Whistling Rain

by Schwabauer

Chapter 24 - Battle of Moro Station

Use the Scandinavian Reserve Army (SRA) to seize control of the Moro Rail station, situated forty miles within the border of the Equestrian Diarchy. They must hold the station and repel Equestrian Expeditionary Forces (EDF) in counterattack, so that future offensives may be conducted against the Equestrian Diarchy. If it is impossible to hold the Moro Rail Station, then the SRA is to defend the border from EDF probing assaults and prevent them from advancing.  
 

The region around Moro can be divided into two seasons, the flooded season and the dry season. During the flooded season the majority of the region is impassable due to the constant rains and snowmelt. This results in islands of dry land sticking out above the marshy, flooded swamp. The only path through the region is a single rail line, which has the Town of Moro situated in the middle of it, which acts as a depot and border guard post.  
 
The geographic features of terrain can be divided into several clear zones; the lowest zone is the lowlands, which is constantly flooded during the flooded season and dries out to a spongy marsh during the dry season, the second zone is the grasslands, which form the basis of the islands that poke out through the marsh, which is followed by hills and foothills, which stick further above the  mostly flat grasslands, and the final zone is the mountain itself, which towers above the rest. There are also two rivers that join into one large river that then drains into a lake. Dotted about are forest, thin and reedy in nature.  
 

Commander in Chief of the SRA: Balthasar Buus 
Commander of Swedish Reserve Corps: Robertssen Ostman 
Commander of Norwegian Reserve Corps: Herraldi 
Commander of Combined Reserve Corps: Wellesley Baldmen 
Commander of Danish Reserve Corps: Havn Bjork  
 
Air Fleet Admiral: Malik Von Moravia Morovia 

“All corps are in position sir, but the air fleet has had a last-minute change in command. Von Morovia has replaced Von Moravia after a suicide. Both were architects of the program, so it shouldn’t be too divergent of a command. Our scouts failed to find any of the enemy positions, but we are certain that they are here.” 
 
Nodding, General Buus looked at his map and the positions of his commanders before issuing orders, “Have the Swedes move to defend the river and entrench if they can. The Combined Reserve should move up to the hill across the way and entrench there. Have both the Norwegians and Danes push into the station and then entrench their positions. Have Morovia send forces to help secure the town and hold a reserve the defend the center.” 
 
“Yes sir, I’ll send the dispatch right away!” Said the aide right before darting off and sending the messengers every which way, galloping to every commander throughout the army. Soon the predawn would be lit not with the sun, but cannon fire. 
 

Havn Bjork sat on his horse near the peak of a mountain, issuing orders to his brigades below. Three of his brigades were lower on the mountain, arranged in a shallow convex facing southeast south. His other two brigades stood ready on the railroads, prepared to march into town. Across the grassland in front of him there was no movement, and it was deadly still in the night. 
 
Havn issued orders to his commanders in the convex facing south and west on the mountain to dig in, building trench works in depth to defend themselves. The other was ordered to descend onto the plains beneath them and then prepare defenses. One of the two brigades on the railroad was ordered to conduct a probing assault on the town, while the other was ordered to take up position in the grasslands beside the other brigade. 
 
General Bjork sent a message to his Norwegian counterpart, and they informed each other of their locations and current plans. He then sat down on his small hand carved stool and ate a delicious little pastry, enjoying the warm mountain air that reminded him of summer in his homeland. At the same time, he joked and chatted with his aides around him, making the most of the peace before the battle. 
 

General Herraldi’s hand rested on his (mostly) ceremonial war axe, carved with the sigils of his ancestor’s past victories and defeats. He wore the skin of a wolf on his head and cast an imposing shadow with his strapping frame more akin to a Nordic berserker than an infantry commander. His aides were all selected to cast a similar shadow down upon those around them, with his personal guard selected to be slightly shorter than average to emphasize the image. 
 
His brigades were arranged overlooking the lowlands and muddy marshes beneath the grasslands, facing towards the island across from them. One unit was held behind the hill Herraldi stood strong on, waiting in reserve. He made a grim smile and raised his hand high above his head, and let it drop. 
 
