Clovis, Frontier Zone
August 4th, 1851
So this is what I had been waiting for, graduation. The time to finally become a soldier. Only, there wasn't much graduation.
Sure, some civilians had come, but we were so far away from civilization that barely 40 people came.
We did the usual marching past them, being called by name to receive a Private's insignia, and even fired a volley of blanks into them, which led to some children squealing and their parents laughing at their surprise.
Then came the matter of the women. I'm sure that Drill Sergeant Mondale had his own ideas about getting one of his own, but goddamn, the speed at which those 15 women were claimed by these 149 sex-starved men.
Tom, Greene and I, as well as some of the others, kept a tally for some of the more "gifted" members of the company. At least, that's what I thought to be the most correct term.
The following day, we were given our uniforms, the same kind of bluecoat that Mondale had worn, along with blue pants, a blue cap, and black shoes. We finally looked at least something like soldiers, and we were given our assignments.
I was assigned to the 21st Infantry Regiment, along with Tom (thank God, him and I were becoming close friends), and 30 others. Following this, the 32 of us were given our muskets, and other equipment. Canteen, spare ammo, a bayonet, and so on. We put them on over our blues, and then were loaded onto a train heading West.
Along the way, we were briefed about the current situation. While we were in training, militia units had been formed along the border states, and they had orders to simply hold position and wait for us to arrive.
That didn't fare so well with the Equestrians, who had increased their activity. Namely, more and more people were reporting sightings of them, yet sorting through claims of them being fish, horses, birds, and even reports of them being simple Indians was tiring for the bureaucracy. So, we had no idea who we were fighting, even after all this time.
And there was no chance for peace. General Scott, the commander of this new Army of the West had made it quite clear that we were to shoot first, and ask questions later. After all, they attacked first.
The plan at this point was to form three armies, all three would move straight west, and each army of about 200,000 men would then split off into three prongs and spread out when we met resistance. The idea was that one prong would attack the direct route to their capital, while the other two split off and gradually encircle it. General Scott called it the "Trident Plan", and he also told us that, barring any sort of heavy resistance on the part of the Equestrians, we would "be home before the first snowflake".
This certainly helped raise morale, as we traded stories about our pasts, and what we planned to do when we got home.
When we arrived at our destination, the rather large frontier city of Clovis, which had about 4,000 residents, we were formed into our regiments, and simply told to wait for a week while the top brass got everything together. We were given rather strict instruction to not be outside after dark (unless on duty), after all, this city of Clovis was a frontline one, and Colonel Gearhart, in command of the 21st, didn't want any unnecessary casualties.
I didn't blame him. On my first assignment of guard duty, now being called 'ghost duty', I was unlucky enough to get the night shift, which meant long hours in the cold, and the dark that prevented you from seeing your own hand in front of your face.
I was scanning my area, left, right, up, down, and about to be relieved, when a gust of air hit me in the face. I started to spit out sand that was blasted in my face, when I heard the most haunting laugh I have ever heard.
Immediately I tried to come up with an explanation. Surely it was a trick of the wind, or the sound of some Private pleasing a lady.
I reached for my beans, and tried eating them again, when for a second time, that laugh was there, more haunting then the first.
I suppose that I now wanted to believe that it was a child, because I knew that accepting the glaring truth that I was about to die would be more painful than if I simply went without knowing exactly when it happened. Almost like a man asking for a blindfold before he is shot.
Might as well die on a full stomach. I forced myself to eat, and I saw my hand trembling as I did so. It made quite a mess on the dirt, as nine out of every ten beans missed my mouth.
"Look at him! He's so ugly!" A feminine voice.
More laughing, and I decided to end this, partly because I had finished, or in this case, dropped my beans. I grabbed my musket, and started moving towards the sound.
You know that feeling when you're being watched? The hairs on your neck stand straight up, and you go into the 'fight or flight' response that was, through so many deaths, put into the human race. Well, imagine that, and you choose the 'fight' option. You start to get that adrenaline rush. You feel superhuman, like you can do anything, if you so choose. And you're armed. You're ready to show this thing who's the true master of the American continent.
Then reality hits you in the face. You're alone. You can't see more than five feet in front of you, and Jesus is it cold, even with your Army uniform. Also, you haven't got the slightest clue whether you really want to take a life or not, and you don't even want to be there.
So, your adrenaline starts to fade and you begin to feel fear. I was in that state, that halfway point, when I saw it happen.
There was a collection of rocks that they were behind. I heard their giggling, and had my musket at the ready, remembering my training. "Shoot for the center of the formation," Mondale had insisted, "If you're shooting at one man, then don't. Capture them, or bayonet them if that fails. Shooting is a waste of ammunition at that range, especially if you're alone".
I was about to realize my mistake, about to call for help, when they bolted out.
Three, I could make out three, of these figures, they were on all fours, started running away. I panicked, and in the brief moment I had, fired a shot at them, missing spectacularly.
I knew it! We were fighting Indians! Huzzah!
Before I could decide what to do next, the alarm had sounded, though not because of my shot. We were under attack.
I could hear one of the feminine voices yell back at me, "JERK!" as I sprinted to the assembly area.
Colonel Gearhart was in his element, arranging us into a 200-man column (I was in the fourth rank, each rank had about 10 men, since we were to march down a tight street).
