//------------------------------//
// 1 - Smoky Meadow 
// Story: Smoky Meadow 
// by Loveling 
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What is there to say about war?

My one and only talent. My only source of pride, and of sorrow.

In the peaceful lands of Equestria, what use is there for somepony like me, who is only good at what Equestria exists to prevent?

As I lie on my back, face up, I contemplate my usual griefs; Celestia's Sun kissing my unkempt facial fur, and the blooming wheat-strands tickling the little exposed fur not covered by my NCO uniform. I've been told that Rarity herself designed this uniform. The Element of Charity herself. It shows in the finished product too, magically enchanted threads adjusting to my form as required to make a perfect, snug fit.

Ah... how I'd like to stay here a little longer. But alas, smoke begins to waft across the golden fields, blocking my view of the Sun.

I wipe the blood off my nose. It's not mine, although whether that's a good thing or not, I am unsure.

Time to wake up.





"-OPE! WAKE UP SERGEANT COME ON!"

My eyes snap open. The scent of dust and ash assaults my nostrils like tear gas, and I convulse on the ground in a coughing fit, violently hacking up the particles of war.

"Luna be praised, I thought we'd gone and lost you Sarge!"

I reorient my head toward the familiar voice. It's Applebloom, a young recruit assigned to my platoon. She can't be more than 19 years old. She would have been just starting High School when the war started. Her future taken from her, and placed into my hooves.

I grab my machine-pistol, a trusty Macintosh Limestone, and wearily stand up, shoulders heavy with my burden.

"Bloom, how long have I been out?"

"Just a few seconds Sir, you were hit by artillery debris, nothing too serious from what I could ascertain."

"That's good... where did the artillery land?"

Applebloom points over at a building adjacent from ours. It's a residential block, probably erected more than 200 years ago. It used to house the working ponies of Manehattan. Families. It's not unlikely that many of those families were now fighting as my comrades at this very moment. The building is significant to me for another reason however.

"So that means our ammo reserve is now buried under 3 meters of concrete, along with most of 2nd Platoon."

Applebloom is about to respond to this, but is interrupted by the sound of our machinegunner opening fire. The ear-deafening roar of PFC Solid Throw's Buck Mk. IV taking away my opportunity for an after-concussion briefing.

"WE'VE GOT CHANGELINGS ASSAULTING THE GROUND FLO-!"

His call-out is cut short as he rapidly ducks out of the way of the hailstorm of suppressive fire shot at him in return for his machinegun's short outburst.  Soon, the sounds of Gewehrs and MP10's echo up the stairwell, followed soon by shouting.

"Applebloom, I need you to assist Solid Throw with fire superiority. Give me your Type E."

Applebloom hands me her Commonwealth-made bolt-action rifle, and I hand her my machinepistol in return, rushing down the stairs as soon as the weapons have changed hooves. Charging down the creaking, rotted steps right into the sight line of a very angry looking Changeling.

"Auf viedersehen, du Scheisspo-AAAARGHHHHH"

The black-clad figure is assailed by Stabby flying at him at full speed, trench knife in hoof. It first pierces the Changeling in its right shoulder, before the relentless fury that "Stabby" Scootaloo has become known for begins in earnest.

"DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE YOU BUCKING INSECT!"

By the time I reach the end of the stairs, the Changeling is already a gurgling mess on the floorboards. Raspy breathing, like air out of a broken flute, is the only thing escaping his lips when Scootaloo finally gets off him, claiming the insects M39/B2 magical submachine gun as she does so.

"They're flying in through the windows Sergeant, watch yourself!"

"Stabby, you're with me, the neighboring platoon just got hit by an artillery shell and is no doubt being assaulted as we speak. How much can you lift"?

"Enough, Sir, but I think we've got enough on our hooves here!"

"Good, out the window toward them with you, quickly!"

She hesitates, but only for a moment. Thank Celestia she is still alive, I may still be able to save some of 2nd Platoon with her help. Many times I have wondered what in the Diarchy's name she was doing in an On-Hooves division, but the amount of time her mobility has come to use has, by now, silenced my curiosity.

