//------------------------------// // Retaliation // Story: Interviews with a War Veteran // by walk-in closet brony //------------------------------// The park bench we're sitting on is covered in pollen, some of it washed away from the sprinklers that have been going off for the last ten minutes. My camera man, Brady Fitzgerald, rubs a tissue across his nose. "Man, these allergies are really killing me . . ." I pay no notice to his discomfort, the man sitting to my right having my full, undivided attention. Jacob Briggs, a seasoned mechanized infantry soldier, stares solemnly at the birds flitting about on the brick road as he gently tosses them some rye bread from a pouch. He is an aged man of fifty-two years old, having served in the war at the age of forty one as the gunner of an M2A3 Bradley light infantry transport vehicle. He had seen action at the battle of Chestnut fields, the first victory for American forces in Equestria. "I suppose now's a good time as any to start. Are you rolling?" Asks Briggs. "Yes sir, begin whenever you want." Says Sarah, my boom mic specialist. Taking a deep breath, Briggs begins in a soft tone. "Well, my unit was deployed shortly after the first battle of Ponyville. Y'know, the one where we got are asses handed to us by the Equestrians?" My team and I nod, but remain silent. "We went in alongside a small detachment of armor, a couple of Abrams tanks I think. Whatever it was, we were really bringing it to those four legged bastards. My regiment of Bradleys, along with support from the armor, were tasked with escorting elements of the fifth infantry division across a tiny patch of land called Cashew . . something with a peanut, I forget. Anyway, command wanted us to get the infantry to the red zone then provide fire support once we got there. Supposedly, there was a large Equestrian encampment sitting smack-dab in the open, just waiting for us to roll in and kick their asses." "How did your vehicles fare against the terrain there? I understand that the landscape wasn't exactly fit for driving over." I ask. "Interesting you'd asked that. Actually, the M2A3 Bradley is built for that kinda shit, crossing rugged terrain and such. It was a cakewalk for us but for the tanks, well that was a whole other story. Y'see, there were no paved roads large enough for our tanks to cross, so they lagged behind us until they found a way into the fields. We were without fire support for a while, but we pulled through." ---11 Years Ago--- "Shit. Would'ya look at all of 'em?" Asked Jacob Briggs' driver. The long line of wounded snaked across the two way lane, one side for retreating men, the other side for advancing soldiers. Some were missing limbs and on crutches while others, adorned with bandages and gauze pads, slowly made their way down the road. Briggs' Bradley transport inched along with the advancing column of vehicles and infantry, creeping toward their next objective. "Must've really gotten their asses handed to them by the quads, eh?" Said Briggs. The shuffling line of troops kept moving, paying no mind to Briggs' remark. "Briggs! Button up and get down here!" Shouted the vehicle commander, Lt. Phelps. Closing the hatch on the Bradley, Briggs clambered down into the bulky interior, trying not to bump into the protruding equipment the entire way down. A herd of cows had stopped up the road ahead, giving the vehicle commanders a short recess, just enough time to brief their crews on the coming assault. Phelps leaned into the center of the vehicle, brandishing a large map that had been sloppily unfolded. "Alright fellas, listen up because I'm only gonna say this once. Our objective is some piss-poor patch of land north of here called Chestnut fields. The quads are dug in around that area, resting from their recent victory over our boys a few days ago. They don't know we're coming, so we'll insert at dawn tomorrow, drop off the infantry at the deployment zone, and then provide fire support for them as they push through their camps. They have their own objectives, so we're only there as transport and insurance. We've got a few tanks from the 206th armor battalion on call for our operations. They'll roll in after we secure a safe access point into the field. Got it? Good." Phelps returned to his position, listening to radio chatter and tinkering with the vehicles operating systems. "Hell Briggs, you're about the only one working this scrap-heap that doesn't need to