Of Monsters and Mares

by Tempest Wind

Six

Alamein II

Folgore

“Getting sick of being fuckin’ shot at, Sarge.” Scootaloo groused, cigarette wedged in her mouth as yet another Bitalian rifle cracked overhead forcing the company as a whole to keep it’s head down. “Why the hell are we always the one being shot at?”

“Cuz’, Scoots. It's that big ol’ head o’ yours.”

“Har-har.” Scootaloo grunted, flicking away the burnt out cigarette. “What's the holdup, though?”

“Cap Heart says we’re waiting on artillery to soften them up again, as well as armoured support from the Prench, who are diverting a tank squadron to our Sector.”

“No shit? Hey, TH, you hear that? We’re gettin’ some tank support.”

“Far out, Scoots…”

“...”

“That means put ye focken shirt back on you numpty. We’ve work to do.”

“Oh. S’allright. Lemme find it, dude.”
---
The Free Prench Armor squadron arrived a few hours into the day, riding on Equestrian made Matilda and Cruiser type tanks, steam engines gamely chugging along the desert, their hatches left open to allow the coal furnaces to vent more readily, already hot enough from the midday desert sun.

With a wave and a greeting, the armored squadron rode past the Equestrian front line, the ponies rising up from their hastily dug defensive positions to follow the mixed Matilda and Crusader Cruiser tanks into the fight once more against the Bitalian Folgores, who were already responding to the Equestrian movement with gun and cannon fire.

Finding themselves behind a Crusader, Tempest’s Platoon crept up behind the slowly rumbling tank, keeping as low and tucked into the vehicle as possible despite the coal fumes, in order to take as little enemy fire as possible, especially over the open ground.

Trying not to breathe in the thick coal smoke, Tempest practically hugged the Crusader tank, whose Vickers machine gun was chattering gamely towards the Bitalian line, main gun occasionally belching out a round at any perceived Strong points, shell ejecting out the bottom of the tank, forcing the ponies following to watch their steps or slip on a 3-inch shell casing.

Artillery continued to echo down ahead of them, hammering the Bitalian position into the Stone Age, as the Equestrians and their tank support crept forward, doing their best to stay out of the enemy line of fire.

Something slammed into the front of the Crusader they were following behind, causing Tempest to fall back, as the vehicle sputtered and died, black smoke taking place of gray.

“Anti-tank gun up there! We’re stuck out ‘ere!” Keg grunted, as Second Squad’s Bren gunner began laying down concentrated fire, using the wrecked Crusader as cover.

“Right! Platoon, pop smoke and get moving! Ah want a wall of smoke grenades towards the enemy line! Hop to it y’all!”

“You heard the sarge! Smoke grenades out, you blimey lot! I want so much fuckin’ smoke out there that th’ Bitalians think we’re smookin’ whatever Huggy’s cookin’!”

At the Platoon and squad leads’ directions, the infantry platoon started heaving their smoke grenades out into the desert sand to their front, waiting several seconds for the thick smoke cloud to billow outwards. Despite the smoke, one unlucky private that stuck his head up from behind cover was rewarded with a machine gun round to the forehead, killing the soldier instantly.

“Smoke innit helpin! They've still got us’n pinned down over here!”

“Well hell! Git crawlin’ forwards! We’ve got work ta do!”

“S-sarge?”

“Jus’ keep low an’ pray t’ whatever that y’ don't get hit! It's either stay here an’ get shot or move forward and get shot. ‘Least ya get to shoot back if’n you’re in range.” Applebloom shot back, as she began to crawl forward, keeping her No. 4’s barrel clear of the sand as best she could.

Not having much better in the way of options, her squad, then, slowly, her platoon, began following suit, as withering Bitalian gunfire flew over their heads. Ammunition snapping and hissing over their heads, pinging and plinking off the tank wreck to their rear.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, man. ‘S Like the… I’unno, the Somme or something?” Tree Hugger complained, her Bren before her, as she shuffled along the dirt. “Dinni’ sign up for this, ya know?”

“Since when were you at the Somme, Hugger?”

“I wusn’t.” She grunted, as a Bitalian rifle round cracked over her head. “My da was, though. Spent his time. I got him to open up one day.” The opiate addict continued, finding the small talk comforting as she crawled along. “Tha’s why I got inta journalism I guess.”

The platoon halted at the edge of the smoke, dug into their packs, and heaved more to their front, as suppressing fire chattered all around. Waiting for the fresh smoke to billow forward, the platoon’s Bren gunners, now in range with their light machine guns, began laying down suppressive fire, emptying their small but numerous thirty round magazines in short order.

Unable to see five feet to her front, Tempest kept close to Scootaloo’s rear, as the latter crept forward through the dense smoke cloud. On the verge of hyperventilating- a hazardous idea what with all the smoke in the air, Tempest’s ears lay flat against her head, as heavy weapons fire echoed both from her front and rear.

Summoning reserves of perseverance she didn't know she had, the mare continued forwards, gritting her teeth, as she kept as close as she could to her squad. Shutting out the noise of the gunfire as best she could, the young mare simply kept on crawling forwards, nearly running Scootaloo over as the latter finally stopped, laying at the berm of the Bitalian trench.