Without 2nd Platoon and their anti-tank weaponry we're dead ponies. It's do or die. I turn my head to shout up the stair-well with all my might, hoping to punch through the red orchestra filling the building.

"Solid Throw, abandon covering the street, give Stabby covering fire as she scouts out 2nd Platoons holdout. Applebloom, cover the window entrance on your floor, we've got light flyers inbound"!

"Aye sir" they shout in unison, the firing of their weaponry fading as I move down the decrepit stairwell. With every step I risk my fully outfitted weight shattering a board, and me falling to my demise, but now is no time for caution.

Every floor I descend down, I am greeted by fresh vistas of hell. My ponies killing, dying, or something in-between. Locked in close-combat brawls, or building-to-building shootouts from windows, one thing usually unites all of them:

They have no cutie marks.

"Belle, Spoon, Rumble, on me, across the courtyard, we're digging out 2nd Platoon before they suffocate along with our ammunition!"

The three ponies shout their acknowledgement back at me, cutting their Squad down to half manpower as they leave to assist me on my death march across the debris-littered courtyard.

"Stick to the walls, rifles in, shovels out, Throw is covering us from the 4th floor behind us, so don't worry about firepower!"

We move as fast as our hooves can carry us across the courtyard, throwing our weaponry across our backs and converging towards Scootaloo, who is already at work, having apparently found where to begin already. The sound of artillery homing in on my Platoon's building, and the sound of the Buck Mk. IV covering us, hurts my ears.

"Sir, the artillery only took out the outside facades, the buildings supports are holding strong"!

"Celestia's Sun, that's a relief! Belle, Spoon, Rumble, get to work digging the basement free of debris, move the ammunition we need to our building before it's too late"

"Aye sir!"

"Stabby, help me inside and help me find Lieutenant Lumber!"

I don't hear Scootaloo's reply over the thunder of war, but she quickly fishes me up in her hooves and throws me through a 3rd floor window into the collapsing building. Sun's Rays that filly is strong.

The scene inside is utter chaos, as ponies lie bleeding out on the ground riddled with holes from shrapnel and debris. The screams of the dying and the scent of clotting blood fills the apartment room. Underneath the layer of cement dust, the toys of a more innocent time are still visible on the ruined carpet. I suppose this was once a foal's room.

"WHERE IS LUMBER!?"

I shout at the top of my lungs, hoping to be heard over the ruckus. A pony turns her head, only to seemingly look directly through me. Shellshock most likely. She points at the ground, were her platoon leader lay gurgling on the floor, a piece of rebar having impaled him through the lung, clear liquid leaking out where the rusty steel meets fur.

"Everypony, leave the dying! Follow me, we've got enemy tanks moving in and we need your anti-tank weaponry in 3rd Platoon, NOW!" 

I shout, but to no response. The young ponies are too busy standing over their dead comrades in a near catatonic state. I've of course seen this a thousand times by now, even suffered through it. It's the natural consequence of the tight bonds of friendship that ponies naturally form with each other being severed much too quickly.

I take out my pistol, move to the nearest dying pony, a filly trying to hold her misplaced intestines inside her stomach, and put her out of her misery.

This catches their attention.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"

"SAVING YOUR LIFE!" I snap at the teenager, "There's NOTHING you can do for these ponies, but there is something you can do for the ones still living! Now get a BUCKING MOVE ON"

I start orchestrating the survivors. Priority is of course given to making sure we get the anti-tank launchers out of the building, followed by surplus ammunition. I'm not sure how much longer our building will stand up to the shelling, but it'll at least be longer than here.

I make it back to my platoons shelter with perhaps half of a platoon in tow. Together we'll make up one whole platoon, so at least we have a fully manned unit now. The firefight seems to have died down as well. First Squad, who were holding the ground floor, rush to the assistance of me and my merry band of supply mules, helping us carry the heavy ammunition crates into the basement of our apartment block.

