//------------------------------//
// Chapter 17 
// Story: The Blueblood Papers: Royal Blood 
// by Raleigh 
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No sooner had I been taken off that damned breathing apparatus was I summoned for yet another staff meeting.  I tried to drop an unsubtle number of hints to both Doctor Breathe Easy and Doctor Surgical Steel that I was in absolutely no fit state to exert the physical effort necessary to sit at a table and listen to General Market Garden drone on for hours, let alone be shoved back into frontline service, but the younger doctor had declared me ‘fit’ and the elder told me that I was taking up valuable bed space for more deserving patients.  Therefore, after a few more days of further procedures and a veritable battery of tests, my lungs were given the all-clear and I was shoved through the front door of the field hospital and told to get on with winning the war.

Well, not exactly like that, but that’s how it felt at the time.  While I could go on about all of the various indignities I had to go through in order for both doctors to bring this lumpen and ungainly frame of flesh and fat into as close to a picture of perfect health as my former lifestyle of indolence, laziness, drink, tobacco, and rich Prench food would allow, I fear that I simply can’t.  Much of it swept by in a drug-fuelled haze, and try as I might I simply cannot recall those days in the hospital in much detail, save for what I have already described.  It’s all written down in my file, which currently rests atop the sturdy old desk in the study my ancestors would use to deal with affairs of state and affairs of the heart, but the words have become meaningless in both a literal and figurative sense.  Even if I knew what the word ‘bronchoscopy’ means, I am still in no position to describe to you, dear reader, what such a thing entailed for me.

[For the medically-inclined reader, Blueblood’s military medical record is available from the Canterlot Archive.  A pony who is authorised to view these private memoirs should have no difficulty requesting it.  It makes for some interesting reading and implies that his low opinion of himself extends even to his physical health.]

I must say, however, that Doctor Breathe Easy’s reputation was entirely deserved, unlike mine, and after a few more rounds of that treatment I felt reasonably close to healthy again.  ‘Reasonably close’, for while I could walk about under my own power once more and with the aid of terror-induced adrenaline run away from mortal terror with my usual alacrity, there remained the nagging sensation that would persist constantly from then on that something was still wrong with me.  Walking up stairs, for example; I was, and still am, relatively certain that I never used to get out-of-breath walking up the grand staircase in my palace before this happened to me.

As for Cannon Fodder, while most of the other ponies and I responded well to the treatment, his peculiar physiognomy caused a few problems with the bewildering away of thaumo-medical equipment used.  I did warn them, but as his status as a blank was something of a state secret, as well as one of several metaphorical aces secreted under my Prench cuffs, and it was rather difficult to explain without going into specifics.  That I barely understood it myself didn’t help either and my warnings were dismissed as the ravings of a maniac.  Therefore, his recovery would have to be conducted in the old-fashioned way and he would be stuck in that hospital for a few more weeks.  He didn’t seem to mind, however, being justifiably concerned about doctors poking about in his insides, and he looked forward to a nice holiday in a soft bed with all the magazines that I could arrange to be sent to him.

[Private Cannon Fodder’s military medical record describes a number of escape attempts from the hospital to rejoin Prince Blueblood at the front, which are curiously absent from this narrative.  Either Blueblood was unaware, which is not unlikely as each attempt was thwarted when the night staff were alerted to his presence away from his bed by his body odour, or he did not see fit to describe them, which is another reasonable assumption given the self-interested nature of these memoirs.  However, it appears that after these failed attempts, Cannon Fodder instead focused his efforts on recovery, which involved zebra alchemy, holistic medicine, and massages (though the masseuse insisted on a gas mask and gloves during these sessions).]

Nevertheless, I had some minor curiosity about a meeting of such great importance that even being gassed and subjected to experimental medical treatment was not enough for me to weasel out of attending.  When I found out that Field Marshal Iron Hoof himself would also be present my interest was further aroused.  I hadn’t seen much of the dull, unimaginative old reptile since his rather public dressing-down by Princesses Celestia and Luna at that tea party.  It was probably down to those very same reforms that he had railed against that he was kicked upstairs where his tendency to meddle in the affairs of his generals could be minimised.  Actually, as I thought about it, the appointment of Market Garden to command the field army spearheading the main thrust into the Changeling Lands now made some lick of sense; she was one of the very few ponies with the necessary strength of will and utmost confidence in her abilities to tell her superior ‘no, that’s daft, we’ll do this properly’ and have a chance of succeeding, or at least not getting fired.

I pondered why nopony in the Ministry of War had thought to simply get rid of Iron Hoof, as I was putting on my dress uniform for this meeting (and it was to some concern that I found that the tailored coat no longer fit me as snuggly as before, for I appeared to have lost a bit of weight at an alarming speed during my hospitalisation despite the fillies’ cake - chrysaline gas is not to be recommended as a weight-loss solution).  Certainly, a running theme in Twilight’s recommendations was to break down the system that allowed officers to be appointed according to how many bits they were willing to part with for a shiny new badge, and, in theory, replace it with one that allowed leaders to be appointed on competence and merit.  However, such a thing was more easily said than done, and though retiring an old field marshal could be done with the mere signing of a form, replacing him with somepony else up to the task is much more difficult.  Besides, my instinct for that sort of petty politicking, being a mirror of that which takes place between nobles in the civil arena, informed me that he was kept merely to placate those conservative factions in both the Army and the government who still thought declaring the mangonel obsolete was too progressive.

