> Forward again, and again, and again.
>  by Zaravan
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> The first entry, or: How i learned how many men a bat-lion thing can eviscerate.
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	Another day, another dimension. We've only been in this godforsaken forest a day and we got a hell of a welcome, like usual, the first thing we did was set up a camp in the clearing we arrived in, not much anyways, the only defenses we have are some trenches to take cover in if we get attacked. Usually, we'd then break out the campfires, we wanted to hurry anyways, this forest felt, or, should i say, feels wrong. The sky is almost covered, you wouldn't think there was a sun, but we'd seen it peek through a small hole in the tree cover every so often. Otherwise, the forest is unnaturally dark, and the air itself feels damp and heavy, even though we're pretty sure it hasn't rained recently. We were trying to get some fires going too cook the rations we brought with us, mostly spam. We'd already set up a few electrical lamps and we had finished our foxholes and trenches, when we heard it, a rustling, and a low growl, like a lion, but i thought that impossible as we were in a forest, or i would have, if i were not a veteran of i think, three deployments. We slowly got our submachine guns and started looking around very carefully, we knew a predator when we heard one. I saw it first, and by god i'll never forget what happened next. It pounced.

I'd thought myself dead, torn apart before i could raise my gun, but i had misjudged it's leap, and instead it landed among several of us gathered near a campfire, it moved unnaturally fast for it's size, it tore two apart with it's razor claws, and bit another in half with it's massive jaw. Another was struck with it's tail, but god as my witness it was not a regular lion's tail, it was a scorpion's. The poor bastard was impaled on it. Now i will say we weren't standing around like idiots, we were firing all we had at the damn thing, but nine millimeter just wasn't cutting it, the thing just got mad, and swiped a huge chunk out of the chest of another of us. It leaped again, and that's when i realized it had the wing of, what else, a goddamned bat. and used it's momentum to crush another man into the dirt, it wasn't pretty. long story short, we'd managed to finally put the damn thing down after what seemed to be a hundred bullets, but i really think the two molotovs really did it. We'd lost twelve men to the monster's rampage, out of the hundred or so who deployed originally, we'll get more reinforcements eventually, the portal will open again and we'll get more ammo and replacements. But we need to stay alert now. I can hear all manner of unnatural noises, we're putting sentries on duty, five men to a true direction, North, South, East, West. I'm on the west set of trenches.  I'm going to have to keep my eyes peeled, who knows what's out there? We'll send out patrols come morning.


I just hope we last that long. 
> The second entry, or: The appearance of an inconvenient complication. 
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	We're taking a break now, we've been walking a few hours. We're placing painted sticks every so often so we can find our way back. We decided on that after on of our patrols didn't come back after a few hours. We've barely slept. The noises kept us from sleeping, all the screeching, moaning, growling. Constant and neverending. Nevertheless, we've started on at least making a few barricades from the trees, as well as giving us a bit more room, it's crude, but better than the bare holes and trenches we're crouching in. Speaking of, we're using branches and such as roofs over our heads in the aforementioned trenches and holes. Better than nothing when the rain comes. This forest is like a maze, if we split up i'm sure we'd never find each other again. So we're staying together as best we can.

---------------

We've found what looks like some sort of hut, it almost looks as if it were a gnarled old tree hollowed out and decorated. Strange tribal masks and paint everywhere. Someone lives here obviously, but we should see who. Half of us are staying back in case this take a turn for the worse, if they do, that house is splinters. I'm going to go knock now, i hope the locals are friendly. Strangely, it seems familiar. Can't put my finger on it.

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Well, we've found out where we are. It took a little bit for the memory to come forth, it was a little fuzzy before. Zecora's a very gracious host. She was suprised, but invited us in after a short talk. We had a rather soothing cup of hot broth, very tasty, if a bit salty for my taste. We talked for a while and she seemed surprised, again, at how we were clones. We got along thankfully, and we offered to show her the camp, at first she declined, but when it became clear that we didn't really have a guarantee of getting back in this maze of a forest. she offered to help guide us through the forest. We've taken a rest about, i think, halfway there. And she mentioned getting in touch with those royal princesses, or was it just one in particular? Whatever. She's rather nice anyways. We got to get going. Can't stay out here come nightfall.