"We seems to have beaten them back for now, Sir"

I can barely understand what Sergeant Glitterhoof is saying over his loud panting. He was never a strong unicorn, but he does his best to carry his weight, even after his horn was shot off.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Glitter. Get the anti-tank weapons distributed along the floors, we still haven't heard from 1st Platoon since they reported tanks over the radio."

"You got it."

Sergeant Glitterhoof was a jeweler, and is one of the few ponies here with a cutiemark. While I doubt he will ever be able to perform the tasks he was capable of before the war, with him now missing his horn and all, he has become an invaluable aid to me as the leader of First Squad. While he has the same rank as me, that is only because we have had no time for promotion ceremonies for years. Because of that, I am still officially a sergeant while de-facto occupying the role of a Captain.

The PATR recoilless rifles are quickly distributed amongst the newly reformed platoon, as I move up the the 4th floor once more. It's time for me to once again begin my useless daily ritual. I sit down at the radio, turn it on and grab the microphone, speaking as I shuffle across channels.

"Battalion, this is 3rd Platoon, come in, over."

~scrrrrrrrrrttttttttttt~

"Battalion, this is 3rd Platoon, come in, over."

~scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttt~

And such my futile attempt at saving the ponies under my command continues. This has been going on for 2 weeks now, as Manehattan continues to be besieged by Queen Chrysalis' 3rd Army. Rumors from before contact was lost had it that Feldmarschall Trimmel himself was coming down with his 1st. Panzer Division to finish the job. I really hope it wasn't him that 1st Platoon were panicking over a couple hours ago.

"Battalion, this is 3rd Platoon, how copy, over."

~scrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttttt~

I raise my hoof at my assistant platoon leader, Sergeant Partytime, to order some coffee as the radio continues giving me nothing but static.

sccccccrrrtttttttttis is Wing 3, we copy, over.

Party drops the cup in shock, spilling coffee all over the floorboards. I grab the microphone with greater gusto than I have mustered in weeks.

"Wing 3, this is Functioning Captain Trenchline Hope with 3rd Platoon of the 1st Battalion of the Royal Equestrian Army, who am I speaking with, over."

"This is Captain Rainbow Dash with the Third Close Air Support wing of Her Twin Majesties Royal Air Corps, now give me some targets Captain, over."

I shout at the top of my lungs in relief, but quickly come to my senses, my military concerns winning out over my dopamine rush.

"Stabby, get Stabby up here now! And get me the flare pistol and rounds!"

My staff scramble to their feet to give me what i ask for, and within seconds Scootaloo stands ready, outfitted with a flare pistol to mark our enemies for death from above. 

"Wing 3, this is 3rd Platoon, we're sending our best to give you some targets. Do you have IR on your birds, over."

"3rd Platoon, this is Wing 3, we sure do, over."

Scootaloo doesn't need to hear any more, and quickly flies out the window at full speed. Her departure is soon followed by the hollow thud of the flaregun going off. The Changelings shoot after her of course, but she's a fast flier and hasn't let me down yet.

"3rd Platoon, this is Wing 3, we've got visual on your IR flare, confirm target, over."

"Wing 3, this is 3rd Platoon, target confirmed, let them have it, over."

The sound of roaring plane engines deafen me as the Skua's fly over our building, making a low pass to spray their payload of 8x magically amplified rockets at our designated targets. The ground quakes as the two buildings once housing the Changeling invaders collapse under the assault, and the screams of the damned fill the air, joining the hellish chorus already filling the battlefield.

"3rd Platoon, this is Wing 3, pass complete. We've got visual on an enemy mechanized unit moving towards your building. We're out of ammunition and are turning back to reload, hang in there until then, over."

I curse under my breath.

"3rd Wing, this is 3rd Platoon, thanks for the assist, and the heads-up, over."

I sigh deeply, standing up from my radio station to coordinate a response to this new threat, as an orange figure crashes through the window. Applebloom is the first to notice the identity of the feathered clump now lying on the floor.

