//------------------------------//
// Chapter 11: Bitter Woods 
// Story: A Great Endeavor 
// by Rune Soldier Dan 
//------------------------------//

“War means blind obedience, unthinking stupidity, brutish callousness, wanton destruction, and irresponsible murder.”

-Alexander Berkman, Ukrainian Anarchist



Excerpt from Hooves and Panzers: One Mare’s War, by Rarity Belle, published 1956.



Finding my friends again, somehow reuniting amidst this maddeningly huge war…it was amazing. Whatever power brought us together in that Bastogne hospital, be it fate, luck, or the hoof of some kind deity, I will always be grateful to it. I think we all needed that little reunion, perhaps I more than the others. During that entire battle, I did not see so much as a German prisoner. The girls shared their stories, telling of hard fighting and desperate flight. And what story did I have? Nothing. Simply another mare, locked behind the front while others did my fighting for me. I felt ashamed.

Applejack noticed how low my mood was growing, and immediately forced a confession in that wonderfully forthright manner of hers. The three of them set me straight without delay: I was their friend, and that was that. If I had been spared the fighting, so much the better.

Everyone said – and we usually believed them – that the end of the war was in sight. Twilight Sparkle spoke with such certainty, saying that if none of us saw fighting again, that would be just fine with her. Rainbow nodded, as did Applejack. 

So did I, but I was less sure. I don’t think any of them thought less of me for missing the violence, but I thought less of me. And if the war ignored me again, it wouldn’t be out of mercy. There would simply be another in my place. Another individual with hopes and dreams, doing Rarity’s part for her on the front lines. Maybe dying for it.

With such thoughts in my mind, it was with less sadness than expected that I heard my unit was advancing. Attached to the battered American companies, the other girls would stay behind for a time. 

The war cared little for our friendship: I received but one hour’s forewarning before we moved out. Time enough for a few hasty goodbyes and a fresh round of worrying for each other. It seems strange in hindsight, but I was enthusiastic to return to my post. Twilight’s words rung hollow in my ears. My friends had fought while I stayed safe. Now, I would fight. I felt I would never be their equal again if I didn’t.

There is little to say of the next few weeks. We marched or rode in trucks, reinforced en-route by men and, strangely, several unicorns. I gathered that a transformation was taking place in the Allied armies. With Axis warlocks reportedly growing in number, unicorns were seen as our natural answer to them. My species started getting better training, and were increasingly attached to combat units.

Stranger still, with Princess Celestia commanding many regiments, humans were beginning to look on us as possible leaders as well. Our company’s captain – dead in Caen – was at long last replaced. It did not take long for word to spread of the Equestrian nature of the new officer.

Some of the men grumbled, but there will always be grumblers. What I did not expect was to join their number.

He came in a human-style uniform, all khaki and braid with that ridiculous peaked hat on his head. Head raised, shoulders thrust, sure to inspire respect in anypony who hadn’t met him before.

Well I had. And Prince Blueblood was not a face I hoped to see again. 

All the way from that disastrous Gala to here, the Crown Prince of Cowardice, the Duke of Discourtesy, the Heir of Impotence, HIM. I readily joined the grumblers, ignoring their racial slurs to vent my own frustration. A fool, a twit, a coward, a brute. I certainly leveled more insults than were deserved. I can admit it now, I was bitter – I felt myself far his martial superior, and now had to obey his every order.  

Friendly little Ben Cook took it upon himself to acquaint the new officer with everyone. I braced myself when my turn came, worried I might lash out in a very improper fashion (yes, even then I tried to retain what propriety I still had). And what did the prince say to me?

“A pleasure.”

Bored and distracted, the same line delivered to all the others. Blueblood didn’t even remember me. 

Looking back, it’s understandable. Even if he had cause to recall the white damsel at the Gala, why would he equate her with the mare standing before him? With her borrowed helmet and shortened hair, and coat she wasn’t able to wash even once a week?

At the time, though? I DESPISED him for his poor memory. There are few things more frustrating than hating somepony who is barely aware of your existence.

Fuming, I trod steadily along with the rest as plains turned to woodlands. The Ardennes Forest was a sprawling, twisted army of trees the Germans seemed to navigate without difficulty. Bad ground to attack through, but Eisenhower’s logic was simple. Out of it they had come, and into it they fled. So after them, we went.