do anything right now. If I were you, I'd get some shut-eye, tomorrows gonna be a long day." Said the M2 Bradley's driver, Shawn Collins. Tuning out the worrying thoughts of tomorrow, Briggs leaned his head up against the HE shell compartment, shut his eyes, and drifted off to sleep. ---Present Day--- "It was a pretty quiet night after that. Aside from the G.I.'s in the back, there wasn't much noise going around the convoy. Quads actually left us alone for the entire day. Hell, they were probably popping open the bubbly after the victory they won over our boys." Explains Briggs. "How many vehicles were in your convoy by the time you had reached Chestnut Fields?" I ask. "Well, I was still asleep when we'd linked up with elements from the 104th mechanized infantry division. They brought along a few more toys that definitely helped when the fighting started. When I woke up the next day, I saw a Humvee towing along an M119 Field gun. That's a howitzer, one of the big guns that we like to tote around for show. Anyway, they deployed that sucker about a mile away from the battlefield, and boy did that thing raise some hell." "When did the actual battle begin? I read in an article that it was jump-started by Captain Mulcahy's artillery crew, most likely firing a shell from the field gun you were just talking about." Briggs chortles heartily, then continues in a smug tone. "Really? Is that what they said happened?" "Was that how it happened?" I ask. "Well, sorta. This doofus from B-company was carrying munitions over to the howitzer as the crew was loading it. We were already in the field, and captain Mulcahy was awaiting the order to commence firing when the kid handling the shells tripped over some rocks and knocked over the gunner. That set the damn thing off, and all of a sudden we were sitting ducks in the middle of a field, frozen in place wondering what the hell just happened. The shell landed about fifty yards off target, and made this big-ass crater in the ground." Explains Briggs. "Didn't that jeopardize the mission? I mean, it must've alerted the Equestrians of your presence in the fields." I say. "You bet it did, and we had to lag our asses through that botched attack all the while waiting for our armor that had been stuck in a rut ever since we crossed over the Hibiscus River into the region." ---11 Years Ago--- BOOM! The infantry in the field, not far off from the Equestrian camp, froze in place. The transports alongside them rolled to a dead stop, and inside his Bradley, Jacob Briggs shivered. "Oh shit! What the hell was that? Mulcahy wasn't supposed to fire until we gave the order!" Said commander Phelps. The military encampment ahead of them stirred, and hundreds of Pegasus sentries rose into the air. Shouts from across the field could be heard as every detachment of the Equestrian army in the surrounding area bolted to attention. "All units! Sight in your targets and fire! Aim for those winged bastards and push forward!" Said a voice crackling through the radio, waking Briggs from his drunken stupor of awe. Commander Phelps patted Briggs hastily on the leg, speaking with loud gusto even as he marked targets through the Bradley's optics system. "Briggs, 10 o'clock high! Engage those quads!" He yelled. The Bradley's main gun jolted to life, firing shot after shot of deadly shells into the gathered mass in the sky. To Briggs' disbelief, the rounds passed straight through the enemy, his targets too nimble to hit. "I can't hit anything! It's just going right through 'em!" Shouted Briggs. "Acknowledged! Now shut the hell up and keep firing!" Yelled Phelps. His finger tight on the trigger, Briggs maintained his grit as he swapped between targets. They had begun to swoop down, spearing the infantrymen with their lances and causing heavy casualties. Across the field, the two other equine races had already begun their advance, filing into their ranks and trudging toward Briggs and his men. THUD! A silence, then Collins spoke up. "What the hell was that?" "It sounded like it came from the top of the vehicle." Phelps said in a low voice. Suddenly, a loud slicing noise ripped into the ear drums of the crewman as a long metal rod smashed through the hatch and came tearing into the shoulder of driver Shawn Collins. "AAAAAAAAGGGHHHH!" He screamed. A lance had bore it's way through the hatch, a purple aura surrounding it's metal tip. "Holy-" The spear ripped out of Collins' shoulder, bringing