"Fix bayonets." I produced mine, and slid it on, just like Mondale had shown us.
"Forward, MARCH."
I made sure to be standing next to Tom as we began to march into the fray, civilians running and pushing through our formation as we struck up Yankee Doodle.
"Back there!"
"There's so many of them!"
"Help us!"
"Save my baby!"
That was when we heard the phrase that would forever change human history, and the nature of this conflict.
"They're not human!"
I tried my best to ignore them, reassure myself that we were fighting Indians, as our regiment started to encounter less civilians. Then the striking of hooves on dirt was heard, followed by Colonel Gearhart.
"Column, halt!"
We stopped, and saw them for the first time, illuminated by the lamps that had been hung up on the buildings.
My God...they weren't human.
The word of this spread through the column like wildfire, as we all simultaneously experienced an intense 'fight or flight' moment.
They were like horses, only they weren't being ridden by anyone. Our enemy were horses. I saw Tom cross himself, and I did the same.
"Sweet Mary, mother of God, please deliver me-"
"There's about 100 of 'em! Come on, we got this!" Tom.
"No we don't! Fuck this, I'm-"
"Steady!" Colonel Gearhart. "STEADY UP YOU SONS OF BITCHES!"
"We're in range!"
"They're running at full gallop!"
"FIRE BY RANK! MAKE READY!" Colonel Gearhart knew we didn't have much time, they'd be on us in just under 20 seconds. I heard the same ugly chorus of weapons preparing for death as I had heard in training.
"FIRST RANK, AIM!" Looks of confusion in these devil-spawn, as they seemed to understand us. However, they didn't understand why we were pointing our weapons at them. They slowed down, allowing us, clear, slow-moving targets.
"FIRE!" The same series of BANGs that we had gotten used to in training. This time, they were joined by screams, as several of them collapsed, blood beginning to leak onto the street. Their armor, that I could now see them wearing, was obviously not built for this.
In the distance, we could hear other volleys being fired, as the garrison of Americans began to do something we had done since Bunker Hill. We held the line.
"FIRST RANK, KNEEL!" These grotesque beings now realized that their hope of survival lay in reaching us before we could fire more volleys, and they picked up speed once more. We had time for just one more volley, something Colonel Gearhart must have realized, because we could hear the urgency in his voice.
"SECOND RANK, AIM!" No pause this time. "FIRE!"
The figures that had been hit disappeared underneath the others, who simply jumped over them. I could see the hate in their eyes as they closed in, and before the third rank had a chance, they were on us. I readied myself into the melee position, something hard to do when you have people standing to the front and back of you, but I tried it anyway, being careful where I put my bayonet.
The war cry that they bellowed was now covered by the sound of men becoming what we had been all these years. Animals.
We had progressed in technology, and we had progressed in our understanding of the world and ourselves. But that didn't change the fact that right now, it was kill or be killed. Right now, we killed, impaled, stabbed, and bashed as much of these heathens as possible, because it seemed to be the noblest thing a man could do, to sink down to the level of savages, and fight off this foreign enemy.
In the confusion, I found an opening, where I could see one of them, with an orange coloring to him. Or maybe it was a female. In any case, this one was wearing a brown hat, one remarkably similar to the ones that the civilians here seemed content to wear.
I looked to my right, found Tom, and pointed this guy out. He nodded, and we approached him, keeping our bayonets in front of us.
I approached it from the front, and it finally noticed me, and then, to my surprise, I could hear it muttered in perfect English, above the din of men in hand to whatever-they-had combat, with an accent similar to Tom's, "You wanna go? Alright, sugarcube." Its voice was very similar to a female, and I briefly imagined this being the same one who had taunted me earlier.
I started to stab with my bayonet, but it was too quick. It dodged to the side, and before Tom or I could react, struck out with its hind legs, in the same way a real horse might try to buck a rider off itself.
Thankfully, it was a grazing hit, but it still was the most painful thing I had ever felt. I promptly coughed up blood onto it, as
Tom slashed its side, causing it to howl in pain. Good. The sight of their alien blood made me grin, despite myself.
I now tried tackling it, and I briefly managed to succeed in doing so, but damn, this thing was strong. It managed to get me off, and rolled before Tom could sink his bayonet into her flesh.
"Y'all are makin' this too easy! I wanna see you monkeys fight!" It now charged me head on, and before I could ready myself, it knocked me off my feet, and onto my back, where it raised it's...hoof-looking things...and prepared to take my life. I closed my eyes in fear, and knew that it would be over soon.
Then, the call came out.
"RETREAT! EVERYPONY RETREAT!"
There was silence, as we tried to figure out just which side's commander had said that. Oddly enough, there was no question now that these things spoke English, after all, when you're eye to eye with them, you can certainly pick up on their speech patterns.
The thing on top of me promptly broke and ran, as did the others. Tom gave me his hand, as we began securing the area.
The other columns had driven back the other horses, and now we faced the agonizing task of counting our dead. There were no songs, no bands struck up a tune, nothing.
It was our first experience with the enemy, and we had won. However, at the end of the day, they had lost 67, and we had lost 238. The wails of our wounded, as well as theirs, was something I will never forget.
"Acceptable casualties" as President Fillmore put it when he personally toured the site the next morning.