Blackacre

by Princess Woona

Greenies

18 March, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

“Lieutenant Sand with the three fifty-first, reporting for duty, sir!”

The blue unicorn took a few steps to the side, glancing down the line of fresh recruits. Each wore a standard issue overcoat, dark blue with a thin line of golden braid on the shoulder reminiscent of epaulettes. The pony absently glanced at his own coat. Once upon a time it had been blue, but between mud, grease, and a few darker stains any hint of coloration was a faded memory at best.

It kept him warm. That was enough.

“At ease,” he said, almost as an afterthought. In front of him, forty-odd ponies slumped slightly. He saw them glance around, and for a moment wondered what they would see.

To them, this was little more than a widening of the trench, triple wide at most. A pair of charred trunks in the middle of the area served as poles to keep a tent up; it didn’t do much good for heat, but it kept some of the snow off. They would wonder how many times in any given blizzard one would have to get up there and scrape the snow off before it collapsed.

In point of fact, about six or seven, a figure he reached through trial and cold wet error.

They would look at the equipment stacked and scattered around the corners, wonder what it was all for. Odd sized boxes, small stacks of wood. One corner, curiously clear, where until recently a number of large rectangular crates had laid, impressions still clear enough in the layer of ice on the ground in that corner.

For those few that would look up, they would see trees, of a sort. Certainly nothing green, nor even the plain brown of a tree that had just closed up shop for the winter. These were massive trunks, trees that had weathered a hundred seasons and might well go for a hundred more, save for the scorch marks down the side and the fine layer of silt and ash that covered them. None of them had anything resembling a canopy; if they did have a few stumpy limbs left, they were ripped and jagged.

The jury was still out as to whether any of them would sprout leaves this spring. There had been a betting pool, once; now it was little more than a tontine by default.

“Sir,” said Sand in a tone that indicated that perhaps he should have said something already, “what’s the local situation?”

Mal laughed. He couldn’t help it; here was a greenie asking him what the situation was. Situation normal, didn’t he know that? Situation normal, all fixed up, now that they were here. Praise be to new recruits. They could do anything.

If wishes were salt licks.

“Colonel Marston gave you an overview?” asked Mal.

Affirmative nods.

“Good. We’re second line, and we’re holding it until the equinox, when the brass figures out what to do with us.”

By which he meant, “at which point we’ll push forward, and most of you will die or be injured.” But of course they didn’t need to hear that. The dull ones didn’t need to know, and the bright ones would have had that figured out already.

Then again, the really bright ones wouldn’t be here in the first place.

“We’re holding red white red,” he said, waving a hoof at the markings on the wall. “We’ve got fifteen hundred feet of trench. Normally we’d have less, but this is second line.”

Nods again. They knew the figures; standard front line trench protocol had one pony every five feet. In reality it would be less than that — they had to sleep sometimes, after all — but the pony-to-trench ratio was a pretty good rule of hoof. Here, they would always have eyes on pretty much everything, but they wouldn’t necessarily be able to repel an attack without a few minutes’ warning. As a second-line trench, that was the point.

Of course, if they always got warnings… well, if they always got warnings, then they wouldn’t need replacement soldiers, would they.

“Quarters are wherever you make ‘em in the line; there’re some holes in the walls about right-sized.”

Holes carved out by their previous occupants, all of whom were now dead. Just another bit of information they didn’t need to know, if they hadn’t already caught on.

“We’re not connected to anything, except red white orange on the south side and red white green on the north, so you don’t need a cargo channel for gear and supplies. Take your meals here; that’s where the grub is. For the trench line, just keep enough space clear to walk through.”

A chorus of ayes, followed by looks of expectation.

“Well?” he demanded. “Go pick a hole, dump your gear.” He paused for a moment. “You find anything, it’s yours.”

Mal leaned back against the trench wall, grabbed at a piece of armor within forehoof’s reach and started polishing it. Not because it needed to look pretty, but because the damp would rust it otherwise. Half of what he did was getting snowmelt off things. You’d think it would be too cold for water, but nature had a funny way of giving you the worst of all possible worlds.

As he polished, the group dispersed into the trench on either side, save for Sand and a few of what looked like his lieutenants. Well, second lieutenants. Same idea. The young pony approached Mal and hesitated for a moment.

“Got something to say, Sand?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the bit of gear, a hoof-cranked emergency generator. “Say it. Can’t be hesitating down here.”

“Fair enough, sir.”

“And knock that off. Sir’s for the ponies who care.”

“All right — all right.”

Another pause. Mal glanced down the trenches on either side. “You wait any longer, they’ll take all the dry holes.”

“Oh, we’ve got that covered, s— covered,” said Sand, waving at the four ponies behind him. “They’ll be bunking by squad, each spacing out and keeping a bunk clear for the squad leader. I figure I’ll bunk in the middle.”

“Been a long time since I looked at the handbook,” he commented with a nod. The arrangement was straight out of that handbook, of course; break up the squads to ensure equal coverage and someone with authority within earshot of everypony at all times. “I assume you’re bunkin’ in here with me.”

“Planning on it, sir,” said Sand with a nod. “On this side, backs towards the front line, to keep spotters from seeing us.”