That sent his five brigades marching across the muddy lowlands towards the other island of firm ground under his well-rehearsed orders, stepping off at nearly the exact moment Herraldi made the motion. In the same moments he received correspondence form the Danish commander and sent his response before marching off with his brigades towards death and glory. 
 

Wellesley Baldmen sat beside his cannon twisting the knuckle of his index finger nervously, debating his first command. His early positioning had been poor, placing him in the grasslands almost directly across from a tall hill that blocked most of his view of the lowlands beneath him. To his right flank was a wide drainage river and a small lake, which he was confident would protect his flank.  
 
After much deliberation and discussion with his staff officers General Baldmen ordered his units to march across the lowlands to the hill across from their current position, and then to dig trenches. He marched along beside his cannon, admiring their shine and bore in the twinkling moonlight. 
 

Robertsson Ostman stood steadfast, ankle deep in the lazily moving river watching the tide flow past. His cigar’s tip glowed a dull orange in the night, a signature to his men over the many years of his command. He stood in the water puffing on his cigar, contemplating where on his map he should place his cannons to defend the second river. 
 
At precisely four he made a gesture with two of his fingers, propelling his brigades into action as they began to ford the river. Two of them broke off and marched further down along the river to create a single cohesive line of defense on the western flank of the SRA. 

Admiral Von Moravia Morovia was issuing orders to his officers and dividing up the squadrons that his predecessors had made to be more suitable for his tastes. His dress uniform was unbuttoned and chaotic, with his admiral bicorn nowhere to be seen.  
 
He sent on of his three newly organized squadrons to guard the skies over the combined corps, while sending a smaller one to help the assault on the town of Morro. The majority of the fleet, however, stayed with his flagship and moved to a space between the Norwegians and Combined Corps, waiting to react to a threat. 
 

Two full brigades of Equestrian infantry were marching double time across the grasslands towards Bjork’s defensive positions. His troops began to prepare for engagement, sending out their skirmishers who hid in the gently whispering tall grass, staging hundreds of cannon rounds beside their guns, ready to be thrown in one after another, and distributing water to those digging the trenches. 
 

Three of Ostman’s brigades had just barely crossed the second river when a scout General Ostman looked with impassive eyes at the corps of enemy infantry marching over the hill just before him. In the distance another formation was approaching, kicking up a significant amount of dust. And further to the south he had spotted yet another full corps, which was moving towards him. He calmly ordered his brigades to fall back east of the river and prepare the guns. Ostman will let the ponies come to them. The early morning air was thick with anticipation of the coming engagement. 

The ponies marched straight into the maw of the waiting Danish brigades. Lights harassed their formations as they approached, disrupting and confusing the inexperienced troops. The steady crackle of small arms fire and the smell of sulfur begin to fill the air, mingling with the cries of the occasional wounded pony.  
 

Herraldi’s face split with a grin as the pegasi above him charge towards his lead brigade, shouting “Let them fly through a storm of Lead!” 
 
With that order a hailstorm of bullets was let fly, tearing apart the charging pegasi with cannister, shrapnel, and musket shot alike. Legs and wings were shredded, jaws inverted, and bodies juiced. Within moments the first assault faltered, only to be replaced with a second assault. The second battalion unleashed its hate this time, once again pulping the pegasi as they charged. 
 
Then the skirmishers began to fire on an advancing equestrian corps, plinking away at them until the forward guns of Herraldi’s forward most battalions firing deep ruts through the marching columns of the unprepared corps. Within thirty minutes they began to fall back, their cohesion shattering under the merciless onslaught of Herraldi. 
 

The Danish artillery had so far been silent, letting the skirmishers draw them ever closer and closer, towards the light earth works concealing the line infantry. And then, General Bjork gave the order. It signaled the utter destruction of an entire corps, and the partial of another. As the last of the skirmishers broke off from the engagement hundreds of cannon and thousands of muskets fired at once, shredding tens of thousands of ponies in a single instant. And then kept firing. And firing. And firing. A shoal of Glasglow shells started an intense fire behind the corps, trapping them in their own, mass-produced hell. By the end of the hour, the stragglers forming a half battalion were streaming away, wounded and rattled.  
 

The steady thump of artillery shook the earth, flying out across the river into the oncoming formations of ponies. They ripped apart enemies as they tore through rows of advancing pikeponies. As Ostman looked back across the river he could no longer see the muddy marsh that had covered the lowlands before, instead only tens of thousands of ponies, their banners flapping in defiance to his artillery. Another volley erupted from somewhere further down the line, making the ponies across the river question their defiance.  
 