Before the meeting, I made a brief diversion to the Night Guards’ portion of the camp to see how they were getting on.  They and the Solar Guard had taken the brunt of the gas attack, and Sunshine Smiles certainly threw himself into his work trying to consolidate the depleted companies of the battalion and fill their gaps in time.  I could tell, however, that he had taken Red Coat’s death particularly hard, though he did his utmost to hide it.  The colt regarded him as something of a personal mentor, and that feeling was reciprocated by the older officer.

“I don’t know how to fill his command,” he confessed, once the pleasantries and the inquiries about my recovery were over.  He stood behind a spotlessly-tidy desk in his tent, which was likewise immaculate; if I didn’t know any better, I would have said he had been trying to occupy his off-duty time by relentlessly cleaning his space.  “There are plenty of young, promising lieutenants in the company, but they all lack experience.”

That was a lie.  It wasn’t a matter of ‘reading’ him as I, being a skilled dissembler myself, can with other ponies, as his scarred face made interpreting his expression difficult.  Most of the lieutenants, the ones who survived at least, were all veterans who had served in the regiment for as long as Red Coat had.  Any of them would have been an ideal candidate for the job, I thought, but the Colonel just couldn’t bring himself to fill that gap.

“I thought about promoting Square Basher to Captain,” he continued.  “She knows the company, and they’ll follow her into Tartarus and back.”

“A promotion from the ranks?”  I arched an eyebrow.

“This is the new Equestrian Army.  We award rank on merit now.”

That still remained to be seen, I thought.  “Yes, but the lieutenants may feel slighted.  I’m not sure Square Basher herself would approve.  She’s a sergeant, through and through.”

Sunshine Smiles shrugged his broad shoulders, and despite his obvious size and fearsome appearance even without the Night Guards’ enchantments, there was something in his manner that felt defeated.  When I looked him in the eye, however, we appeared to have come to some sort of mutual, unspoken understanding that, with this recent gas attack, we were all horrendously, hopelessly out of our depth here, and there was nothing to do but carry on and pray that the luck that had guided us this far would hold.

[By this stage of the war, the old Royal Guard armour that contained an illusory enchantment was being phased out in favour of more modern, mass-produced armour that lacked this feature.  The old style was still used by some soldiers and are now highly sought after by collectors.]

“I should have been there, instead,” he said, at length.  “I was further up the slope and missed the gas, mostly.”

“You led the battalion’s counter-charge,” I said, having already been brought up to speed on precisely how my regal rump was saved.  “You did your duty.  We all did.”

“It never feels like it’s enough, though.”  He hissed a sharp sigh.  “Nevermind.  I still have a job to do.”

There was that feeling again: ‘it should have been me’.

I did not feel happy about leaving him alone, but I had that meeting to attend.  Twilight Sparkle’s teachings about friendship might have encouraged me to damn that meeting and stay with him, but out here, at the very heart of the war, friendship itself as a concept felt very far away.  He was a strong stallion, though, both in physical and emotional terms, and though he kept his past to himself it was clear even to me that he had persevered through strife and grief before, so I suppose I felt I was looking for some form of companionship for my own benefit.  Neither this job as commissar nor my role as prince of the realm would allow such an indulgence, and so we made our farewells and I was off in the direction of Market Garden’s marquee once more.

Except, however, the meeting was not to be held there.  Instead, a snotty little functionary with buck teeth and a hunched back directed me to the more private venue of Market Garden’s personal tent.  It was across from the command marquee, and under guard by two stern-faced and burly provosts from whom the other officers seemed to go out of their way to avoid.  This news, however, only served to aggravate that little paranoid voice inside my head, the one that has the frustrating tendency to be right far too many times in my life and is rather smug about it; for a gathering of a field marshal, a general, a prince, and Celestia-knows who else to take place away from prying eyes and ears and under armed guard must invariably spell horror and disaster for my immediate future.

The provosts allowed me inside and I was rather annoyed to find that Market Garden’s tent was a fair bit larger than mine.  As is always the case, the space was dominated by the ubiquitous map board that every general officer liked to have and show off to their colleagues.  Almost encompassing the wall to my right as I entered, I recognised the map of Virion Hive covering much of its surface.  This, however, was marred with a great number of incomprehensible scribblings, strange diagrams, arrows, and photographs, such that it resembled the cell wall of a deranged madpony more than anything else.  Besides that, however, the furnishings of the rest of the tent were remarkably sane and somewhat spartan; consisting of a large but simple desk, a few filing cabinets heaving with documents, a cot in the corner, and a few chairs scattered about the place.  A slim collection of classic poetry left on the bedside table did not escape my notice, though I assumed that it was more the sort about daffodils and clouds than the more racy variety that I enjoyed.