“To keep them from seeing us,” echoed Mal with a smile. He put the gear down and jerked a hoof back over his head, towards the general direction of the Blackacre line. “Take a look, kid.”

“Sir?”

“Take a look,” he repeated, ignoring the honorific as it seemed mostly a reflex anyway. “There’s a Mark I standard-issue box over there. Go stand on it. Tell me what you see.”

He hesitated, but was on the box quick enough. He snuck a peek, making sure the area was clear, then stuck his head out, peering over the front line. After a few seconds he ducked back down.

“Looks like a front line to me, sir. First-line trenches about a hundred feet up. Big burned-out tree at two hundred fifty, foliage starts at maybe three hundred. Visibility —”

“Good,” said Mal, cutting him off. “By the book.”

“Thank you —”

“Which doesn’t cut it here,” he finished. “You stuck your head out of a trench. Why?”

Sand’s expression faltered.

“Because… you told me to, sir.”

“I did,” he said. “And?”

“And… I shouldn’t have?”

“Do you trust me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?” he asked incisively, glancing at the four second lieutenants, inviting them to chime in. Understandably, they did not. “In the past fifteen minutes, you’ve seen my every move. At no point did I turn around and look in the direction of the front line, much less actually verify that it was safe.”

“I… no, sir.”

“Let me ask again. Do you believe me?”

“I — did, but I shouldn’t?”

Mal nodded. “There you go.”

“But — sir, someone’s got to check.”

“Absolutely.” Mal waved at a bit of gear on the ground. “That’s a periscope. Know it. Love it. It’s a lot easier to replace one of those than your head.”

Grave nods, as it dawned on them that here, even the most routine task could be fatal.

“Turns out, though, you were right,” said Mal, hopping on the box. “I heard you tromping through like a herd — gonna have to work on that, by the way — and took a look before you moved in. C’mon up. Butterbars too.”

The five young ponies diligently joined him on a stack of various boxes. They stuck their heads up over the lip of the trench, though it took them a few seconds to get more than the barest hint of eyeball over the edge.

“That big tree there,” said Mal, nonchalantly waving a hoof off at the charred mass two hundred feet away. “Watch it close.”

He could almost feel the intensity of the stares coming off his new underlings.

C’mon, you bastard, he willed the tree. Work with me. You’ll be shooting soon enough.

Sure enough, after a good fifteen or twenty seconds — movement. Just a hint, just a flash, but there was definitely something there.

“Sir…” offered one of the second lieutenants.

“I saw it,” said Sand, turning to him. “Sir?”

“Specify,” he demanded. If they were going to keep this trench safe, they were damned well going to be precise about everything. They didn’t have anything else going for them.

“Uh… movement, in that big knot maybe forty, fifty feet up. Couldn’t catch it.”

“You won’t, either,” said Mal. “There’s a light masking field. You’ll only see him if he lets you.”

“See — sir?”

“Tree’s hollow,” he said with a sigh. “Runs deep into their tunnels. That’s how they keep tabs on us.”

Sand didn’t share his confidence; in fact, he was growing increasingly agitated. “But if they can see us —!”

“Then, we know exactly what they see,” said Mal with a sigh. “We know what intel they’re getting. We know they know about whatever they can see, so all we need to do to keep something quiet is keep it out of sight.”

“Sir…” offered one of the lieutenants. “Wouldn’t it be better to get rid of it entirely?”

Mal didn’t respond: he lowered his head, horn glowing slightly; a moment later a beam shot out towards the tree — where it rippled like a stream of water, leaving the charred tree entirely untouched. The trunk glowed for an instant, little rivulets of blue coursing down to the ground.

“It’s magicked,” said Sand. “Damn.”

“Mmhmm.”

They stared at the tree for a few more moments. It looked over the landscape at them, entirely silent, entirely watchful.

“Go to your holes,” said Mal. “Dump your gear, cozy in. Get a set of drills ready. By tonight, I want every one of you to know every square inch of this trench. You need to know it blind and backwards.”

“Aye sir,” said Sand crisply; in a moment he and his team had hopped down and were filtering out to the rest of the trench, checking in on their ponies. The sound of organized activity filtered up to him, but he wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t a very familiar sound anyway; the troops usually quieted down after the first few midnight mortar strikes. Nothing like a few casualties to take the excitement out of a front.

Mal stared at the tree for a minute more. He had never seen the pony in there, didn’t even know their gender, didn’t even know if it was the same one. It didn’t matter, though; he and the… the tree knew each other. Long nights he had been here, staring at the tree, with it staring back. Neither of them could touch each other; the tree’s field deflected magic both ways.

Magic wasn’t the only way to communicate.

Hefting himself up on tip-hoof, he slowly rotated his forehooves so they were out in front of him. He was an open target now; a half-decent sniper could take him from the Blackacre line, but it didn’t matter.

With a sharp snapping motion, he brought one hoof up over the other in a rather unmistakable gesture.

One day, he thought to himself, one day he would personally burn that tree down, preferably with a half-dozen ponies inside of it. The least he could do for the others in his squad, in his original squad, most of whom were either underground or unconscious in hospital tents. He hopped down from the box, and noticed that none of the greenies appeared to notice his little display.

That was fine. Those that survived would understand it soon enough.