A sudden crackle of musket fire erupted to his south. Casting his gaze towards the sound he watched as two brigades laid down a withering wave of lead, which washed over the approaching pony formations. Their units stuttered, and the organization was disrupted, slowing their advance and creaking cracks to be exploited. 
 
As he watched yet more enemy troops began to march into view, coming around the bend of the islands of grassland. He puffed on his cigar, concerned as he turned his gaze up at the sky, watching an enemy airship send and receive fire. It’s enchanted ballista bolts carved holes into companies scattered about the riverbanks, and then had chunks knocked out of hit by the hate of a cannon.  An enemy squadron was operating overhead, trying to inflict disruption onto Ostman’s corps, and succeeded. It was also supported by several units of pegasi, but those were turned away with short and simple volleys of musket fire. 
 

Herraldi stood and watched his brigades sweep up the mountainside and force back the pony brigades that had tried to ambush his lead unit. The surprise flanking maneuver over the mountains had slammed them from the rear and sides, shattering their morale with a continued wall of lead followed by well-placed bayonet charges into the disrupted pike formations.  
 
His center brigade had taken heavy loses, pushes by pike and bolt units breaking through the lines and cutting away the edges of every formation and slowly moving in. Magic was used to significant effect, ripping apart tightly knit units and shattering pulling away soldiers into the empty space between units to be ripped into bloody piles by waiting heavy infantry formations. From the air came squadrons of pegasi, barely dodging outside of the range of his air support and picking away at troops, but more often than nought was assassinated by a musket rather than drag a man away with his spear. Their fighting ability was reduced, and had he not been guiding them personally they would have broken under the weight of the onslaught. 
 
His final brigade embroiled in combat was down in the marshes, firing into the flanks of the main assault from the town. Their fire had reduced effect due to the elevation difference, but with enough trigonometry even the oldest of guns could eradicate a soldier without a mere second of delay. Unfortunately for the musket men that took after Herraldi they could not fulfil their bloodlust to a sufficient degree. 
 

One of Baldmen’s brigade began to dig in on the marsh between the islands, with reports received from the series of airships overhead indicating no small formation of infantry approaching from behind the hilltop. A thick layer trench and Chevaux de frise were splayed out in preparation, ready to resist any charge down the hillside. Their standards waved with pride and were all at the ready to stare down their enemies. 
 
Along his main line the brigades were engaged in close, viscous combat with enemy brigades, lines less than a hundred feet apart in spots, with constant heavy exchanges of fire as they shredded the front ranks of the units. Musket and canister shot would swing out in a volley against the equestrians, only to be responded to with a wail of steel bolts lamenting the loss of their comrades.  
 
Overhead an air battle raged on, broadsides erupting between ships at dangerously close distances, breaking apart boarding and breaching boilers. Debris rained down on Baldmen’s and the Equestrian troops, inflicting light wounds to crushing deaths wherever they fell. 
 

Von Morovia’s center fleet engaged enemy airships over the Norwegian forces blazing away as they engaged an enemy fleet. Pegasi attempted air infiltrations, only to be beaten back by a combination of cannister shot and air marine action. Inside his cabin he felt his ship shudder as it was battered by ballista, and sway as its heavy guns fired in either direction, deep and substantial rumbles constantly filling his ears and filling his chest with grandiose sublimity as he thought of the inflicted damage. The center fleet was operating with greatly reduced strength, all of its rapidly constructed hot air balloons had been taken out by errant pegasi, their pilots pulled from their baskets and dropped four hundred feet to their demise. His blimp faced a similar fate, a surprise ballista bolt destroying it before it could even fire its guns. He could, however, take solace in the fact that the wooden airships with him were undamaged and firing down into infantry formations.  
 
The eastern fleet was operating under no stress whatsoever, simply covering the Norwegian units from the air and bombing the Equestrian formations on the ground. The only air units they had to face were ill equipped pegasi squadrons, lacking the equipment to even try to pry open the hatches on the airships, leading to swift small arms fire pushing them off their backs. 
 