Our own role was bloodless until orders came on January 18, 1945. Into our camp rode Colonel Hellenson, a man of our mixed regiment with a uniform I was not able to identify. Not British or American – Canadian, perhaps. The colonel was young and irritating, brimming with enthusiasm and jingoism the lesser ranks did not share. He was…how should I say it? He was one who talked AT you, rather than TO you. He would ask trite questions about our personal lives, but never paid attention to the answer. I had seen him very little before that day, and had never really formed an opinion of him. I suppose it said something that his uniform was always very clean, and his boots always polished.

I thought he might make a good match for Blueblood, but the irritating prince seemed cowed in his presence. Whatever political games Blueblood played to become an officer, it is to his credit that he seemed to realize this wasn’t a fun adventure. A good start for a pony who had not yet seen combat.

The prince stood off to one side, nodding obediently while Colonel Hellenson talked with great sweeps of his arms. He said we were on the cusp of a major breakthrough. The German rearguards had been stretched to their limits and one more good push would send us toppling into Germany.

I took it all with a grain of salt, and I think the others did too. The end was coming, certainly. But we all knew it wasn’t here yet.

Our company had ‘a very important role’ he told us, but exactly what role that was wasn’t made clear. Other units would engage in more complicated maneuvers elsewhere on the line. We were simply to advance and seize a small town named Togemere, five miles east of our current position.

Such an order was not unusual – the whole army was on the offensive. We’d been called to take villages twice thus far. One we found unoccupied, and the other held a conscript platoon that begged to surrender. The only strange part here was that we were hearing it directly from our colonel. He stressed that we must not falter, that even if adversity is encountered to maintain the attack until our objective was achieved. Time and again he said that others would be counting on us, that the whole plan hinged on our actions.

Again, a grain of salt. The war was titanic, with soldiers fighting by the tens of thousands. It was hard to believe that much would hinge on the actions of our little company. Still, I could not fault Hellenson for his words. One of an officer’s duties is to extoll his command to greatness, no matter how cynical they might be.

Colonel Hellenson’s driver took him away. Blueblood was flamboyant as he ordered us to break camp, but he kept looking over his shoulder and swallowing. My dislike of him dropped, but my worry rose. He felt the responsibility he now held, that was good. But I did not have much confidence in him to lead us out of a difficult spot.

We knew there were Germans in the area, but these cursed woods stretched in every direction. Farms and fields were mixed in, but rarely did these work to our advantage. Concealed bunkers, even tunnels hid their positions from our scouts and planes. Maybe the Germans would be in Togemere, or in front of it. Maybe they wouldn’t. There was little to do but put our hoof on the stove and find out.

We were as ready as we could be. Replacements since Caen had brought us up to full strength and then some. 120 humans, divided into a dozen squads. Ten of these were rifle squads, one was command, and one held our heavy machine-guns. Each squad had a unicorn attached to it. With Blueblood included, our number reached the prophetic 13.

Our magical role was generally to provide mobile cover for our squad. Telekinesis was by far the most common magic of unicorns, so it was relatively simple to train recruits how to erect a barrier. It was not the most efficient way to use a dozen spell casters, but no one had quite figured out what to do with us. Only now, at the twilight of the war, did the Allied commanders begin to see unicorns as crucial soldiers. One wonders what may have been accomplished had our training been more rigorous, and better human-unicorn tactics been developed sooner.

But hindsight is crystal clear, as they say. At the very least, a dozen unicorns producing shields would do more good than a dozen unicorns sorting supplies or fixing trucks. As it was, I was the only Equestrian who had been on ‘combat duty’ since D-Day. The rest of the unicorns were ‘support’ ponies who had been retrained and attached to front-line units.

The squads were divided into four platoons, and advanced one after the other. Attacking in this ‘column’ let us move quickly and remain in close communication. A ‘horizontal’ advance would have left us thinly spread and more likely to attract attention. I gathered this was what Blueblood initially planned, but he revised at a sergeant’s suggestion.

We were well-warned of the Germans’ propensity for ambushing and counter-attacking in the dense terrain. The first two miles were through thick woods, and, wary as we were, they passed uneventfully. I let out a premature sigh of relief when the forest abruptly yielded to a wooden fence, beyond which lay the fields surrounding Togemere.

Blueblood had the platoons fan out horizontally and pressed the advance. Another mile passed. The barren fields around us were hardly cheerful, but they afforded us good visibility. The town lay diagonally to our left, a tiny collection of houses to make Ponyville seem grand in comparison. It had a quaint little church, and no other buildings of note. Looming at its doorstep, the Ardennes Forest resumed. I thought it strange that the fields would stretch so far in this direction from the town, but in the other the forest came right up to the houses. Perhaps the soil was poor further on.

