again.  A third stroke, and he almost passed out. A fourth, and now he did black out.

He awoke to feel himself being pulled from his seat.  Voices spoke around him, and he couldn’t make them out.  But he felt cold air, almost ice on his face and matted feathers.  They were outside. He was out.

They passed him gently down the panzer, Hellseig carefully guiding Cyril down to Haul.  It was difficult to do it with one claw, as the sergeant’s other arm was little more than a ragged stump now.  But they finally got out Duskwing, one wing now messily hacked off at the wrist and now a horrific mass of bleeding flesh.  Hellseig gripped his delirious gunner tightly at the claw.

“It’s down to you now, son.  You have to go on. Do great things.”

“Sarge…” Cyril fumbled, eyes half open, on the verge of passing out once more.  “What...you…”

“Don’t worry about me,” the veteran replied, gesturing to his missing arm.  “Twenty years and this was the best the enemies of the Empire could do? At this point, nothing can kill me!”

Bullets smacked off the hull of the wreck, and Hellseig winced, ducking by reflex.  The minotaurs had realized the crew had survived. That devilish M11 had moved off in search of more prey, but the infantry advancing behind it were the real threat now.  They would swarm them in an instant, and judging from the combat earlier, there would be no prisoners taken here. But he was already committed to this course of action. The realization did not change his decision.  Only solidified it.

“Get them out of here!” he shouted down to Haul, glancing over to where Spotsley was hauling Eihol, draped over her shoulders as she huffed, trying to hustle across the killing grounds with shotgun in paw.  “Keep them safe!”

The stallion, understanding, merely nodded, shouldering Duskwing across his back.  The Earth pony started away, then took a second to look up at Hellseig, trying to come up with the words.  But they never came, and the loader instead nodded before he trotted off, trying to catch up to Spotsley, both of them doing their best to keep their precious cargo from being jostled too badly.

Sergeant Hellseig felt tired.  Now his crew were away, he was suddenly aware of just how difficult it was to move.  He fumbled against the turret, huffing as he tried to blink and get his head together.  Tracers chopped past, a few bursts from a minotaur MG. He had to get up there. Protect his crew.

“Adelaide…” he muttered, claw fumbling for a handle.  “I’m sorry.”

With that, he finally found some purchase, hauling himself up onto the top of the turret, rolling over and into the hatch again.  Sabine was fully aflame now, but he barely felt the heat. It seemed fitting that both of them die here, to buy time for the others.

“Had a good run, didn’t we girl?” he grunted, working the charging handle on the top-mounted MG.  Still half a belt left. Good. He didn’t exactly have the ability to reload anymore. But he squeezed the trigger, sending back a response burst.  The Asterion troopers immediately refocused fire on him, leaving the battered, retreating crew alone. He couldn’t even see them through the smoke and flames.  Just fired in the direction the bullets were coming from.

“Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein!” he called out as he fired, remembering the song from the taverns and bars across the Empire.  It was a popular song with soldiers at war, who wanted to finally go home. “Und das heißt: Erika!”

He chattered off another burst.  Not much left in the belt now. But he was beyond caring.  He’d done his duty, gone beyond. Fought for the Kaiser in war after war.  Now, he was here at the end, he found his regrets heavy in his feathered breast.  But they were surmountable. His missing arm hurt. But not as much as he thought.  That was a bad sign. He’d likely slip into shock soon. He couldn’t feel the heat from the flames.  Also a bad sign.

He didn’t care.

Overhead, he heard the screaming of engines.  And then the rattle of machine guns and the whistle of falling bombs.  A massive detonation erupted behind him, a fireball he could perceive even in the smoke.  The M11 had indeed come back for the kill. He hoped the blast was the fighter-bombers taking care of it.

Wolfheze’s support had come after all.

The bombs dropped closer.  He closed his eyes.

Godspeed indeed.