Market Garden herself sat behind her desk, while the Field Marshal took a seat on the opposite side as though he was being interviewed.  The only other occupant, besides Yours Truly stumbling through the tent flap and doing his best not to look like he was struggling to catch his breath, was Commissar-General Second Fiddle, who stood by the map board and admired it as one would a painting.  It appeared that when I had arrived the three of them had exhausted all avenues of small talk and had descended into an uneasy silence, but then I saw that Market Garden was examining a musket.  The weapon was placed on her inordinately tidy and organised desk, being the one item upon its mass-produced surface that was not arranged to mathematical precision.

“Sorry,” I said, taking off my cap and placing it on a nearby hatstand, next to Second Fiddle’s one with a higher peak.  “I do hope you’re not waiting for me.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Iron Hoof as he stood from his seat.  He nodded in the scantest imitation of a bow.  “I trust your recovery is going well?”

“About as well as can be expected, thank you.”  The military’s expectations, I thought, not mine.

“Can’t want to get stuck into the Changelings again, I bet,” said Second Fiddle, grinning.  I did not dignify that statement with a response, except for a sharp glare that encouraged him to take a greater interest in the map than in me.

“So, what’s all of this about?” I said.

Iron Hoof lit his horn and the musket levitated out of Market Garden’s hooves, to her irritated surprise, and brought it over to me.  “We picked up a number of these from Changeling bodies after your charge, and thought you might like to take a look.”

I don’t know where they got that idea from; I wanted nothing to do with these beastly things, but, for the sake of getting this over with, I took the weapon with my magic and proceeded to examine it as though I had any idea of how the damned thing operated.  It looked rather like those used by our earth ponies, being a metal tube attached to a wooden thing and with a whole lot of rather complex things involving a trigger, a hammer, a pan, and some other stuff I have no chance of remembering.  The trigger, however, was far too small for a hoof to wrap around, and seemed much closer to the sort used by the griffons of the PGL who use their talons to fire their muskets.  I imagined the Changelings had to employ some of their transformation magic to use it, but as to why they could not manufacture them along our lines I couldn’t tell.

“Look at the stock,” said Market Garden with the exasperation of a pony trying to get another to see what she thought was bleeding obvious.

I didn’t know what a ‘stock’ was, but after some fumbling I think I worked out she meant the big wooden bit that rests against a soldier’s shoulder when aiming and firing.  There, carved into the dark, polished wood was a symbol I hadn’t seen before: two lightning bolts arranged to resemble horns.

“What’s that?” I asked, turning the gun to point out the strange symbol.

“We’re not sure,” said Iron Hoof.  He took the weapon back and then returned it to Market Garden to carry on fiddling with it.  “I’d hoped the son of an explorer might know more.”

“Sorry, I don’t think I was involved in that expedition.”

“I’ve only seen it once before,” said Market Garden.  “I was a major back then.  My regiment was deployed alongside the Hippogriff navy in a joint anti-piracy operation to the far south, beyond Equestria’s borders.  A pirate band was raiding the trade routes between Southern Equestria and our overseas colonies, and they sailed under a black flag with that symbol.”

“And that’s it?” I asked.

Market Garden shrugged.  “We knew very little about them, and they weren’t keen on being taken prisoner.  Not that we minded, of course.  It was a damned awful business, that.”

“So, pirates are supplying the Changelings with weapons?” I said.

“After the sound thrashing we gave them, I imagine they would have had to find alternative employment as arms dealers.”  She picked up the musket and aimed it straight down at the tent flap.  Apparently satisfied, she placed it delicately down to rest with the barrel leaning against her desk and the other end on the ground.  “It’s a shame what happened to the Hippogriffs.  I wonder where they all went.”

We all know now, and it might seem obvious with the benefit of decades of hindsight, but back then the disappearance of the Hippogriffs coinciding with the temporary defeat of that band of pirates seemed wholly unconnected.  Nopony in Equestria paid them much heed at the time, and I dare say that most of the uneducated peasants and working ponies of our land were completely unaware of the existence of an isolated kingdom of bird-ponies miles away from civilisation.  This would all come back to bite us on the flank later when we weren’t paying attention, but that’s a story for another one of these confessions in due time.  Then and there, with our assault on Virion Hive imminent, Equestria as a whole had rather more immediate concerns to deal with.

[It seems inconceivable now that Equestria would have ignored the plight of the Hippogriffs, however, prior to the Magic of Friendship spreading across the world, our nations were insular compared to the standards of today.  Our Hippogriff neighbours preferred to keep to themselves and the Equestrian government was content to respect that.  Save for the aforementioned joint anti-piracy operation, it was not unknown for our respective governments to go years without speaking with one another.]

“It’s possible that it could be a copy,” droned Iron Hoof; his monotone was starting to make my eyelids feel much heavier than before, and I considered asking him to speak into a recording device to help with my recurring insomnia.  “S.M.I.L.E. is on it.  Our military intelligence still knows very little about the Changelings’ industrial capacity, or anything else about them for that matter.  If they are being supplied by a hostile foreign power then we can at least take action to stop it.”

“Is this what you needed me for?” I said, and probably a little too snippy as well.  However, after what I had just been through for Princesses and Country, I think I had more than earned the right to be rude to a field marshal.  Well, ruder than usual.