The crack of rifles sounded. A few bullets emerged from the opposite tree line. Nothing came close to us.

“Skirmishers,” we said and thought. We had numbers. We could pin them down, advance. They could only hope to delay us. So we kept moving closer, cautious, firing a few shots to make them think twice.

Strange, the details I remember. Ben Cook said he felt sorry for the poor fools, starving and fighting in the woods for a lost cause. Stern Glare pointed out their bullets could kill regardless of circumstances. McSweeney, our sergeant, fixated himself on trying to silence one of the skirmishers with a precise shot.

“I see his helmet,” the dear sergeant said. Casually, as if at dinner.

And then the sky fell. The ground rose, and the world exploded in sound and light and violence.

Later I would learn there were 200 Germans in that tree line, armed with heavy machine-guns and anti-tank cannons and backed by mortars and artillery. They had sighted their heavy weapons on the field perfectly. If we pressed on, we would be decimated before even closing with their 200 rifles. If we withdrew, we would have miles of barren fields to cross under bombardment before reaching the woods. A perfect trap had been laid, and we had blundered into it. We were out of effective rifle range, but their big guns had our number to the meter. By some prearranged signal, they all began firing at once with murderous accuracy.

I cannot stress enough that such clinical appraisal does absolutely nothing to convey the horror faced by a pony under such a barrage. The mind tries to think, but such is the assault on the senses that it cannot. White and red flaring as the shells explode amongst us. Then suddenly there is black as smoke erupts and dirt is catapulted upwards. And the shaking. Could you plan, could you think or fight back while being shaken like an infant’s rattle? A mouth full of dirt. So little noise to be heard in deafened ears, but what you do hear brings no comfort. Shouts as officers impossibly try to restore order. Cries of the injured and terrified. Every man and pony among us addled and panicked.

We dropped to the ground, finding natural depressions and still-warm shell holes. I myself found a short ridge about a foot high. I threw myself behind it, lying down horizontally so every part of flesh possible was concealed. 

I think several minutes passed, but it was impossible to tell time. The bombardment did not abate, but I grew used to it. There was time enough for my head to clear, as clear as it could be with blasts buffeting me and my adrenaline coursing.

The clarity was not comforting. We were in an awful predicament.

Finally, I dared to raise my head. McSweeney was some twenty meters away, crouching in a shell hole. The poor unlucky man, lightning struck twice: A white flash, a black explosion, and he disappeared from the Earth.

Not ten seconds later, another man named Welles jumped into the widened hole. He had to have been thankful for its depth, and did not have a thought to spare for the sergeant.

It was far better protection than my own cover. The tiny ridge may have helped against rifles, but meant little with bombs falling from above and shrapnel flying every which way. I knew I was vulnerable. Any moment now, shrapnel would find little Miss Rarity’s face and that would be that. Wouldn’t know it until it happened.

I could see one of our new unicorns – a quiet sort named Rocky Road – lying in the open where one shard had struck his belly. A medic had staunched the bleeding, and two stretcher bearers were preparing to hoist him back to friendly lines. Compared to them, my meager defense was a fortress. Four souls, clustered together, exposed for all the Germans to see. One by unlucky chance, three by choice.

It was a ten mile trek to the nearest aid station, back well behind our launch-point. By nothing but luck, they survived to bring Rocky Road to safety. Then the medics and stretcher bearers would turn around and return. They would crouch in the open again, among the shells and the shrapnel, and rescue another injured soldier. And they would return again, and again. 

They were the only ones of us who still had their heads, who still knew their jobs.

Magnificent, every one of them.

Not a one survived that day. They deserved better.

Orders filtered from Blueblood – continue forward. The bombardment did not abate, but it did wax and wane. During the gentler times, we sped forward as far as we dared before diving into new cover. It was slow, painful going to an unknown end. There was little guarantee occupying Togemere would provide relief.

During this strangled advance, Ben Cook and I lost track of our squad and fell in with Blueblood’s. There was no waxing and waning here, just continual, accurate mortar fire that had slain or dispersed many of them. The command squad was very distinctive with its radio gear, and I suspect one of the Germans’ mortar spotters was gunning for them. With the field carefully sighted earlier, it was simple for them to keep up with our every move.