I can't wait to lie awake listening to those damned sounds. What fun. 
> The third entry, or: Wood isn't very flammable without an accelerate.
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	We've beaten off at least three attacks by these things. Wolves of wood. Since we put up the wooden barricades it's far easier than it would be. There seem to be hundreds of the damn things, all howling and snarling and baying for our blood. They might just be wood, but they're strong, can't let them get close, one of our outer trenches was overrun by the damned things, and of eight men holding it, two got out. One will likely loose the arm, the splinters were so big, and so deep. They're as bad as barbed arrows, tearing the muscle and flesh under the skin. We had to dope him up with morphine to keep him from thrashing and going into shock from the pain. Those damned things are still out there, we can see their sickly, yellow eyes in the dark, glowing bright as the moon in contrast to the pitch surrounding them.


We just have to hold till morning. Damn this forest, damn wherever we are. Once the sun  rises, i'm sure these cursed thing will just screw off. Best we can tell, these things love the dark, and hate fire with a burning (Hah!) Intensity. Though, in hindsight, it's rather obvious since they're made of goddamned wood. 


My pistol jammed, a first for me. It almost got me killed during the fourth attack. I can see the first rays of the morning sun peeking through the holes in the treeline. Just a little longer now.


I'm almost out of ammunition. two clips left.


Five bullets left. then my knife.

This section is lightly stained with a dull rusty color, blood in all likelihood.



They're howling. They come again. I see the sun. I'm not one to give up easily. I just need to get at least one with my knife. Lost two fingers on my left hand to one that was bigger than the rest, hurts a lot. As if a bunch of sticks are going to kill me!
> Bonus Chapter 001: Notes on IAF Economical Doctrine
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	The IAF, due to lacking dedicated industrial factories to produce equipment, rely on trade with allied nations and kingdoms, one particular strategy is key to amassing funds to procure equipment for the IAF, detailed as follows: As many medieval-era kingdoms use actual gold as currency, most commonly as coins, it's raw worth is taken for granted, however, most kingdoms using gold specie lack the technology or simply lack equipment worth trading to the IAF for use. But, with more 'modern' allied nations, gold is far more valuable as a source of hard currency that has a set worth, unlike the paper money used in day-to-day transactions. As such, IAF personnel often gather as much gold as they can find, scavenge, or barter from medieval kingdoms, then use the hard specie to purchase food, weaponry, and fuel from modern nations.


Using gold specie is key in bartering with allied nations, without it, the IAF would be robbed of a massive amount of imported equipment for use on the frontlines. They would otherwise have to requisition resources from 'occupied provinces' (See: Notes on IAF Occupational Doctrine.) which make up only a tiny sliver in imported equipment for the IAF.
> Bonus Chapter 002: Notes on IAF Legal Doctrine
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	IAF personnel as a whole, are considered very moralistic and have a strong sense of right and wrong. When defeated enemy territories come under IAF control, IAF personnel usually take over duties reserved to local police forces (For more, see: Notes on IAF Occupational Doctrine.) While more lenient towards some 'offenders' , such as beggars, prostitutes, and homeless children. They are also unusually harsh when it comes to others, for example, such as rapists, pedophiles, serial killers, and other such criminals. IAF personnel consider such criminals to be the scum of the earth, and their own hatred of these crimes and those who commit them, is so rabid and violent that it rivals  most religious fanatics, so much so that they consider these offenders less than human, if not outright subhuman.