“No,” said Iron Hoof.  “It’s about this assault on Virion Hive.”  He paced over to the map and considered it.  Though turning one’s back on royalty was something of a faux pas, at least considered by those who still cared about such things, it allowed me to see that his moustache had grown to such a prodigious length that the ends were visible from the back.

“It will still go ahead as planned,” said Market Garden, and rather urgently too.  It was the most animated I’ve seen her since Fort Nowhere.  “We have three practicable breaches already and a fourth on the way.  The native diggers are close to completing their mine.  The Two Sisters Brigade suffered losses in the gas attack but so did the enemy, and if we maintain the element of surprise the 2nd Brigade alone should be sufficient to take the castle.  Virion Hive will fall.”

“I know,” said the Field Marshal, still looking over the map.  “The Ministry of War has decided to make certain of that, which is why they’ve authorised us to use our own stockpile of poison gas.  The breaches will be saturated with gas shells before our assault.”

Something in those words seemed to kick me right in the stomach, and all four of my limbs suddenly felt weak, as though they might collapse under me.  Were such a thing possible, I could feel the blood draining from my face, like a creeping, peeling sensation over my skin.  Iron Hoof remained expressionless, while Second Fiddle stood rather close to him and smiled that pathetic smile he used to try and endear himself to his social betters, looking like an upended crescent moon amidst his dark grey face.

Market Garden, however, was looking at her own forehooves as she digested this news.  Then, after sucking in a deep breath, raised her head, fixed Iron Hoof with a stern look, and said most emphatically: “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” blurted out Second Fiddle.

“It’s an insult!” snapped Market Garden.  She rose from her seat and marched on over to her map board.  “It’s an insult to my generalship; I don’t need to resort to such cowardly, vile means to win this war.”

Only she could have gotten away with speaking like that to a field marshal, aside from Yours Truly.  Iron Hoof merely stared at her through her tirade with his characteristic coldness.

“We cannot win this war if we refuse to take the necessary steps, however unpleasant, to achieve victory,” he said.  “The orders have already been prepared - our artillery will fire gas shells into the breaches moments before our colts start the attack.”

“If this is what you think it takes to win then I’d rather lose,” snapped Market Garden.

“You can’t possibly mean that,” said Second Fiddle.  He shook his head, and then pointed at me with his muzzle.  “Commissar Blueblood will agree, it’s time we gave Chrysalis a taste of her own medicine.  Right?”

So that’s why they wanted me here, I realised; to nod my head along with their absurd, cruel, and thoroughly un-Equestrian plan and add a stamp of approval from an officer who had just survived an encounter with that very same weapon.  Well, I think it’s fair to say that by that point my patience for this damned war as a whole, up to and including our own generals, had thoroughly run dry.  I will admit to taking a certain amount of pleasure in puncturing Second Fiddle’s and Iron Hoof’s idea, like popping a balloon at a particularly bratty foal’s birthday party.

“I think it’s abhorrent,” I said.  “If one has lived through that then one would understand that such an awful weapon should not be inflicted even on Changelings.  Ponies won’t stand for it.”

Second Fiddle glared; I had clearly let him down yet again, never mind the fact that for once in my life I was making a stand for something (it was rather a novel experience to be standing atop what they call the moral high ground for perhaps the first time in my life, peering down at the mortals below.  This must have been how Twilight Sparkle feels all the time).  He snorted, pulled a face as though he had found half a worm in his apple, and shook his head, but otherwise said nothing. 

It was Iron Hoof who spoke up in defence of his planned atrocity:

“I see,” he said, drawing out that last syllable.  His mustachios bristled at me like two porcupines.  “You accept that we can shoot Changelings, stab them with bayonets, beat them with hooves, blow them up with artillery, and starve them.  You accept, sir, that the enemy can do the same to our stallions and mares out there too.  But you seem to accept that the enemy may deploy poison gas against us but we cannot respond in kind, because you feel that it is unfair.  Is it not more unfair to force our soldiers to assault a breach that has not been cleared by such a weapon?”

I had to admit, and still do, that his words made some sort of cruel sense; it is the cold logic of wars to escalate, as each side must invariably push the boundaries of what is acceptable in order to win in the absence of any other constraining factor.  If the enemy had been the first to use this weapon, was it not incumbent upon us to use it ourselves to maintain parity?  They had started it, after all.  Yet, though Market Garden’s assertion that she would rather lose the war than stoop so low was indeed ridiculous, I concurred with the sentiment behind it; if we must resort to barbarism to win, if we must sacrifice even the very concept of Harmony upon the altar of victory, until we are no better than the enemy we have vanquished, can we truly say that we have won?

“There are ponies in that city,” I said, pointing to the map beside us.  “Two thousand of them.”

“Not our ones,” I heard Second Fiddle mutter under his breath.  I shot him the glare that I normally reserved for silencing a mouthy private soldier, but he seemed immune to its effects.  “It’s about sending a message, Blueblood, that Chrysalis can’t do something like this without incurring an equal and just retribution.”

