//------------------------------// // 9: Sacred War // Story: Anon von Bismarck // by WojakWriter //------------------------------// You are Freidrich van den Tann, general of the Griffon Empire, marshal of the Grand Army of the East. It was you who Emperor Willem Gunnar had charged with taking and holding the Island of Griffisch, that the ponies called Trottingham. And you had done so in spectacular fashion. Not a day after the war declaration was supposed to be announced, your forces had already crushed the meagre garrison and either seized or scuttled their ships in port After that, it was simple police work until the next movement order came. But then, things slowed to a standstill. For reasons still not known to you, you hadn't received further orders. Word came down through gossip that General Wiborg had failed to take the Northern Narrows, despite commanding an army larger than your own. The damnable glory seeking fool. But then it had come down that the Equestrians were mobilizing an army, and the Crystal Empire had expanded their forces as well. So you gave the order that you had never desired to give, for it meant defeat was a possibility. You ordered your soldiers to dig in. A mile outside the city, you'd had your thousands strong army establish a front of trenches, embanked guns, and pitfalls. Your initial supplies had not included any proper fortifying equipment, so you had confiscated shovels, picks, and hoes from the farmers on the island. There had been complaints, but no real opposition. Not that the ponies even posed a threat anymore. Even more worrying was that the supply runs had been sending fewer ships through as the Equestrian Navy began to close a noose around the harbor. Just this morning, they had begun to bombard the few ships you had at anchor. Fortunately you'd had the foresight to move most of what supplies were left off the boats. But you'd still lost twenty griffons and perhaps five hundred tons of supplies, much of it food. And now your army was running low on it. Discipline was starting to fall apart, and more cases of abuse of the pony residents had begun to crop up. And despite your crackdowns on movement of the troops, you knew that it would continue. This was the nature of an army that had been on the warpath, and now was relegated to standing still. Professional or conscripted, no soldier could stand up to boredom for long. And so it was you found yourself on the battlements, staring out at the masts and funnels of enemy ships A tap on your shoulder reminds you of the company you're keeping this morning. “Sir, shall we get to it?” Your adjudant, Major Granwall, stands behind you with a colonel from the disciplinary corps. The same colonel that had refused to give him anything but his rank, simply producing the crest of the emperor to prove who he was. A pain, but you know why it was as it was. “Yes, we may as well.” The major nodded and turned to the inside of the fortifications. “Brigade, atten-tion! Prepare for general inspection!” A thousand griffons snap to attention as one, lined up in ranks with muskets at the ready. With a quiet sigh, you began to walk down the first rank of troops, giving quick glances to their equipment and randomly picking an individual to inspect in more detail. Overall, and to your surprise, the majority are in good order. You had expected a poor turnout because of the lack of discipline, but this was a pleasant surprise. You would have to be sure to compliment the CO of this brigade, Griffonstone Homeguard judging by the unit insignia. They're living up to the name of the glorious capital, it seems. The inspection continues for another two hours, perusing line upon line of troops. It's actions like this that truly give you a sense of scale for your force. Five brigades of the eastern group, a total of seven thousand infantry, four hundred heavy guns with their crews, forty squadrons of airborne cuirassiers, and various support personnel. The largest gathering of the military might the Empire had see. Since the Capra Wars twenty years ago. You'd been a cuirassier yourself back then, eager to get your bayonet into the enemy after the opening volley. But this would be a different war. The ponies, though seemingly weak, still challenged the might of the griffons. But with their precious sun goddess gone, her sister a barely sane degenerate, and a semi-intelligent monkey leading them, this was the time to strike to their heart. So as you walked down the lines of your troops, the question still weighed upon you. Why did the government delay sending orders to move? A sounding bugle snaps you out of your reverie. You recognized the series of notes immediately, a scout had caught sight of the enemy. The soldiers on parade look around in confusion, unsure of whether to stay in line or man the battlements. A ragged looking runner comes on the .wing, shouting urgently for your attention Despite the sudden knot forming in your stomach, you calmly turn to face him. “Report, corporal.” The low ranked NCO thrusts out his