along with it some manner of gore that was indescribable given the current situation. Collins slumped over, whimpering like a kicked dog. Briggs reached out and grabbed him, pulling him lower into the vehicle. Another spear tore into the hatch, widening the hole it had made upon it's earlier entry. "Holy shit, they're sitting on top of the damn Bradley!" Yelled Phelps. The hole was just large enough that Briggs could see the quad on the other end. It had blue fur, much like the color of his school bully's T-shirt, Bo Keating. He hated Bo. "Shoot that bastard Briggs!" Yelled Phelps, handing him his M9. With agile hands, he trained the sights on the hatch and opened fire. Five quick shots followed by a pained scream. A trickle of blood hit Briggs' nose and began to tear drop it's way quickly down his face. ---Present Day--- "So you just kept the vehicle rolling?" "Yep. Collins was hurt pretty bad, so we had to alternate between positions, me and Phelps. Collins . . . he, he died shortly after the fight in some dirty-as-all-hell field hospital. He's buried over in that cemetery they've got dug in Equestria right next to the other one-hundred and fifty-one men we lost that day. Victory my ass." Stifles Briggs. "What happened after that? After the ordeal with the hatch?" I ask. "Whaddya mean? We kept moving, shooting at anything that got in our way. The tanks from the 206th actually managed to get to our position before the shooting stopped, however we'd already mopped up most of the Equestrians defending their camps." "So, that was it? That was the battle of Chestnut fields?" "Yeah. What did you expect? Some giant thousand-man melee? The seventh cavalry riding in to save the day? Buddy, this was modern warfare slapping Victorian-era battle tactics directly in the kisser. That "skirmish" only lasted for a good twenty minutes. We had them in an open field with no cover whatsoever. It was like shooting fish in a barrel." ---11 Years Ago--- The fires of Chestnut Fields had died down significantly as the last remnants of the Equestrian army scattered messily into the nearby forest and mountains. American soldiers dismounted vehicles and rounded up prisoners, assessing the situation. There was no cheering to be had, especially in a field where thousands lay torn to pieces. The banged up Bradley slowed to a creaking stop and the damaged hatch flew open, revealing three equally fatigued men which scrambled out in a hasty manner. "Briggs! Get Collins, easy though, he's got a freaking hole in his shoulder." Said Phelps as he lowered the near-motionless body of their driver into the hands of the shaking gunner. Grasping him gently, Briggs could almost feel Collin's gentle heart rate, beating ever so slowly as the seconds ticked by. The two conscious men clambered down the tank, disregarding the shooting that could be heard in the nearby tree-line. "Medic! We need a medic over here!" Yelled Briggs as he set Collins on the slightly singed fabric of a ruined tent. The tent had a beautifully emblazoned sun dedicated to the celestial princess of the day that decorated it's outer covering. Underneath lay the misshapen bodies of two equine figures. Briggs used the odd clump in the fallen tent to support Collins' head, ignoring the blood that was pooling from the two cadavers below. "Damn, we really grilled these bastards. I wouldn't have been surprised if all of the poor sumbitches had died." Said Phelps, gazing into the body laden field. Briggs looked down and saw the body of a large stallion with red fur. The tattoo on it's flank bore a large green apple, partially deformed from the gaping hole created by god-knows-what. He'd read in a pamphlet that these marks represented the owner's livelihood or what they were best at. He pondered the thought as a combat medic took Collins from his arms and began to dress the wound. "NO, WAIT! PLEASE-" The sound of rifle fire in the distance caught Briggs' attention toward a line of infantry that had just mowed down a group of surrendering Earth ponies. Phelps and Briggs stared for a long time before they came back to reality and began to mill about, scavenging the battlefield for trinkets. All Briggs could look at however were the bodies that littered the grassy plain, and the marks on their rears that seemed so innocent without blood spattered on them. "Like shooting fish in a barrel." He said before pulling an expensive looking watch out of a Unicorn's saddle-bag.