"Shit, Scoot's been hit, MEDIC!"

The only remaining corpsman rushes to the young pegasus' side, as I bite my tongue to contain my frustration.

"Enemy mechanized unit moving in. We've got maybe 5 minutes before they're on us. First squad, move across the street and occupy the ruins opposite of us and on the left. Third squad, ditto, but on the right, got that?"

A chorus of ayes meet my rapid command.

"Clear out remaining Changeling survivors and set up for a crossfire. We'll try to lure them towards us, and in-between you so your PATR's can penetrate their hide. Go go go!"

The squads scramble out of the building, just in time for a violent scuffle to break out between the corpsman and Applebloom.

"What do you mean? SAVE HER!"

A right hoof strikes the corpsman before I can break up the scuffle, Applebloom raging against my grip to the backdrop of Scootaloo's labored breathing. I guess she didn't make it out unharmed this time.

"I'm sorry Bloom, but Stabby needs a field hospital and we have none. It'd just be a waste of morphine to do anything!"

The corpsman rapidly backs off as Applebloom escapes my hooves. I'm about to reprimand her, before I notice that she isn't charging for the corpsman any more, but for the broken body of her friend.

"Scoot, come on, Scoot! You promised we'd get our cutie marks once the war was over, don't break your promise, come on!"

Alas, shaking the bleeding pegasus does little to revive her. I signal to the corpsman and to the rest of the squad to leave Bloom to her grief. We need to get to work.

"Scoot... please..."

The pool of blood seeping from Scootaloo now envelops Applebloom as well, as her tear-choked voice hoarsely begs the dying pegasus to defy reality and stand up. Needless to say, it's not going to happen. This is really an awful time to loose two of my best soldiers, but there's nothing to do but to work with what I have.

"Throw, I'm going to need you to take a risk. Move from window to window, shoot at their lightly armored vehicles, draw them in."

"Aye Sir!"

"Everyone else, fire the PATR's at their frontal armor. It's not going to do anything, but we need them to get bold if we want this to work. Now get into position, chop chop!"

The 7 functioning squad members rush to their tasks, as I move towards the sobbing pony hanging over her now dead friend. If I recall, the two of them were part of a group they called the "Cutie Mark Crusaders". Apparently, they wished to help each other earn their cutie marks. A dream that will now never be realized, just like the dreams of the hundreds before them.

"Bloom, it's over for her, but not for you. You have to get up."

I put my hoof on her shoulder. It's quivering.

"Why Sir? Why is it like this? I remember playing outside with her like it was yesterday... Why can't it go back to how it once was?"

Part of what she says strikes me, and I feel my facade cracking. I get up and leave her to her grief before I get pulled into it as well. That can't happen. I am needed sane and present. My issues can come, when the Changelings are gone.

The roar of anti-tank rifles affirms my thoughts, as my diversion tactic kicks into gear. I rush down the creaky stairs once more, ready to shout out orders to relocate to my ponies, so that they are not shot in retaliation too fast. Many of them will die because of this gambit, I am experienced enough to know that with certainty, but the least I can do is limit the amount to the best of my ability.

The mechanized platoon draws closer, as HE shells rock our compound.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

The beat of warfare fills my ears, drowning out the cries for help coming from Galloping Carrier, who has been dismembered at the waist by one such HE shell. At least he dies quickly, the hole in the wall revealing the guilty Panzer IV responsible for this murder. Its engine roaring as it advances towards me.

"Got you now you cockroach"

The Changeling armor is lit up by rocket-fire from the sides, many of them ceasing movement after only the first volley. Screaming changelings emerge from the tanks' hatches, skin set ablaze by the searing hot metal ricocheting inside their hull. They are lit up and put out of their misery before long. Before long, the ambush is over, and the 3 remaining tanks wave little white flags over their cupolas.

I command my platoon to cease fire, as I move with 2nd Squad to "secure" the prisoners of war. Moving across the ruined streets of Manehattan towards the surrendering tanks, exhaustion grips me and I fall to the ground.