//------------------------------// // 6, Minty // Story: Pony Tankers // by Michael Spruce //------------------------------// Minty sat in her gunner’s seat, working a green twig around in her mouth. It occupied a similar tactile feeling as a cigarette might, and helped give her something to do. She tapped her hoof just behind the right turret traverse pedal, forelegs crossed, firmly in “hurry up and wait” mode. A bundle of newly-acquired canteens hung by their straps from the gun cradle. They sat at the head of the small tank force, the smaller tanks behind them in a line, waiting to receive the signal to advance. The Major evidently felt it was best to make his move sooner rather than later, and the last few hours had mostly been spent making what repairs they could. The holes in all the machines had been patched with thin metal scraps, the burrs on the edges of the splash penetrations filed down so that Cashmere’s machinegun could move in its mount again, but, unfortunately, there had not been enough welding rods or time to fill in the innumerable pits and gashes in their armor. Behind her, the engine idled smoothly. It was running better than ever, which was odd, considering what Supercharger had to work with. The other experienced crewmembers, Supercharger and Thrash, sat or stood to their stations in similar attitudes of practiced boredom. Cashmere was nervously chewing her lip and writing a letter on a clipboard while she monitored the radio traffic. Supercharger had not even so much as looked Minty in the eye since their fight; she even made a special point on reporting to Summer directly once she was finished with the engine rather than have Minty do it. Minty looked over at the cause. He had his helmet pulled low over his head, his jaw firmly set, and his eyes straight ahead. His long infantry rifle sat clamped in a pintle mount in front of him. In the end, no one had been willing to part with their squad machineguns for the upcoming operation, and Minty had been too busy working on the tank to argue with anyone in Cashmere’s mild-mannered stead. As a short-term measure to replace it, Supercharger had been able to fashion an adjustable mount, weld it to the inside of the shell-hole in the turret face, and now their new and slightly unorthodox coaxial gun projected from the turret face a good deal farther than the original coaxial gun had. Summer sat proudly in her seat, temporarily a commander not just of her tank, but leading the others, too. Her horn projected through a hole between the dual hatches Minty had persuaded one of the welder ponies to cut specifically for this purpose when Supercharger left the tank alone to deliver her "personal report". Not only did Summer not have to crane her neck so much anymore when she sat, but also, in Minty’s opinion, it was worth the look on Supercharger’s face when she returned to find the work already finished. The extraction fan in the turret roof had been running for the last ten minutes straight to clear out the residual fumes. Cashmere, who had been tipping her ears attentively at something over her headphones, abruptly put down her clipboard and picked up her microphone. “Major Grapevine just gave the signal to move out, ma’am,” she said. “Relay the message to the squad and remind them to stay in line until I give the word,” Summer’s voice came over the intercom, though they could all hear her just fine. “Driver, ahead slow.” She sounded pleased, which worried Minty. The tank rumbled forward. Minty bit down on her twig. Just like last time, Summer didn’t tell them anything she felt they didn’t need to know, but it was clear to Minty that the plan was for them to move behind the infantry advance until the enemy was met, and then spearhead that advance. Their tank would be at the forefront, since the others were hampered by all-new crew and thinner frontal armor, and they would be the target of every one of those guns Minty had seen go by. She spat out the twig. It wasn’t her job to know things, it was her job to shoot the gun. It didn’t take very long for Minty to detect the distinct pop of small arms fire up ahead. This early? Her tapping on the floor increased in speed and lost its steady rhythm. Thrash noticed, looked over the gun cradle at her, and grinned. “First time playing with the infantry, eh? You nervous?” Minty worked the twig, retrieved from the floor, around to the right side of her mouth and frowned at him, sidelong. “No, and no,” she answered sourly. “Then why-” “Cut the chatter,” Summer ordered, and Thrash fell silent, but he still gave Minty a knowing look. Or, at least, a look he probably thought was knowing. Minty sucked in air and willed her leg to stop tapping on the floor. Of course she was nervous going into an action – she would be a fool not to, but what she really needed was a smoke. She was just on edge, that was all; she didn’t usually feel the urge to fidget like this. Right on time, Cashmere piped up. “First infantry platoon has made contact with the enemy and are requesting armored support. Second