chest, breathing heavily from the flight ”Corporal Kriggsen reporting, first squadron, Blackhearth Shrikes sir. A large enemy force has been sighted heading straight for us. Numbers unknown, but their front is a mile wide sir!” You can't stop your eyes from widening at the report. Certainly, you had heard the ponies had been mobilizing forces, but to muster a number to cover an entire mile of front? This was not something that you had planned for. Who could expect a nation with virtually no soldiers to muster enough to retaliate this quickly? Having heard the report, Major Granwall is already shouting order to the troops, having them get to their positions and prepare for immediate combat. The dust and chaos of thousands of griffons taking to wing to get to their posts to quickly is overwhelming. But through it all, you stand still, a rock in a stormy sea of madness. This was what it meant to be a general at war The corporal takes off to join his own squadron, and you walk back to an observation tower behind the battlements. You needed your own assessment of the enemy before you made any immediate decisions. You climbed the tower and were joined at the top by the major, the colonel from the discipline corps having disappeared like a ghost. A slight shiver runs through your spine, noticed only by Granwall. ”I know sir, those discipline members are certainly something.” Major Granwall had been with you for a decade now, and understood you better than even your wife did now. He was an officer well on his way to one day becoming a general in his own right. But for now, you were glad to have his help. “Indeed, now let's get a look at what these ponies have mustered.” You take up your spyglass from a table with several optics and signal flags and put it to your eye, scanning the horizon for the enemy. There, you couldn't see the ponies themselves, but there was an immense cloud of dust, with unit pennants flapping in the wind. It was as the scout had said, a mile wide front. The sight chilled you, for so many troops would be an incredibly difficult fight. At the very least, they couldn't be too well trained, they'd only have had a month to train for this. Maybe they had turned to using massive waves like the Stallionists. In the distance, you hear the muffled thud of artillery. Scanning for the source, you see several odd looking ironclads with lumps on their decks. As you continued to observe the ships, there are puffs of smoke issuing from those lumps at a steady rate. Guns, you realize. But what could they be firing at? The answer comes seconds later as a pillar of dust rises from positions a few hundred yards down the line from you. Another shiver runs through your bones, and you find your wings twitching at your side. How in the name of the gods were they able to throw shells so far? Even the largest guns on your ships could only fire perhaps a mile, and certainly not accurately. That ship was at least five miles distant, and it was pounding your troops. What devils were the ponies dealing with these days, you wondered. No matter, your troops were better disciplined and as well equipped as the enemy, surely you would triumph. The staccato noise of volley fire runs up and down the lines as at last the enemy is in range. Return fire is meagre at best, a few shots coming in every so often. Such was the nature of assaults such as this, troops on the march had to conserve as much ammunition as possible. But you had the benefit of fortifications and an excess of ammunition and powder. What's more, you think at the thuds of artillery sound off, you had the guns. The kings of the battlefield. The sounds of battle ebb and flow for the next fifteen minutes, a familiar rhythm. Far down the line, further away from the shore, you hear a bugle sounding, but confusion swells over you. Why was it sounding the pursuit of a retreating force? Sighting in the source, you see the pennants of the enemy falling back on that flank. Clearly the attack had broken there, but that was no reason to leave the battlements. With a sigh, you said “Major, signal to the Imperial Legion to reign in that charge. We mustn't allow ourselves to be drawn into a foolish opening so quickly.” Even as Granwall takes up the flags and begins signaling, you can already see it's too late. Half of that brigade was already out of their trenches and pursuing the enemy. You sighed heavily, Colonel Aachen wouldn't be holding his position for long after this. But even as you vow to send the offender home, you can see the other pennants begin to shift backwards. It seems the threat of even an ill-advised charge was enough to force a general retreat. Another bugle sounds, this time on the side of the trenches that had weathered bombardment. It seemed yet another brigade was preparing to join in the pursuit of a fleeing enemy. Even as you sympathize with their desire to escape the inexplicable barrage, you grind your teeth quietly. Though it may not have been evident in the inspection, it was clear that discipline issues were in