The penalty for these aforementioned crimes is almost universally execution by firing squad, with rumors of mass graves often popping up soon after. However, the IAF also sees another use for these offenders, the most common being the formation of 'Penal Battalions' for use as fodder and meatshields. (For more information on Penal Battalions, see: Notes on IAF specialist infantry.)
> The fourth entry, or: How long before we can get bored.
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	It's been a few hours since the last attack from those damned wolves, at least we know where we are now. Ever since the last patrol came back not  ten minutes after we beat off the last wave, we've been alternating between reinforcing our defenses, talking to Zecora, burying the dead, and eating. Twenty dead, we lost twenty of us to those damned wolves, though i have to admit, we probably did worse to them. I think we killed at least forty of the damn things. We got reinforcements about an hour after dawn, with about another fifty men we've barely made up for our losses so far, a couple of us went back through to give the news about where we are, as well as requests for more equipment. Rations, ammunition, barbed wire, lights, all things we need to solidify our position.

After a while, we asked Zecora if she could get in contact with those princesses. I still can't remember their names, maybe it'll come to me if we meet them. Anyway, she said she'd talk to one of them as soon as she got the chance. A few of us offered to go with her, but she was adamant that she would be fine by herself. I just hope she gets there safe, sound, and very soon. Because damn am i bored.


All we can do right now is wait, and to pass the time, like now, we're just playing with cards, dice, or just reading a good book. We usually bring as many books as we can so we don't lose our shit from the boredom. Sometimes we'd trade books we were finished with, at least, to keep us from just reading the same one over and over. We've been decorating, our trenches, or at least, for a given definition of 'decorating'. We do our best to spruce up the place, or, at least make it a little more homely. We pad the bottom of our trenches with blankets ontop of wood pallets, or dig out small holes in the side for lamps, or candles. Or just to hold little baubles we have with us. I think i might take a nap soon, i'm going to take guard duty for the night.

I just hope Zecora comes back soon, anyways.
> The fifth entry, or: How to be a courteous host towards royalty.
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	We've been here at least three or four days now, we've been attacked a few more times by the local wildlife since then, but nothing on the sheer scale of the assault from those wolves of wood. We've taken the time to reinforce our position here in the 'Everfree' forest. Barbed wire, sandbags, a few high-intensity lamps for at night, the works. It's a pretty comfy position here, but i know that we'll have to move out at some point. For now however, we're just staying put until we get more equipment through the portal. If we're lucky, we might get a few vehicles. But navigating them through the forest might be a challenge.

We got a visit from royalty today, none other than Twilight Sparkle herself. We did our best to accommodate her, even if it was just for a short visit. When Zecora finally came back and introduced her, we took the liberty to offer tea, now granted it was practically swill compared to even your store bought canned tea, but she managed to choke it down like we did, albeit just barely. Disgusting stuff. But, preferable to that than coffee from hickory roots, god forbid. She mentioned that the other royals were busy in the capital, 'Canterlot' i remember. She said that it was quite important. Hah! They're probably having the finest of tea on the most delicate of  chinaware. Before she left, she said that she may come back and visit with her friends. We wouldn't mind more visitors anyways. 

Once, while some of us were talking with her, we passed the small area we were using as a makeshift graveyard. She seemed shocked, until we told her about the murderous wildlife roaming the forest. She offered her condolences. I'm going to take part in the watch in the north trench system tonight, all those damned noises keep me up anyways. Oh well, someone has to do it, but at least we're making progress with the defenses. Speaking of which, we'd gotten two machineguns and a mortar in the last wave of reinforcements! Not much, and granted the mortar's practically useless in these thick woods, but it's better than nothing. Better go choke down more of that sorry excuse for tea. for tonight, lord knows i'll need it.
> The sixth entry, or: How slavers cause undue stress, followed by frothing rage.
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	We've been here about a week or so, not much has happened since Twilight's visit. Other than the occasional animal attack, the forest itself has been, dare i say, rather peaceful. The patrols have been able to roughly map out the areas surrounding the forest. There's the town of Ponyville, the closest to us, relatively so anyways. Then, there's a rock quarry to the southeast. As well as more barren land farther down south-southwest. The outpost we've established is now safe and rather comfy, we've managed to drag a few generators through the portal. They're damned heavy, but at least no one will try to run off with them. I feel somewhat disappointed though, with all the magical wacky shit going on, you'd think there'd be more evil overlords to fight. At least then we could shoot at them, but i'm not complaining now that everythi