and third are engaging as well.” Summer considered for a second before answering. “Tell the squad I want them to fan out behind me in a wedge formation.” She glanced at her map, a different one this time, and added, “Driver, adjust two points left. Radiopony, pass on that instruction, and tell Second that I’m coming to their aid.” A tree passed close by on Minty’s left before the tank made the slight course adjustment. They motored for a minute more, the sounds of sporadic fighting increasing in frequency and volume, before Summer turned around and checked on the following tanks. She scowled and picked up her mic. “Radiopony, tell tank no.7 to form up on our right, not left.” “S- ma’am, he apologizes and says he’s only a radiopony,” Cashmere said. “Who, the radiopony?” “No, ma’am. The commander.” “That’s the one that lost everyone in the turret, right?” Summer asked. She visibly chewed on this. “Very well, tell them to stay ten meters off from us on the left, and tell tank no.18 to move twenty meters off our right. Better yet, put me on the frequency, and I shall tell them myself.” Tank no.7, as Minty had learned, had taken an armor-piercing shell through the front that had killed the commander and gunner outright, and wounded the loader so badly she died only minutes later. Now, the radio operator had taken over as commander, because only he and the driver knew anything about tank operations, and the driver was indispensable. He was trying his best, but he was definitely a weak link in the chain. “Um,” Cashmere began, “According to my training, I should be the one to take care of tank communication in battle… The commander needs to stay focused. Is what they said in training. Um.” “Nonsense,” Summer said. “I can handle it. Turn the squad frequency over to me; you just monitor things and fire the machinegun.” “Yes, ma’am,” Cashmere said, as the first few enemy bullets pinged on the front of the tank in a now-familiar sound. Summer sat up and peered through the forward vision slit in her cupola. Minty peered through her gunsight and saw a lot of dirt, fallen trees, and a muzzle flash, which was followed by a screech inside the tank as the bullet ricocheted off the turret roof. A deeper booming sounded, which was alarming. So, the enemy had managed to set up some of their towed guns, too, and this close. Minty had to give them credit, they were very industrious. Summer, strangely, didn’t seem very concerned. “Corporal Supercharger, Stop. Enlisted Metal, load high-explosive shell. Corporal Twist, rotate turret to 11 o’clock, distance 300 meters, elevation… one-half degree down.” Minty wished the commander would stick to using only degrees. While Summer was getting better at calling out targets, she still wasn’t very good, and what it mostly did was give Minty a place to start looking, which lost them valuable time as she hunted for where, exactly, the target was. “The trench, sir?” she asked. Through her gunsight, she could barely make out a shallow trench, banked with soft earth, over which a line of rifles poked menacingly. As fighting positions went, it was barely enough to keep the crystal ponies lying there out of direct rifle fire, with no apparent way to retreat; celestia, or whoever watched over them, help them if anypony managed to get close enough to drop in a grenade. “Yes, that trench. Fire when ready.” Minty rolled the firing switch, sensed the dull feeling of a dry-fire, and cursed quietly. “Sorry, ma’am,” she apologized, pushing one of their remaining HE shells over to Thrash, who armed it, opened the breech, and shoved it in. The second the breach was closed, she rolled the firing switch and the section of trench in her sights exploded skyward in a shower of earth. Thrash yanked his hooves back from the recoiling breech with a yell. A loud THUD impacted just in front of Minty and sent a shivering vibration through the entire hull. “What was that?” Thrash said, looking around wildly as if that would help him determine the source of the impact, shut inside and buttoned up as they were. “A mid-caliber infantry gun,” Summer replied calmly. “They can’t penetrate our armor.” Minty bit her twig in half and cursed, tamping down on her anger until later. The commander was gambling with all of their lives again, but this time, she didn’t even seem to care. Minty needed to give her a stern talking-to, but not now. Now, she was just the gunner. Just the gunner. The gunner. “Targeting information on the enemy guns, sir?” she prompted, hoping Summer would come to her senses and let Minty take out the enemy’s field pieces before they took her out instead. She realized too late she had used the wrong address, but thankfully, the sergeant didn’t seem to have noticed. Summer only glanced down at her, then back up. “Ten degrees left, distance roughly three-hundred-fifty meters, elevation three degrees up. Grey gunshield, up on the rise.” “Thrash, load an AP round,” Minty ordered. They carried two kinds, a solid shot and one with an explosive filler, but she was determined to make sure