“The gas will affect them too,” I carried on, ignoring him.  “I was there, I saw it all myself.  There’s no guarantee that civilians won’t be caught up in it.”

Field Marshal Iron Hoof’s face was a masque, and he could damn well give Princess Luna a run for her money when it came to stone-faced expressions.  If it was any stonier I’d have brought Maud Pie in to analyse it.  I looked at Second Fiddle and found only disdain and disappointment etched upon his face, but I found unlikely sympathy in the form of General Market Garden, who, despite my personal misgivings about her particular style of leadership, overt fascination with plans and sticking to them to an extent that even Twilight would deem excessive, and lack of social skills, did look as utterly horrified by this proposal on an moral and personal level as I did.

“There’s no guarantee they won’t be ‘caught up’ in our artillery bombardment,” said Iron Hoof, and call me sensitive if one must, but for once I wished he would show even the slightest hint of emotion when discussing the lives of innocent ponies.  “Or in a unicorn volley, or a charge.  If the enemy chooses to use them as equine shields then it is not our fault, it is theirs.  We cannot stop the prosecution of this war because we are afraid of a little collateral damage.”

“And what about our ponies?  You mean to march them into a breach filled with poison gas?"

“Don’t worry about that, sir, the Ministry of War has taken all the necessary precautions.”

I arched an eyebrow at that.  “Have they now?” I said wryly.

“Princess Luna said ‘no war can be won by half-measures’,” scoffed Second Fiddle.  “I thought you’d understand that by now, Blueblood.”

I snorted, stamped, and shook my head.  “I understand well enough, thank you, but I hardly think that Princess Luna was referring to gassing when she addressed the House of Commons.  Come to think of it, I certainly don’t think that any of the Princesses would agree to this either.”

General Market Garden, apparently annoyed that nopony has paid her enough attention in five minutes, pushed her way between Second Fiddle and the map.  “I can take the city without your blasted gas!”  Her eyes darted all over the place, drinking in the mass of information plastered on the map board.  “All I need is time.  I can buy more of it by launching another crossing of the River Vir with VIII Corps, and it will succeed this time.  Then they can engage the Changeling relief column before it reaches Virion Hive.  With the city surrounded, we will have all the time we need to assault the walls.”

“Your offensive is stalling, General,” said Field Marshal Iron Hoof, and I had never seen Market Garden, or indeed any pony except perhaps Rarity at a certain Canterlot party, look so utterly offended.  “We risk losing the initiative in a battle of attrition that Princess Celestia has made very clear she wants to avoid.  Virion Hive must be taken now.”

“I want this in writing,” said Market Garden, her voice quiet and very level in that peculiar manner a pony adopts when trying to keep their emotions in check.  Her hoof tapped on the ground, creating a small cloud of dust that stained her cuff.  “Your name and your signature on the orders.”

“It has already been done.”  Iron Hoof unbuttoned the large bellow pocket on the side of his khaki coat and produced an envelope bulging with papers, which Market Garden snatched out of the air with her mouth like a dog catching a very slow frisbee.  As she opened the packet and flicked through the orders, notes, maps, and what-not inside, the Field Marshal continued: 

“I Corps will take the city in two days’ time according to the plans you have already set out, so please don’t think that all of your hard work has been wasted.  I have merely made a few necessary additions.  And don’t think to alter those orders yourself, General.”  His beady eyes peered out at Commissar-General Second Fiddle, who was now leaning against the map board as though it was a mantlepiece, and then at me, whereupon his gaze lingered a little while longer as though to insinuate that the following threat was as much directed at me as it was at Market Garden.  “The Royal Commissariat will take a very dim view of you should you choose to disobey those orders.  I understand that Solitaire is still interested in having the job you took from her.”

“Sir, I have never disobeyed an order in my life,” Market Garden snarled, tossing the envelope on the table, where it made a rather satisfying ‘thud’ sound as it landed.  A few sheets of parchment slipped out and scattered on the desk.  “But if this has already been settled, then what was the purpose of this meeting?”

“I would quite like to know too,” I said, more out of an odd need to be seen agreeing with the General on this matter; I truly did not know how this would play out in that all-important court of public opinion, but whatever happened I was at least determined that, if there was nothing I could do to stop this, my undeserved reputation that shielded me from much in the way of criticism of my various sins and indiscretions would not be at all tarnished by this.  Remember, if one cannot stop something unpleasant from happening, at least complain so that ponies know that one’s heart is in the right place.  Having the satisfaction of saying ‘I told you so’ is a most soothing palliative.

“Just to make sure that we’re all on the same page,” said Second Fiddle, and I like to think I’ve been in this game for long enough to understand what he truly meant - ‘to make sure Market Garden does exactly as she’s told’.  “I trust that we’re all singing from the same hymn book now?”

Market Garden signaled her affirmation with a snort and a very restrained nod, while I muttered something about not having much choice in the matter.  However, before we wrapped up and I was finally free until the next damned meeting, I remembered an odd choice of word that Iron Hoof had used earlier.