Shit! Turns out, one of our patrols spotted a group of mean, mangy looking dogs. They were leading a bunch of ponies, and, according to the scouts, a few zebras and even a gryphon griffin  Griffon! They were headed towards what seemed to be a cave entrance set in the side of a mountain in the barren lands to the south, we have to gear up and find those prisoners! We're taking shotguns and such, they're probably underground. Chrissakes, fighting in underground tunnels is going to be a nightmare! At least we have something to do now, me and my big goddamn mouth.
> Bonus Chapter 003: Notes on IAF Medical Doctrine
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	Officially, most IAF personnel completely lack any sort of dedicated medical training, each only knowing the basics of triage. However, Veteran IAF infantry are usually able to pick up enough experience to serve as impromptu surgeons. Otherwise, the IAF completely relies on both volunteer help from allied nations, or, when in a dire crisis, conscription of medical personnel from occupied provinces. Because of the low lifespan of the average IAF infantryman, as well as the often brutal combat that leaves more dead than wounded, a problem compounded by the IAF's stubborn nature of fighting to the death, most IAF personnel simply do not bother to learn more advanced medical techniques.


Besides basic medical provisions, another item considered key in the IAF's arsenal is 'Combat Drug PK-001' An emergency injection for use on the wounded or grievously fatigued who have no chance for relief by reinforcements, born of a volatile cocktail of various drugs, not the least of which including morphine and ether, PK-001 is designed to numb pain, increase reaction time, and generally keep the user up and fighting. However, the Combat Drug is, as stated, volatile. And the after affects are just as likely to make the user outright keel over and die as much as combat would. As such, PK-001 is seen as a last resort. For use during doomed last stands and holding actions that last for days.
> The seventh entry, or: Why fighting in underground tunnels is the stuff of nightmares.
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	We did it! We lost more than ten men assaulting their lair but we did it! It's been a while since we've come back with the slaves. That's right, slaves! They were using more than a hundred slaves in order to mine countless gems from the heart of the earth, but we have no idea why they were mining them, and there was the fact that, while sneaking around while the rest of us were distracting the enemy, two veterans overheard a few guards talking about sending out shipments of gems somewhere. It's puzzling, as we can't find any records of where they're sending them, or to who or why.

Anyways, more than half of the slaves we freed were ponies, after we introduced ourselves and fed and treated what injuries they had, they thanked us and opted to go to the nearby town of Ponyville. We insisted on lending them an escort of several men, and they readily agreed. After all, it'd be pretty goddamn frustrating to have rescued them, only to lose them to wild animals or bandits. The rest of the slaves were made up of several young zebras, who say they were sold and shipped off from their distant homeland, then sold again to the 'Diamond' Dogs. And there were also the Griffons, about ten of them, who relayed the story of how they were traveling west towards the Equestrian capital to emigrate. Apparently their home has been politically unstable as of late, and they wanted to be somewhere else if things ended up escalating. While they were passing through the barren lands to the south, which would apparently be the quickest route between the two provinces, they were ambushed. The caravan was sacked and burned, and they were taken prisoner. Both parties admitted they had nowhere else to turn to. So we offered them to stay with us. They seemed surprised that we were offering, but they agreed.

We've given them armbands to denote them as our allies. And we've been doing our best to train the Griffons with small 32. revolvers for defense. The Zebras can't use guns, for obvious reasons, but they can wield a knife or machete surprisingly well with only their mouths, and one of them revealed having been a shaman's assistant before he was captured and sold off, having a knowledge of many different types of herbs with medicinal properties.