it wouldn’t make a difference. She panned the turret over slightly, and the gun up, and hunted around until she found what she was looking for. The gun was pointed right back at her through the gunsight, and she swallowed. “Thrash, where is that shell?” she asked, an edge entering her voice, just as the enemy gun fired. The shell hit the ground just in front of them and threw up a spume of soil. She heard the breech close, adjusted slightly to aim directly at the barrel, and rolled the switch. The gun boomed, the tank rocked, and Minty was gratified with the sight of the enemy gun buckling over, turning a complete somersault, as the solid shell caught it just underneath the barrel assembly and tore its carriage apart. “Ma’am, they are ranging in on our position,” Minty said. At least one already had, but she kept that part quiet. Summer tried to nod, winced as her horn was caught scissorwise in the hole in the hatch, and said, “Right. Corporal Supercharger, take us ahead slowly.” She flipped the switch in her microphone and continued, “Squad, we are moving forward. Target enemy field guns and provide covering fire for the infantry. Stop when you make a shot, but don’t fall behind. Understood?” They must have said as much, because Summer put down the mic and ordered Minty to target another gun, on the right this time. As the gun swung around, Minty was able to get a glimpse of the battlefield before them, in broad strokes, a fractured composite of her narrow view through the telescopic sight. The enemy had dug in here before a slight rise in the land, not quite a hill or ridge, so that their field guns could command a great range and arc of fire. Summer ordered a stop, and thrash struggled to load another armor-piercing shell before Minty fired, throwing the enemy gun into its crew and along the slope for a good nine meters. “Strike,” she mumbled under her breath, and she allowed herself a ghost of a smile. “Ahead, twelve-thirty, elevation two degrees up,” came Summer’s voice. Minty swung the turret back and was settling her sights on the target when it was obscured by multiple clouds of dirt thrown in the air around it; all three other tanks had chosen this exact target. Minty gritted her teeth and tried to find her target again. Meddling newbies. She took her shot, which ended up punching a hole through the top of the gunshield and obliterating the upper half of the pony aiming the gun. A high-explosive shell from their number two, the burned tank, took the gun out completely. Minty dispassionately sucked on her broken twig; after a few months, she was used to seeing the results of her shots up-close through the scope. They moved forward again, stopping a few more times to shoot at the remaining guns in sight. Minty hit her mark most of the time, and the rest took care of what she didn’t hit. The pop of the rifles was closer, and then, came all around them too. Summer cast a dubious glance at their two remaining HE shells. “Corporal Twist, rotate turret to nine o’clock and open your hatch.” Minty cocked a questioning eyebrow, but she complied, wondering where Summer was going with this. Summer climbed down from her seat and pushed herself over Minty, sticking her head outside. “You! Soldier!” she yelled, to be heard over the whistling cracks and pings of enemy rifle fire all around them and the bullets impacting off of their machine. A young enlisted stallion looked up at her from where he crouched low to the ground. “Yes, you!” Summer said. “Give me all your grenades!” “But… We need those!” the soldier protested, wincing as a bullet cracked through a birch tree next to him. Minty looked around; in all the excitement, and buttoned up inside the tank, she hadn’t been able to see that they were actually in among a loose birch forest. Several bullets impacted the turret's side, now presented to the enemy, and Minty worried if they had missed something that could get through the thinner armor there, remembering the maimed loader. “Never mind that!” Summer yelled, sounding almost cheerful. “You won’t need them, and regardless, that’s an order from a superior!” “Well…” the soldier groused, but he signaled to his buddies nearby and crawled behind the tank, out of direct gunfire. They each pulled out their two grenades and passed them forward, and Summer wrapped them in her telekinetic glow and brought them all inside the tank. Minty wondered what she had in mind. “Thank you, gentlecolts,” she said, and closed the hatch. When Summer had seated herself, she called, “Enlisted Cashmere, inform the Major that I am beginning the breakthrough at the following co-ordinates.” She rattled them off, and Cashmere dutifully began relaying them. “Right then.” Summer addressed her other tanks while Cashmere was busy. “Squad, I am going to make a charge at the enemy. Drive straight ahead and crush any resistance under your tracks. Form up in a tight wedge behind me in the meadow on the other side of this rise and await further orders. Understood?” Summer addressed her crew. “Corporal Supercharger, ahead