“What did you mean by ‘stockpile’?” I asked, and then, followed that path to its logical conclusion.  “And how did you get enough poison gas for this attack in such a short amount of time?  Unless…”

“Prince Blueblood!” shouted Second Fiddle, interrupting me.  I suppose me vocalising a rather dangerous train of thought was enough for him to start using my correct title.

“That’s not for anypony to worry about,” said Iron Hoof, forcefully over-enunciating each syllable.  

I begged to differ, as being a political officer meant that, in the rare instance that I took this job seriously, I was supposed to worry about such questions.  Nevertheless, for what it’s worth that was my take on how this particular controversy panned out, or started, at least.  It should not have taken a pony whose sole prior interest in military matters extended only to commissioning bespoke dress uniforms for themed parties to have pointed out just how unpopular this would be.  But as Iron Hoof had said, ‘it has already been done’, and the great machinery of our military bureaucracy had churned out the necessary paperwork for this and ponies would die as a result.

[Recently de-classified documents confirm rumours and Blueblood’s suspicion that the Ministry of War had started a secret chemical weapons project known officially as Project Benchmark, but was colloquially called Project Bugspray.  This had been discussed by the Ministry and the Commissariat but was not implemented until after the passing of the Twilight Sparkle Reforms, which was seen as a tacit approval of the proposal.  However, fears of popular backlash and a repeat of the use of the Royal Veto forced it into secrecy (a justified fear, as had I been made aware of this I would have shut it down), and thus its stockpile of chlorine gas, a byproduct of dye manufacture, at the time was limited.]

“I’ll be writing a letter to Princess Celestia about this.”  Running back to the highest temporal and spiritual authority in our realm was something I generally tried to avoid, largely because she frowned on my exploiting of our tenuous family link, however, in this case I think this was justified.  I simply could not imagine she would condone this, and wondered if this had been deliberately kept from her.  The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

“All of the princesses we have if I have to.”  Market Garden nodded her head firmly.  “Do they know that this is going to happen in their name?”

“I don’t understand why this has gotten you two so worked up,” said Second Fiddle.  “This is a cruel war, and we have to be cruel to win it.”

“There is a limit,” I said, “and this lies far beyond it.”  

We all stared at one another for a moment that seemed to drag for hours, as none of us seemed brave enough to speak.  All around the noise of the camp, the chatter of ponies, barks of orders, clatter of equipment in drill, and so on, seemed to fade away.  Second Fiddle’s expression was hard, and I could see much of Princess Luna in that deep frown and disapproving sneer, but he lacked the sheer gravitas and presence that the darker of my regal aunts possessed to truly pull off the sort of intimidating glare that silenced the unworthy and cowed the defiant.  Then I realised that this was all futile, for his was a mind that had already been made up for him by other, more powerful ponies far from here, but still I persisted.

“Doesn’t this all seem wrong to you?”  I sighed deeply, realising that this was the point of no return for me and I might as well commit.  “Have you ever stopped and wondered just why we’re so bad at this?”

“Blueblood, stop,” Second Fiddle snarled, glancing furtively at the other two in the room.  Market Garden was back at her desk and more interested in the contents of the envelope, deliberately trying to exclude herself from the rest of the discussion.  Iron Hoof merely stared in silence, but I imagined that he was quietly tucking away my little outburst in the great filing cabinet in his mind for use later.  “You know that I can have you reported for spreading defeatism.”

“Just listen to me,” I continued, emphasising that point by jabbing a hoof in his direction.   Pausing for breath, I touched that hoof to my chest, and said almost pleadingly, “We’re ponies, for Faust’s sake.  This war, this killing, it isn’t who we are, at least not anymore.  I worry that if we cross this line then there’ll be no turning back from it.”

I know I should not have expected any better from him, but I had hoped against all evidence pointing to the contrary, if the brief time we were friends had mattered at all to him, that he would at least demonstrate a token measure of sympathy to show that I hadn’t gone mad.  Instead, he rolled his eyes so dramatically that he might have given himself a vision of the empty space that lies behind them.  

“Save your philosophising for another one of your mares, Blueblood.”  Then, a rather unhappy grin, more like a rictus, formed over his face.  “Besides, it’s quite apt -- gassing bugs.”

***

The time had finally come.  My letter to Princess Celestia had failed, either not having arrived in time, simply ignored, or blocked by the friendly censor [Most likely the latter, as I never received such a letter].  I didn’t think it would work anyway, for the great bureaucratic machinery churning away in the Ministry of War could not be halted or redirected quite so easily; decisions were made weeks, months, or even years prior, set down in parchment, discussed, amended, discussed again, and then signed and put into action.  Because of this intrepid piece of paper now residing somewhere in the vast dungeon of the Ministry’s office building, the Equestrian Army was about to cross that aforementioned line in the sand into barbaric and callous militarism.

Though I had agonised over this over the course of the remaining two days, I had elected to join Twilight Sparkle’s Own Prism Guards as they assaulted the castle.  Second Fiddle was there, you see, making good his promise to go and take some of the glory on the battlefield himself, and I wanted to make damned sure that he saw exactly what this inglorious form of warfare did to a pony.  I wanted to grab his head so full of ego and ignorance and force him to stare into the lifeless eyes of an innocent bystander who had drowned on their own liquifying lungs, and then demand that he justify that to me.  He would see it; the final expression of terror in that dead pony’s face, the blued lips, the blood streaming from the mouth and nose and eyes, and smell the stench of death and the acrid tang of the gas itself even through our new gas masks.