To the west was a less optimistic story. The fleet he had dispatched to move into cover the Swedish fleet was intercepted by a vastly superior Equestrian fleet and taken by surprise it lost a significant portion of its forces to a wood and blimp squadron. The entire hot air fleet was burned away, while one of the wooden airships was sent to its grave, plowing a rut into the ground when the boiler powering flight exploded. Yet more fleets could be seen in the distance, rapidly approaching their position. 
 

When Herraldi’s center broke, it was no mean feat of the Equestrian brigades assaulting them. They managed to force a hole straight through them, splitting the cohesion of the brigade and inflicting even greater losses, which soon forced them to flee the battlefield. This is made more impressive by the fact that the brigades breaking through were nearly entirely surrounded by other Norwegian brigades, firing directly into them, as bombs rained down from the air fleet above. What really made the difference was ten full pegasi squadrons throwing themselves into the assault, each of them being beaten off, yet adding just enough pressure to create openings for the spear heads to force their way in. Herraldi himself stood and fought, swinging his axe at those who dared to get near, beheading two pike ponies in the course.  
 
The forces to his side fared much better, taking minimal losses while continuing to push inwards towards the town from all sides. But this success had a negative tinge to it. While the two Equestrian corps in the town were being beaten back, another full and fresh one could be seen hooking around Herraldi’s West hook in the marshes. 
 

The first corps of Equestrian forces began to cross the rivers, with the next in line pressing close behind. Ostman grinned with glee at their poor positioning as he ordered his units to focus on the units leading the pontoon and fording actions, disrupting their crossing with devastating effect. This glee was short lived, however when he spotted a fourth, or was it fifth? Corps of Equestrian troops coming, this time supported by a small air fleet. Taking another puff of his cigar, he prepared to repulse every assault on his position, least hell or high water join the overwhelming odds.  
 

The overwhelming assault of two full equestrian corpse broke two of Baldmen’s brigades at once, making them flee the battlefield as they did. The two in the main line continued to inflict losses, but with the collapse to their west they no longer had effective fire on any brigades closing on the single entrenched brigade, which was beginning to fire upon the approaching equestrians. 
 
Baldmen was hoisted up into Morovia’s flagship, and used this opportunity to better coordinate his forces and view the situation as it developed elsewhere on the battlefield. He prepared a messenger to order the isolated brigade to retreat, and it set on its way across the marsh.  
 

Just as before, Von Morovia’s detachment to the east continued to face contention, instead only bombarding yet more ground troops, to negligible effect. Their fuses were ill timed, either exploding too early or too late, both giving ample time for their enemies to flee. Had they not wasted all their percussion shells earlier they could have at least attempted precision strikes but lacked the ability to do so now. 
 
In the center the rest of the Equestrian air presence there was silence by the heavy guns of Von Morovia’ s flagship. With well placed shots they sent enchanted munitions through the bowels of their own ship, reducing the ponies inside to horrid facsimiles of what they once were, be it through ripping gore or arcane warping.  
 
In the west came a mix of positive and distressing news. The detachment was down to the final two wooden airships at the start of the hour and had been reduced to none since. In the beginning they fired fiercely and quickly keeping enemy airships at bay and even downing a few. They fought relentlessly to give the entrenched brigade some form of relief. But then the enemy flagship and its guard steamed in, broadsiding one wooden sloop and bringing it rest on the ground, where pegasi picked away any survivors. The final wooden sloop of the squadron then steamed dead ahead, firing its guns in every which direction before ramming the flagship, shattering it’s own bow. And then the ammunition stores, despite being depleted, detonated and set of a series of chain reactions that obliterated both the Prussian sloop and the Equestrian flagship, sending them both into twisted, charred, and in some cases, petrified resting places on the grasslands below.  
 

Herraldi was pulled away from the ground by Prussian marines and into an airship to save him from the shame of being captured. To do so they had to wrestle him away from the skirmishers he was storming his way through and cutting apart. Unfortunately for him the rest of his corps no longer shared the same enthusiasm. Two more brigades broke and ran due to the withering effects of Equestrian magic and crossbows. In return they forced two Equestrians to retreat, but when outnumbered three to one such rations hardly mattered.  
 