I'm sure i'm going to have nightmares about fighting in those tunnels, but when i look up and see our new friends, free of chains and laughing,  and singing by the campfires, i know it's worth it.
> The eighth entry, or: Making friends always pays off.
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	We've been training the local volunteers whenever we can, or should i say, whenever we want to. The Zebras don't require too much to start with, as most of our training deals with the basics of firearms. Point, shoot, reload. Not much else to it. So the Zebras get slightly elongated machetes to compensate for their short stature and lack of limbs capable of grasping objects as easily as humans can. The Griffons are a different story, as their claws seem to be as flexible as fingers, give or take the lack of a digit on each claw in comparison to hands. We're training them with basic .32 caliber revolvers. Not much of a punch. But far better than the rifled muskets that they've told us are the norm back in their homeland. Apparently one of their number used to be a low-grade officer, like a lieutenant or similar. So we 'officially' made him an officer and put him in charge of the rest of the Griffons. They took some getting used to with the revolvers, trying to remember that there's more than one bullet to be fired before needing to reload, but they picked it up pretty quickly.

The Zebra that had been a shaman's apprentice has been showing us a number of plants that can be used for medicine. There's  one plant that tastes sort of like stale gum, and seems to have the same purpose. Another seems to actually dull pain when mashed up and ingested! These plants are amazing! We might have to have him and Zecora meet if she visits again. Speaking of which, we haven't heard from her in a while. Rather worrying i have to admit. But we can probably send a patrol to visit and check up on her. Now that i think about it, Princess Twilight hasn't returned either. Which is strange, as she seemed very excited to meet us, i'd think she'd take any opportunity, or excuse, to come visit us. 

We've been thinking about sending a small group to Ponyville, to see if we could trade for food and such. I'd think they'd like the little souvenirs and baubles we collect. It would probably be a good idea to ask Zecora to help introduce us, as she seemed to be on good terms with the townspeople. Townsponies? Screw it, i'll just call them the 'residents' no need to worry over a trivial fact like proper terms.
> Bonus Chapter 004: Notes on IAF Mechanized Doctrine
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	While the IAF lack heavier armor such as tanks, they are never short of civilian vehicles, IAF personnel won't steal vehicles if they're owned by another. Many vehicles are either appropriated from places where ownership is unlikely, such as areas that have been ravaged by a biological outbreak. Or scavenged and subsequently repaired. IAF Mechanized Doctrine call for the use of the acquired vehicles in order to rapidly cover the distance between locations. These vehicles, even light as they are compared to more conventional military vehicles, are devastatingly effective against the low tech kingdoms reliant on raw numbers that the IAF engages in combat with.

In order to use them effectively in combat, IAF personnel modify and reinforce civilian vehicles, most commonly using flatbed truck in particular. They weld or rivet metal plates or sheeting onto the front and or sides in order to make the vehicle more resistant to damage, as well as mounting light machine guns in the passenger's seat, or onto the back of the vehicle, creating a way for the IAF to quickly transport greater firepower into combat. Some vehicles may have light anti-tank weapons in place of machine guns, for use against armored enemy vehicles, or in some cases, against absurdly tough heavy infantry.

As can be expected, the weight of the reinforcements, as well as the added weaponry, weighs down the vehicles considerably. However, the IAF do not mind this too much, as they generally prefer greater protection at the cost of speed.
> The ninth entry, or: Always take the time to help others.
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	We got a visitor today! Twilight showed up and said that she had important news to deliver. Before that though, she had taken the time to thank us for freeing the slaves from the Diamond Dogs' mines. She went on and on about how thanks to us that families were now reunited and blah blah blah. She got  rather wordy, but we could tell she really was grateful. Which is good, since none of us can really stand empty praises. Once that was said and done, she said that she was asked by her mentor to invite some of us to the capital. So, about five of us volunteered to go. She mentioned that it was extremely important, and i swear i could of heard a note of desperation in her tone.

Speaking of volunteers, the Zebra, the one that used to be an apprentice to a shaman, has been visiting Zecora along with the other Zebras in his squad. He mentioned learning several new techniques for making medicine, which'll be quite useful make no mistake. For some reason i still can't recall his name, maybe it'll come to me later. The Griffons have been alternating between training, patrolling and hunting. Yes hunting. I said it was crazy that they would go after the wildlife in the Everfree. They rebuked that the only thing crazier would be to continue eating the rations we have, saying they taste like wet paper. They also admitted they were far more confident with their 32.'s than with a musket. They also mentioned that two of their number were experienced hunters anyways. Ah well, who knows? Maybe some fresh meat will do us good.