medium speed. Both of you enlisted, you may let them have it with your guns. Corporal Twist, stand by for instructions.” Minty dutifully waited, hooves on the pedals, the turret pointed almost completely left. Thrash picked up his rifle and began shooting at the enemy trench lengthwise with gusto, pressing close to the gun in order to aim the rifle far enough around to hit. Cashmere let off short bursts with the machine gun ahead of them. Summer ordered Minty to turn the turret ahead again. Minty couldn’t see what effect their advance was having on the enemy, but she could guess; very little immediately obvious effect, but a great psychological one. The machine gun belts were all loaded with standard “ball” bullets, as that was all they had to spare on such short notice, so there were no visible tracers to herald its deadly stream, and Thrash’s rifle, of course, was fed by the same, in small sheet-metal clips. Minty herself had spent a large part of the last few hours reloading those belts herself, with Cashmere’s help after the mare had returned for the second time, empty-hoofed. She could well imagine the image of their tank, an unstoppable steel monster that took cannon shots and kept coming, pocked all over with the ineffectual bullet marks of past victims. The more scars, the more cunning and dangerous the beast. When they reached the shallow trench, Summer ordered a halt. Bullets rang off the armor from three sides at once, making the already loud interior deafening to be inside. “Right.” Summer said, needing the intercom system to make herself heard, “Ready grenades!” It suddenly clicked in her mind what Summer intended. Minty stared, dumbfounded at this plan, but Thrash immediately scooped one up from where they had been rolling around on the floor and held its wooden handle in his mouth. Summer frowned at Minty, picked one up telekinetically, and shoved into Minty’s forehooves. “On my signal, open your hatches and throw one into the trench on your side,” Summer ordered. “Ready? Now!” Minty and Thrash pulled the cords on the grenades with their teeth, starting the fuses. Thrash bashed open his hatch with his shoulder, both halves flying open, but Minty turned and punched out with one forehoof on the rear half of the hatch, hoping that the forward half might perhaps give some cover from enemy gunfire. Conscious of the fuse ticking away, she tossed her head and flung the small bomb outside. As she reached out to grab the hatch, she caught a glimpse of a terrified young mare the color of the inside of a lemon recoiling from the deadly little object, before she slammed the hatch shut and locked it. Minty sat back in her seat, heart pounding in her chest harder than it ever had. Outside, the explosion came, only barely muffled by the armor; the percussion rattling through Minty’s frame. She took a deep breath, buried the image behind her eyeballs, and centered herself, and she was ready for duty again. Just one more thing to add to the pile, that was all this was. “Driver, ahead medium,” Minty heard Summer say. The tank lurched forward once more and began climbing the shallow slope. Thrash picked up the end of his rifle again and began swiveling it around, looking for targets, and, finding some, shot. Minty was glad just then that she wasn’t obliged to shoot at the scurrying shapes of fleeing ponies. At least, not with a rifle. They gained the top, and the tank began to pitch downwards as it traveled on. Shots on their armor came sporadic again, then all but ceased. Minty half-expected the enemy to be waiting to meet them there with anti-tank guns leveled, but the only thing behind the rise, as far as she could see, were some apple carts half-full of munitions, and the remains of some cookfires. Summer ordered the tank to stop in the middle of the meadow, then ordered Minty spin the turret to various points, so that Thrash could shoot at some more targets around them Cashmere couldn’t reach. They waited there. After a few minutes, Minty detected the roar of engines nearby over the cacophony of battle, and supposed the others must have caught up. “Squad,” Summer began, addressing her small command, “The infantry needs to open up a secure zone to move the wounded and the baggage through. Tank no.18, lead tank no.7 to the west and support the right flank. I and tank no.9 will support the left. Move out.” Minty felt tiredness drop onto her shoulders, and she leaned back and closed her eyes. The operation was far from over; the operations were never over. She felt in that moment like she had been in one long operation, ever since operation Star on High two years ago. It was just one thing after another, day in and day out. You got knocked out by a crystal empire shell in a frozen town on the northern border, and when you woke up, you were inside a steel box, blowing ponies limb from limb. Minty couldn’t say it was where she expected she would be when she volunteered for the army. She heard the commander issue an order, and she opened her eyes and sat up. She really needed a smoke.