His final unit in the marches could feel the noose tightening around its neck yet stood firm and fired devastating shots into the brigade before it. The full corps approaching from the flanks began to fire into it, albeit with little accuracy or effect, mostly landing harmlessly in the watery mud. His final unit in the mountains was taking losses but held strong. Yet its once withering return fire dwindled as the brigade level commanders tried to restore order. 
 

Bjork’s forces repositioned themselves to aid in the assault on Moro Station, arriving just in time to rescue the rapidly collapsing lines of the Norwegians. As they plugged the gaps, they began to create hook to the East of the Equestrian forces, mirroring the now crumbling Norwegian assault. Bjork himself waited patiently along the tracks, seeing what the assault on the mountains and hills would result in before exposing his staff to the dangers of crossbow fire. 
 

The Hordes of Equestrians did not relent despite the merciless fire that Ostman was offering them, sending thousands of them to watery graves. Entire companies drowned as they attempted to turn back from the assault, only to be trapped by the next wave from a different corps making their way to the killing pontoons. One of his brigades broke under the combined fire of three Equestrian brigades, but not before shattering one of them with waves of steel cannon shot as a parting gift.  
 
His first cigar was long burned out now, so he lit another as he viewed the carnage being exchanged. Many of his men were begging to do the same, the ineffective attempts by their opponents largely leaving them unaffected, especially as less than a third of their total forces were needed to hold the line at the river, giving many of them prolonged periods of rest before cycling back to manning the guns.  
 

Baldmen had lost contact with his entrenched brigade, with no response coming from them, nor could he see any attempts on their part to abandon their positions and fall back. Resigning them to death he began to pull his other two brigades back behind the Norwegian-Danish lines to let them recover before joining the push for the town.  
 

Inside the trenches of the entrenched brigade was chaos. They had received no such orders to fall back despite being utterly outnumbered, facing a corps and a half on their own, as well as an air fleet approaching overhead. The Brigadier general concluded they must hold this position to delay an enemy push towards the rail station and began preparing a final stand. The baggage trains were emptied of all their supplies and turned into fall back positions, and their cargo distributed amongst the enlistees.  
 
As the first wave approached, they fired savagely into the leading assaults, shattering a brigade on their Chevaux de frise. Along the edges of the trenches enemy formations faced less withering fire and began to spill into the first lines of defense, and a bloody melee broke out, with Prussians and Equestrians stabbing kicking and strangling each other in desperate trench to trench fighting. 
 

General Bjork’s forces suffered their first losses of the battle, which shocked many of the reservists who had been experiencing casualty less slaughters so far. One brigade was so shocked that it broke and ran, fleeing from the battlefield. The other brigades however fared much better, inflicting heavy losses on Equestrian brigades, and forcing enough to retreat that pressure was relieved on what remained of the Norwegian corps. The Eastern hook was now fighting on the outskirts of Moro, pushing the single brigade there further and further into the houses.  
 

After five hours of fighting along the first river Ostman was finally forced to concede ground. With a fighting retreat and repelling attacks at the river he inflicted thousands of more deaths and tens of thousands of casualties, many of whom drowned. Now his forces were in a fighting retreat, falling back while staying just outside the range of enemy fire.  
 
Ostman himself maintained his calm and collected composure, still puffing on a cigar and watching the Equestrian throw themselves into his waiting brigades. He winces slightly as a second brigade of his broke, a single lucky strike managing to behead much of the command structure and sending them running.  
 

The single entrenched brigade was taking losses but was dishing out significantly more. Of the seven brigades assaulting it only two remained, the rest having fled from their viscous claws. Air assets continued to pluck Prussians from the ground and drag them away to be set upon by waiting pikemen. Many of the officers of the unit were dead, with the chain of command relying on lower and less experienced officers to make decisions for formations many times larger than that of what they were trained to. The boiling sun added to the stress, with steam from the marshes making fighting harder for both sides. 
 

Estimated Prussian Losses; 

• 30,000 Ground forces 
• 8,000 dead 
• 20,000 wounded 
• 2,000 deserted or captured 
• 16 Air ships
• Three Wooden Sloops 
• Ten Hot Air Fighters 
• Two helium sloops 
• One Helium ship of the line 

Estimated Equestrian Losses:  

• 80,000 Ground Forces 
• 6,000 Pegasi 
• 18 Air ships