Prince Blueblood had called for air and artillery support, but none materialized. He was filthy now. His peaked hat was gone and pretty blonde mane matted with filth. A clod of dirt had hit one eye and swelled it half-shut. The other had this wide look of barely-restrained panic.

He, his radioman, and the squad’s sergeant were crouched closely in the open, shouting to be heard over the explosions. The two humans were emphatic (and vulgar) in arguing that the attack was hopeless and an immediate retreat should be conducted. Even if we reached the town, would the bombardment stop? Would the Germans let us have it?

It may have been shortsighted of us, as a retreat across the open land would scarcely be safer than an advance. But backwards meant reaching safety, and that’s all we could bring ourselves to think about.

A mortar shell came directly above our heads, but the squad’s unicorn had us covered. An invisible roof flickered blue at the impact. Sandy Hoof’s horn remained glowing, the shimmering magic a good match for his shaking legs. He looked like a terrified rabbit, but retained enough mind to hold the shield.

The close call seemed to convince Blueblood. He radioed the regimental HQ and got Colonel Hellenson on the line. As calmly as he could, Blueblood told him the situation. We could scarcely be in a worse spot, and there were many, many meters of open ground before us and Togemere. If we seized it, the fresh Germans could simply counter-attack and destroy us if the town proved important. With us frantically nodding in support, he informed the colonel that it was useless to continue the attack.

“Prince,” Hellenson replied very calmly. “You have all the resources you need to complete the task before you. I have every confidence in your capability to take the town. You will continue your advance, seize your objective, and we shall toast your victory tomorrow.”

The colonel hung up the receiver on the other end. We all stared blankly at the radio, wondering at the black comedy of it all.

Blueblood looked more scared than ever. The prince’s voice cracked as he stood up from the awkward crouch. “Well…forward it is.”

“Company, forward!” He shouted with little confidence, gesturing grandly with his horn.

Sandy Hoof shook his head wildly. “Prince, we can’t!”

“We must!” Blueblood shot back, on the verge of panic himself. “What will they say of you? Of me? Of US?!!”

He wailed, railed, on. “The first Equestrian leading human troops on the field. If he disobeyed, dishonored, fled, what then? We’d never live it down, any of us! These damn, filthy humans created this mess, and now they expect us to prove ourselves! Ponies can fight! Now press on!”

At least he got us moving. Hiding, hiding, then dashing forward again to the next spot of cover.

I recall a few events from that time very clearly. As I lay trembling in a shallow ditch, a medic leaned over me. He said he heard our lieutenant had been hit and asked where he lay. I told him I had no idea. A shell burst close by, but I was able to shield the man with my magic. He nodded his thanks and pressed on in his search, darting through the open fields.

I watched him depart, right to the ground where another shell exploded. He was the last medic. From then on, the wounded had to make their own way back. Those who couldn’t walk just lay there, screaming and crying.

Some nights I still hear them. Familiar voices, begging for help, for water, for medics who lay dead in pieces around them. Those of us still standing passed them by without a glance.  There was nothing we could do.

The town was growing so close now. Blueblood threw himself into a new shell hole along with me, and his radioman clambered down next to us. The prince’s eyes were wide and he was breathing in sobs. He seemed to be beyond all orders.

“I tried again,” he stammered. “But I received a direct order, there’s nothing I can do!”

We moved forward again, with Ben Cook and Sandy Hoof falling in next to us.

One of the machine-gun bullets found Ben Cook. It was in the head.

I stopped right there in the middle of the field and stared.

It hit high in the skull, leaving his mouth untouched. Such a beautiful boy. So kind, so friendly. He only lived for others.

To my mind, bizarrely, came a memory of events some weeks earlier. A care package from Pinkie Pie had arrived, and I happily shared some sweets with Ben. He took his share and handed every cookie off at an orphanage.

That mouth. Always smiling for others.

And now he was gone.

It was at that point that I, Rarity Belle, danced precariously on the edge of Madness. I could feel it enter my mind like a black sun, trying to darken all my thoughts and leave me to my gibbering.

I was able to draw myself back, but others weren’t so fortunate.

Sandy Hoof had stopped too. He began crying out senselessly, bucking the air until he lay on the ground and began convulsing. We tried to talk some sense into him, but he shook his head and refused to go a step further.

Blueblood waved a distracted hoof at me. “Take him back,” he shouted.