all ranks of your force. Fortunately, the three central brigades at the core of the lines had seen the signals and remained in the defenses. But it didn't change that nearly two and a half thousand troops were running away from their posts, and away from the cover of the cannons. “Granwall, signal four squadrons to fly cover for those idiots. I don't want them getting picked to pieces because they fled their cover.” He nodded and turns to relay the message with his flags. You continue to observe the retreat of the enemy, and subsequent advance of your own forces. As mad as the charge was, it didn't seem anything was going wrong with it. It was a rather disciplined march at double time, not a headlong dash of glory. Perhaps this would result in a crushing victory and you'd be seen as an overly cautious old man. Perhaps. But deep down, you knew it was better to be cautious than reckless. You had known too well the price of being rash. Your rebuilt left leg was a testament to that. You are Thunderous Hooves, captain of a small platoon of the Equestrian Army, and heir to the Hooves fortune. You were a noble. And right now you were longing for the stodgy boredom of Canterlot. You had been charged with making your platoon seem like a far larger force. To that end, they had been spread as wide as they could be while still being able to be commanded. You'd been given three different unit pennants as well, to further confuse observers. And finally, you were kicking up as much dust on the march as you could. Overall, it made for quite the convincing illusion of strength, especially with half a regiment spread all across a massive front line. No heavy guns of course. The mission was simply to get within maximum shooting distance, engage for a little while, then retreat in a seemingly disordered fashion to lure out the griffons. Casualties would be minimal, according to the generals that planned this. It still didn't stop you from shivering when the dull thuds of heavy guns reached your ears. Fortunately, the griffons seemed to be holding their fliers in reserve, instead of using them to spot where shots were landing. That meant that, at the very least, their shells weren't landing with any kind of accuracy. Finally, the crackle of shots from the defenders means you're in rifle range. You laid on your belly, planting the banner in the ground and fire off a round in the general direction of the griffons. Slowly, smoothly, you load another round just as you've been trained. It was a simple drill, taught to you by the trainers in Canterlot. Rotate bolt open, draw back, place round inside, rotate bolt closed, aim, fire. You continued the rhythm for what feels like ages, until you hear the sound of a bugle in the distance. The enemy, you realized, signaling a charge. But they wouldn't charge unless they felt they needed to give chase. And that meant it was time. Shouting to the ponies nearby, you call for a retreat, picking up your pennant and slinging your rifle. You begin falling back, away from the enemy rifles and guns, through the smoke and dust of a barrage. Not running flat out, but going fast enough to keep ahead. Another bugle sounds behind you, on the opposite flank to the first. A second charge, from a different unit. Perfect. No more horns blared, and outside the quieting shellfire and panting of your own breath, things begin to hush. You didn't have far to go, just a couple miles until you're safe. Internally, you damned the policy that makes young nobles automatically officers in times of war. Worse was that you had simply drawn the short straw to be deployed. Emphasis on “young noble”, you had hardly turned 18 last summer. But right now was no time for griping though, you had to stay ahead of the enemy. Besides, if you survived this, there would be some glory in it for you. The march feels as though it goes on forever, the shrieks of the griffons dogging your heels the whole way. But at long last, you come over the last hill and jump into the waiting trenches. You barely had time to catch your breath, finally beside your fellow soldiers once more, before you hear the griffons drawing close. A voice echoes down the line as you stand over the lip of the trench, rifle ready. “Hold fire!” A bead of sweat trickles down your face, stinging your eye. You could see the griffons charging down the hill across from you now. It was just like the generals had planned. A cacophony of noise assaults your ears as the big guns open up, just as the griffons hit the middle of the lowland. Through the ringing in your ears, you can hear the order. ”Fire!” You don't hesitate, and along the line the deafening volley blasts forth and tears into the ranks of the charging griffons. Their entire first rank collapses, even as their fellows push on. As fast as you can ram cartridges into the chamber, you're firing. You don't even take the time to have careful aim, simply sending lead into the seemingly endless horde of griffons. Distantly, you register the dirt and bodies sent skyward by detonating shells