Oh yes, the masks.  They had arrived the night before and were distributed to all troops.  These early examples were little more than flannel feedbags that were soaked in some sort of alchemical concoction and pulled up to cover one’s entire face.  Vision was accounted for by two glass eyepieces that had the very annoying tendency to fog up as one breathed, necessitating taking the flimsy thing off to wipe them down frequently.  They also got hot very quickly and the stink of the chemicals was so bad that even I, now suffering from mild anosmia, gagged.  The promised protection they granted from poison gas was rather suspect, but, as ever, a combination of a need to get as many produced as quickly as possible coupled with budgetary concerns meant that this was simply the best that the Ministry of War could supply.  They were better than nothing I suppose, though ‘that will do’ is hardly a mindset congruent for military equipment.

When a pony wore one of these masks it had the obvious side-effect of obscuring their face entirely.  The pale off-white fabric and the two glass eyepieces gave the wearer a ghoulish, ghostlike appearance that seemed to obliviate utterly all sense of the pony wearing it.  The face had been erased, and with it seemingly so were the thoughts, feelings, emotions, hopes, dreams, prayers, and fears that made up the soul of a sapient being.  If there was a better expression of the anonymised direction modern war was taking then I’d like to hear of it.

When I Corps was massed and arrayed to hurl itself against the breaches like waves upon the beach, each soldier wore one of these masks.  As I sat and waited in the trenches, crammed in with Colonel Fer-de-Lance and her command staff, I did so seemingly surrounded by these ghosts of war.  I could hardly tell ponies apart, except for Second Fiddle, whose gloriously resplendent uniform would mean the Changelings were bound to spot him instantly over me.

And on that note, I couldn't help but wonder if the gas would even affect its intended targets at all; nopony had the chance to test the blasted substance on them until now, after all.  That worry stirred my gut almost as badly as my mask, leaving open the unsettling memory of how they'd advanced post-barrage, and the question of if they had counted on our pegasi dispelling the gas in time for their counter-attack or if they already had their own measures in place, seeing as how they were the first to come up with the bloody idea in the first place.

Fer-de-Lance stared at her pocket watch, which hanged in mid-air by an amber glow around its chain, and, though much of her face was obscured, I could see enough of her eyes through the eyepieces to see her frowning so hard that I thought she might have been trying to make time advance faster by pure force of will.  I could sympathise.  The waiting was always the hardest part, for in the heat of battle one barely has time to think and rationalise, but in the interminable hours that stretched on before the slaughter would commence in earnest were spent doing nothing but thinking of just how awful it was going to be.

The fortress itself was a dark grey monolith towering over us like an immense, sheer cliff face.  To our right the clear waters of the River Vir languidly flowed through a huge, rusted metal grate that I assumed could lower and lift as the occupants of the castle desired.  To the left were the walls, and the breach that had been smashed through by our relentless artillery bombardment had made a large, ragged gap there.  The pummelled stone and rubble had formed a sort of crude ramp, which would allow our soldiers to advance straight into the Changelings’ carefully-prepared defences: cannon, canister shot, muskets, and Faust-knows what else they could concoct.  Unless the pegasi could punch through their airborne screen of drones and under, shall we say, more ‘normal’ circumstances, it would be a slaughter. 

We were close, the trenches having been dug unimpeded as far as the engineers would dare, barely a short charge away from the glacis that surrounded the city entirely.  In the bleak light of the morning our brigade, nearly two thousand ponies strong or thereabouts, was cast in its shadow, and made even the sheer mass of the equine wave about to crash upon it seem tiny and ineffectual.  Above, through the foggy, smudged glass, I fancied that I could see tiny figures in the dark windows and on the parapets, and wondered if they too felt that same trepidation and fear that we all felt down here.  General Odonata had to know that the inevitable attack was coming very soon; our artillery had ceased, for even Iron Hoof wasn’t callous enough to risk shelling his own ponies, and, oh yes, thousands of them were now massed into the trenches just outside their walls.

A pony somewhere vomited in her gas mask, her comrades jeered, and her corporal ordered her to clear up the mess.  I couldn’t see it, but I could build a mental picture through the noises I’d heard.

I missed Cannon Fodder terribly, and envied him as he rested on that comfortable bed in a hospital a good few miles behind our frontline.  He had been there by my side through every single little scrape and we’d always pulled through, and while I would not consider ‘superstitious’ to be one of the very many flaws that make up the rich, mouldering tapestry that is my personality, I certainly felt as though his absence would portend some sort of horrific fate for me.

The morning dragged on, and the incessant ticking of Fer-de-Lance’s watch was becoming excruciatingly irritating, with each ‘tick’ like the beating of a disembodied heart.  Elsewhere, I could hear ponies shuffling, occasionally chattering, and then told to be silent by their respective sergeants.  Second Fiddle was reading a selection of the new pamphlets to be distributed to the troops upon the successful taking of the city, and when it finally began he was flicking through the one advising our colts and fillies on how to avoid contracting social diseases when fraternising with civilians.  We were at least quite far back from the foremost trench, as unlike Sunshine Smiles this colonel held very little truck with this whole ‘leading from the front’ business, which I found almost made up for her rather arrogant demeanour.