Tempest began raising her voice to protest the halt, then stopped, as Scootaloo lurched over to shove a hand over her mouth. The older mare then pointed to the grenades on Tempest’s belt, followed by a nod to the trench berm, where the two could hear Bitalians chattering along with their heavy machine guns.

Catching Scootaloo’s hint, Tempest nodded, and slid her No. 4 onto her back, before retrieving two of the four Mark I grenades off her grenade belt, whilst Scootaloo did the same.

The two pulled the pins, held the Spoon for two seconds, letting the live explosives “cook” for a couple seconds, then heaved them into the trench, repeating with the second pair of grenades as pained cries intermingled with twin explosions, followed by another pair of explosions shortly after.

“Into the trench, go, go, go!” Scootaloo barked, as other squad members continued slipping out of the smokescreen to join them.

Retrieving her rifle again, Tempest leapt into the trench behind Scootaloo, whose Amareican-made Thompson was already spitting hot lead further down the trenchline. With the aid of its fifty round drum magazine, it was well suited to the job, shredding any Bitalians that happened to find themselves out of cover, and suppressing those who were within cover.

Her own rifle a slower firing bolt action, was less suited to this sort of work, but was, as most Equestrian rifles, serviceable, though she was far less gung-ho than Scootaloo.

The two mares having secured themselves a foothold on the Folgore’s trenchline, the rest of the surviving platoon began filtering in, setting up a defensive perimeter as along the line, other platoons forming the company, and by extension, the regiment, did the same, as their allied Armour pushed onwards, deeper into the defensive position.

“Alrighty, ah count fifteen. Who'd we lose?”

“Whippoorwill's down, Sarge. Same with Crusher.”

“Ain't seen hide n’er ‘air of Steady Beat. Medics snagged Bass Line.”

“Anybody seen Corp Fulcrum?”

“Yeah, took an AT shell to the everywhere. Poor bastard.”

“Alright. Wait two for any stragglers, then we’re pushin’ on.”

---
“Bollocks.” Blueblood swore, running a hand idly through his now dirty-blonde mane, as he read the lastest front line report. “We’re falling too ruddy far behind schedule.”

“Too much stiff resistance?” Starlight questioned, as she looked up from the battlemap.

“The Griffons are holding firm. The Folgores have been pushed on, but continue to hold, and I can't commit any more of the seventh FPA without cutting out of their own advance.”

“This isn't the best of ground for the Bitalians.” Starlight pointed out, after a moment’s consideration. “I'm surprised they've held out this long.”

“Mhn.” Blueblood agreed, scratching his chin, idly. “Let's hold fast here on the Right flank. Have them strip out two companies by truck and U-Carrier, and rotate them out to the Jebel Kalakh salient. We’ll push the Bitalians until they either break or the Griffons abandon them.”

“Sir?”

“Her Majesty’s Royal Navy has reported several confirmed sinking of enemy coal transports, and oil is more prevalent than coal, here in the desert. They've got to be low on fuel for their Panzers, I would wager,”

“Risky gamble, Sir.” Starlight replied, as she started for the radio set to relay the order.

“Better hope it bloody pays off, then.”

Neither he nor Starlight wanted to add the “or else” to the end.
---
With Nightfall, Tempest’s new platoon hadn't made much progress, much to Sergeant Applebloom’s frustration. With the frigid cold of the Desert Night, a far cry from the blaze of the day, the unit bundled down for the evening, unable to light a campfire due to enemy proximity, and a lack of wood to do so anyways.

“So your dad was at the Somme?” Tempest questioned Tree Hugger, whilst Powder Keg swapped out her bandages, and checked on her bullet wound.

The Journalist-turned-Bren Gunner nodded, quietly. “Yeah, he served.” She confirmed, quietly thinking over her words. “Until we had that talk, we didn't really like… see eye to eye. Since uh, y’know. M’life choices an’ whatnot.” She continued, softly, as she Laid back against the wall of the trench, Bren off to the opposite side of Powder Keg. “It wa’ eye-op’ning, ta be honest. So ma’... understood… I guess.. when I joined up.”

“How'd he handle it?” Tempest questioned, as Keg nodded, his work finished, before he sat down off to Hugger’s side.

“Eh. He understood. Dinni’ like it, same as Ma, but he's th’ one who calmed her down- an’ got ‘er to quit chasin’ me with the frying pan.”

The three shared a good, quiet chuckle over that, as they bundled up in their coats- something Tempest would have never expected to carry in a desert. Still, she was glad she had it.

Whilst the others in the squad slept, she fumbled with a cigarette lighter- a memento of her parents’, a small book resting against one knee and a pen held tightly in her other hand. Looking up as someone walked by, she nodded wordlessly to Applebloom, who was on guard duty at the moment, as her Sergeant did much the same.

Applebloom, being an Apple, also understood the importance of family, after all.
---
Mother,

It's been a tough day. I was shot at, enemies attempting to kill me, and I them. I'm not sure how to feel, about that, to be honest… I don't like to spend time considering it, because then my mind gets to thinking that that’s someone else’s child, that I'm shooting at; that's shooting at me. But this isn't something I can just quit; that I can't just leave and come home and pretend it doesn't exist.

I miss you, and Dad, and Gale.

Tempest