as your artillery zeroes in. But in almost an instant, the big guns cease firing, and through the settling smoke you see there are still innumerable enemies standing in the field. You hold your fire, as does most of the line, letting your weapon cool. They seem to be milling about aimlessly, and in the distant sky you see small, flapping shapes approaching rapidly. It was only a matter of time till they charged again, and the fliers were on you. But for whatever reason, you could not bring yourself to load and fire again. You dove for cover as a number of bullets strike the dirt and ponies around you. Their screams echoed in your ears as you huddle in the bottom of the trench. The bodies and blood of your fellow soldiers pooled into the trenches, staining the dark earth a crimson red. You hugged yourself as you laid in the trench. You just want to go back to Canterlot. You just wanted to go home. You wanted your mom. In the distance, you can clearly hear the cacophony of battle. Your blood rises, and your wings instinctively spread at the noise, both from excitement and fear. As the guns thud in the distance, your heart beats in time. You wanted nothing more than to get in there and make sure the battle is won. But Princess Luna has ordered you to hold position, and you dare not question her, no matter how anxious you are. You are Spitfire, leader of the Wonderbolts, and right now, you are impatient. More than that, your nerves are alight even more than your first day at the academy. Half of the reserves had been called up to bolster the ranks of the newly organized Equestrian Army Air Division. At least you had avoided the burden of any rank higher than commander. And besides, it meant that you could still see action instead of being a boring officer. Being handpicked for a mission by the princess of the night helped with that too, of course. You and the Wonderbolts First Squadron had been selected as the air arm of Luna's Black Bats, and had received extensive training with the use of both lances and specialized carbines made specifically for fliers. Your orders were to break the spine of any enemy air assault with a violence that left them unable to continue to dream of fighting. You had grinned like a devil when Luna outlined your mission like that. Since fillyhood, you'd been far more aggressive than most ponies, and your first CO had even remarked that you must be part dragon. It was hard to argue with that one when you'd topped the combat drills and set records that stood for years. And now, finally, your years of training would be put to good use. Your second in command, Soarin, comes up beside you and chuckles quietly. “This is getting you all hot and bothered, eh boss?” You can't stifle the sudden burst of laughter, and you punch him in the shoulder. “And what about you, is that a cannon in your pants or are you just happy to see me?” He's quick with a response, like he always is. “You know me, I'm a sucker for a woman in uniform.” You both shared a laugh before quieting down and staying awkwardly silent. Pre-fight jitters were getting to you, and him as well. It didn't take a unicorn to see the slight tremble in Soarin's frame, or Fleetfoot further down the line, fiddling with her mane. Even Blaze, usually more reckless than even you were, is clicking her teeth together nervously. Only Luna, standing a few feet in front of you, seemed to be calm. She stands firm, resplendent and intimidating in her deep blue armour, her usually flowing mane restricted by a tight ponytail. It’s like she was born for this. Others lay in wait beside her, unicorns and earth ponies who had passed the rigours of her vicious training. Even you with your years of experience with such methods was taxed by how far she took it. But here you were now, waiting to fight. You shifted your legs to lower yourself into a more stable stance, only recently having become used to the small metal plates that had been added to your uniform for protection. They could stop most things the gryphons used, short of a cannon blast. But they were heavy, and made flying slower. You only hope the protection is worth it. A light helmet with a metal guard for your muzzle had been issued as well, protection against fragments that were sure to come. You see Luna raise her right hoof, straight into the air as though beckoning the stars themselves to aid her. You know the signal and put the metal guard over your mouth, your pulse echoing loudly in your ears Luna continues to hold her hoof up for several heartbeats that drag into an eternity. But then, finally, it falls. In an instant, you and the other Wonderbolts burst through the treetops, winging towards the enemy as hard as you can. Immediately, you zero in on exactly what you were to attack Four squadron sized elements of griffon cuirassiers were moving to support their badly mauled and retreating ground forces. The wind rushing against you rattles the long lance held at your side with a brace Four to one odds? Easy. Adrenaline surges through you as you charge