Colonel Fer-de-Lance lifted her right hoof in the air, and, still not taking her eyes off the golden watch, swung her armoured appendage from left to right in time with the seconds ticking away.  One, two, three, four, fi-

I felt it before I saw or heard it.  The ground all around us - beneath our hooves and in the walls of the trench - trembled, as though the earth itself shivered.  Ahead, I peered over the parapet of sandbags, across the gulf of no mare’s land, and saw at the base of the wall of the castle keep a vast sheet of scarlet flame erupt from the earth.  A great tower of earth, stone, and smoke was thrown into the sky, lit from within as though a gate into Tartarus had been wrenched open.  There was an ear-splitting roar.  In the rising earthly column I imagined seeing grotesque monsters clawing their way out of the pit.  It rose higher and higher, almost to the top of the wall itself, and there seemed to hang for a moment before it all collapsed into a fountain of dust, mud, and shattered masonry.

As the debris descended I ducked down under the parapet, pulling Second Fiddle down with me, who had been standing there and watching the fireworks.  Clods of scorched mud and tiny fragments of stone rained down upon us, though the two of us were protected by the high parapet of the trench.  I looked up to see Colonel Fer-de-Lance peering down at us, the shower of debris pattering harmlessly off her armour, and I could almost see the smug little smirk under her gas mask.  This rain of rubble petered out, as April showers in Canterlot do, and I sheepishly rose up to my hooves and brushed off my uniform, which, I’m sure you’ll appreciate, was by now a futile gesture.

The smoke and fire was already clearing, leaving a cone of rubble and debris all around.  There was a great crater scooped out of the earth, obliterating a portion of the glacis and the ditch, and where it intersected with the castle’s wall a large, ragged hole had been torn open.  I strained my eyes, trying to peer through the fogging glass and the lingering smoke, and could just about see a modest cross-section of the interior of the keep.  It was about wide enough to allow perhaps a company to march in without much difficulty, I thought, and I was about to find out quite soon.

Colonel Fer-de-Lance hissed, snapped her pocket watch shut, and tucked it back in her armour.  “Merde,” she cursed, her voice muffled by the mask.  “The imbecile peasants have detonated it too early.”

I checked my wristwatch.  “Only by a few seconds,” I said.

“Makes you wonder what else they’ve been getting wrong, no?”

The artillery behind us fired a single volley as one staccato ripple of fire.  Thin white streaks of smoke sliced through the air overhead and crashed into the fortress.  Some were aimed at the parapets, while others were directed at the breaches themselves.  In those places, an unwelcomely familiar yellow-green cloud began to coalesce, rising from beyond the wall and the breach itself, suffusing all around it like a spreading infection.  If there were any Changelings or native ponies caught up in that suffocating fog I couldn’t see, but as I stood there and watched this blight upon the military honour of Equestria consume the walls, I saw vividly in my mind’s eye those grotesquely twisted bodies, hooves clutched around throats, and those wisps of green and yellow crawl across their still forms.  Dear Faust, I thought, and we were about to march straight into that once more.

“Beautiful, is it not?” said Fer-de-Lance, staring at horror unleashed.  And then, turning to the unicorn drummer colt standing nearby with his sticks floating aloft and ready above an ornately-decorated drum, which hung by a sash around his neck: “Begin, as our ancestors marched to war.”

The drumsticks were a blur as they struck out a rippling tattoo.  A second drummer, a little further along the line repeated this cadence, and then another, muffled by the distance, all through the trenches like echoes in an empty cathedral.  The entire battalion rose up and surged out of the trenches, over the earthen walls and sandbags.  The earth ponies and unicorns flooded into the vast gulf of no mare’s land and marched into the hellish fog in a vast column; the pegasi rose up and soared aloft to fill the crisp blue sky like a massed flock of starlings.  The Prism Guard had the honour of being the first wave, and Fer-de-Lance, lacking in subtlety as much as her Prench forebears, had opted to simply fill the breaches with ponies until it was taken.

The drummers beat out a thunderous rapport in unison, which seemed to drive straight into the primal hindbrain that still lingers within every equine mind, behind knowledge and reason, to the part that still remembers our unevolved ancestors galloping freely across the plains and steppes.  It was a relentless, hypnotic rhythm that drove the ponies of the Prism Guard forwards into the gas-filled breach, on and on, over and over, until it sunk in and spoke to that ancient beast inside all of us a single, simple command that even it could understand -- forwards.  The drums screamed it with every single strike of wood upon membrane.  But more menacing than this driving, pounding rhythm, as loud and as overwhelming as it was, were a thousand deep voices, each distorted by the layer of chemical-soaked rags, chanting in time with the drumming in the ancient Prench traditions as Fer-de-Lance had said:

“Vive Celestia!  Vive Celestia!  Vive Celestia!”