With the gesture of a superior officer, my part in this massacre was over. It took some time, but I was able to coax Sandy Hoof into standing and allowing me to lead him backwards.

Like the moon setting, the incessant bombardment grew quiet, then silent as we moved away from the fighting. A few shells landed close to us, but the Germans didn’t care to target the stragglers.

It was a long, long walk. Back through the fields, then into the forest. Sandy Hoof kept mumbling to himself and weeping. We had to stop several times as he broke down crying, apologizing profusely for being such a “good-for-nothing coward” who should’ve just stayed on his father’s rock farm. I chastised him each time, getting him to cease such painful diatribes and walk until his next breakdown. Traveling with a pony as shocked as he was did little for my own brittle nerves.

On the outside, the aid station was a welcome sight. There were white, clean pavilions with not a single bomb falling amongst them.

Then an MP waved us in, and we entered the Gates of Tartarus. An assault on the nose of feces and blood. So many groaning bodies lining the cots that I could not help but raise my eyes to the ceiling. When I chanced a glance down, I saw an amputation in progress. I can’t remember much else of the scene.

The sight was abruptly obscured by a bulky doctor looming over us. He was a human, huge and red-faced. He had a wonderful smile that, under any other circumstances, would have put me right at ease.

He seemed to diagnose us at a glance. “Hm, shellshock. Don’t worry ponies, you’re safe here. Take a load off.”

I blinked, registering what he said. I grinned widely and shook my head. “No-no-no-no…just him. Me, I’m fine. Fine and dandy. I was just walking Sandy Hoof here. And now that he’s made it, I’ll just go ahead and show myself out…”

The doctor caught my shoulder as I tried to turn away. “Come now, Dearie, just catch your breath for a while. We can help.”

“No!” I shrieked, pulling away. It was foalish, but the notion of staying in this dismal place threw me into a panic.

“I mean, um, no thank you, Sir. My company needs me back there.”

“You won’t do them much good as you are now.” He reached over to touch me again, but I backed away further.

“I-I was just walking him here. I’m not a mad-pony.” My panicked tone and guarded posture probably did not support my claims.

“No one’s saying you are…”

He reached again, and I snapped. I slashed at him with my horn, nearly cutting him along his open palm. When he recoiled, I bolted. I tore through the open door, wanting nothing more than to be back with my company.

Strange, to be running so eagerly back to the bombardment. Looking back, I think I had one thing on my mind: proving that I could still do my job. If I could still do my job…it meant I hadn’t gone mad.

Lo and behold, in my absence the company had occupied Togemere. They had just breached the town when the called-for airstrike finally arrived. The Germans’ position at the edge of the forest left them badly exposed to our pilots. Rather than risk further airstrikes, they had opted to pull back further into the woods.

We didn’t toast our victory the next day. Mostly, we collected our dead and stood about in a daze.

Blueblood gave orders as was expected of him, but he had a confused, uncertain air about him. Like he had just woken up in a strange land, and could barely follow the language. Besides him, there was only one lieutenant and one sergeant left to keep order in the company.

No counter-attack came. The following day, Colonel Hellenson arrived by staff car. His uniform as clean as ever, he enthusiastically bounded up to the dazed Blueblood and pumped his hoof. The man boomed that the attack had been a complete success, both ours and the larger operation of which we were part. A further fifteen miles had been driven into the Ardennes, bringing the lines very close to the German border. He would be certain to write glowingly of Blueblood’s leadership to his superiors and to Celestia.

It is good that he left immediately afterwards, for I do not think I could have been trusted in that man’s presence. Even now, I feel very bitterly towards him. We had paid very steeply for a town that commanded no roads or resources. I cannot imagine that we played any role at all in the Allied victory (If fifteen scarce miles of land could be called a victory!). And if we did not, then what good was all that sacrifice?

My feelings to him much softened, I asked Blueblood his thoughts on Hellenson’s words. The prince turned away very quickly and said nothing. I gather that he spoke to no one for the rest of the day.

Of our initial strength of 120, all but thirty were casualties of one form or another. No stretcher bearers or medics survived. And of our thirteen unicorns, only Blueblood, I, and two others were still fit for duty.

If I live to be a thousand and fight in a dozen more wars, I will never see a day as horrible as that attack on Togemere. I’ve seen it again in so many nightmares. I’ve come to terms with my demons, but even now, some nights I return. To the shells and the fear. And the body of a generous young human who deserved so much better.