forth, the near mile distance vanishing rapidly You pushed yourself to go fast, your wings straining to keep up such a speed. As you push even further, it feels as though the air is turning into syrup, sticking against you and slowing you. You strained to push yourself faster, but you recognize just how close you are to the enemy. You start to draw your lance out from under you, ready to kill. Pure reaction drives your movements, your wings snap tight against your body, your head lowers, and you clench your teeth for the terminal strike. With a force that rattles your skull and seems to shake the earth, your lance slams home into the griffon you had been charging As designed, the weapons midsection shatters, leaving you free to carry on as the head falls to the dirt inside a very dead griffon. A rapid succession of crashes and screams of pain echo around you as the other Wonderbolts all strike their targets But you've pushed beyond, wings wide open and dragging you higher. Your wings still and, at the peak of your glide, hold you steady. From your left side, you take the carbine from its cradle and sight in on a griffon who was floating in the air, stunned by the sudden attack. The weapon in your hooves recoils and the overwhelmed avian plummets to join his fellows on the ground. What griffons remain in the air after the alpha strike mill about in disarray that mirrors the chaos of their fellows in the infantry. But you and your squadron continued to fire. Before long, the broken enemy wings away as fast as they can. You take a moment and draw a long, shuddering breath. You and your friends had done it. Below you, Luna's forces have engaged the flank of the enemy, ensuring there was no retreat for them. But you weren’t done just yet. You and your fellow Wonderbolts climb to higher altitudes to observe the movement of any reserves the griffons had. But there were no more coming. And suddenly, there is naught but silence over the fields. Looking down, you see numerous griffons waving whatever white cloth they could find. You're pretty sure one is even swinging his underwear wildly in the breeze. A foalish giggle winds its way out of your throat, and a moment later you're laughing like a lunatic. Soarin comes over to see what the fuss is about, and you simply point out the one griffon. He too joins you in a giggle fit, and it's not long before all of you are laughing like fools. The battle had been won, and so easily! All that worrying, comforting ponies who were terrified to actually fight, staring sleeplessly into the night on watch praying that no ambush comes. Eventually, the laughter subsides and you see Luna gesturing for you to come down. As you lazily descend in a wide circle, you take in the remains of the griffon forces being rounded up. You note, with a bit of squeamishness, the number of stretcher bearers coming onto the field. Before long, you're standing before Luna, breathing heavily even as she smiles down at you. “Excellent work, Commander Spitfire. You and your Wonderbolts did a fine job of shattering their aerial forces. We are most impressed. Take your squadron and get a meal and some rest, but do not let your guard down. We still have a city to capture.” You snapped a salute to her smartly. “Yes ma'am!” Your voice echoes terribly inside the mouth guard you still haven't removed, and Luna stifles a giggle with a hoof. Embarrassed, you remove the offending equipment, salute again, and trot away to join the rest of your fellows. They've landed on the crest of a nearby hill, chatting amicably with each other. You see a great deal of gore coating their right sides, and you imagine you look much the same. It was the main drawback to weapons like lances, but after today it was hard to debate their effectiveness. The follow-up of climbing and shooting too was highly effective, and less dirty. The Wonderbolts greet you with cheers as you climb up to them, and you take it with good grace. “Yes, yes, I know how amazing I am already. Give it a rest.” They chuckle at you, and you continue. “Alright, we've been ordered to grab some grub and take a breather. I guess we're leaving clean-up to the infantry. But don't drop your guard, we've still got a town to liberate and I bet hay to horseapples we're not stopping till we take Trottingham.” Your audience nods solemnly, still smiling from the high of battle. “Alright, get outta here. Rest up and be ready to go.” They salute and responded as one. ”Yes ma'am!” With that, they trotted past you, heading towards the trenches behind you. You take a moment, staring at the city in the distance, and the banks and towers in front of it. Yes, you had won a serious victory today, perhaps THE victory that would push the griffons out of your homeland. But as you stared back at the carnage, seeing not just griffons on stretchers but ponies as well, you wonder just what that ultimate victory would cost. Perhaps too much. No that was impossible. We were right in this war, they attacked us first, you thought to yourself. Glory to Equestria.