We've also planned to make official contact with the town of Ponyville later today, as Zecora offered to lead us there while she took the opportunity to  buy some ingredients for her potions. Once we get there, hopefully we can barter for some food, books, or construction materials. I'm sure that if we stay calm and polite, that everything will go fine.

Still, that doesn't mean we're going unarmed, no sir! I don't go anywhere without at least a pistol and two knives on me, not ever!
> The tenth entry, or: Trains are not as fun to ride as one usually thinks.
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	I'm writing this real quick while we ride this damned thing up the mountain. So, where taking the 'Ponyville Express' i think it's called, to the capital. I hate it. We all hate it. It's bumpy, the smoke from the engine drifts in and makes us cough up a storm, and all these other ponies keep shifting around and stealing glances at us. From what we've overheard, they know who we are from the rough descriptions that the liberated slaves gave. And they seemed rather thankful. But that really doesn't excuse how goddamn jumpy they are! One of us asked a high class looking pony for the time, and he rather rudely ignored us and turned his nose! Bah!

We tried asking about the dining car, but the 'chauffeurs' i think they're called, kept blubbering nonsense and excused themselves. Twilight, who, i should say, invited us in the first place, apologized and offered us daisy sandwiches she ordered. Regretfully, we had to decline. The worst part? We've only been on here for ten minutes and we still have two. Goddamn. Hours. Before we pull into the station.

I'm going to try to take a nap. The sooner we get off this damned thing the better! 
> Bonus Chapter 005: Notes on IAF Close Quarters Combat Doctrine
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	As IAF personnel lack any formal training, melee combat with enemy combatants are often short, blurry, terrifying experiences. When in a situation that calls for melee combat, IAF personnel prefer to employ the use of bayonets mounted on long arms such as shotguns or rifles. While lacking any training, they fall back on either two effective tactics. Either fighting dirty, or fighting like rabid, cornered hounds, without regard towards their own well beings.

Alongside the bayonet, IAF personnel often make use of other weapons that are effective in such situations. Including sawed-off shotguns, flamethrowers, cleavers and chain-swords. They have no qualms about charging occupied buildings held by the enemy, which makes for nightmarish scenarios for all sides when bogged down in urban warfare. 
> The Eleventh entry, or: Dirt isn't very comfy.
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	Well i've decided to waste time by scribbling down in here while i'm taking a break. I'm just laying here, in the north trenchline in my own little slice of dirt. I, like many others, do my best to stay comfortable by decorating it. Or, at least what you could call decorating if you turn your head and squint a little. Not much anyways, just a small solar lamp here, a hole in the side for books there. If it wasn't for dirt getting everywhere it'd be perfect. Then again dirt is inevitable considering where i'm laying right now.

Anyways. It's been like two or three days, i think, since our representatives went up to Canterlot to meet with those Princesses. We've been trading with the locals a bit, mostly bits and bobs. And by that i mean various souvenirs. as well as a number of more precious gems we got from that raid on the diamond  dog's slave mine a while back. Nothing too fancy, just food and books mostly. The locals are antsy for some reason, don't know why but from what we could find out things are getting dangerous farther southwest. Apparently there was a minor skirmish with some 'changelings' near Appleoosa i think the town's called. It's right smack-dab in the middle of the arid parts of the badlands, y'know, sand, cactus and cow skulls far as the eye can see. Dunno why anyone would want to live out there but it's not my problem. The rumor mill's also been a' grinding about events in various foreign territories like the Griffon Confederacy, the Minotaur Oligarchy, and the Dragonian Theocracy. Mostly lots of political stuff i can't wrap my head around.

I think i'll grab a snack, maybe chat up one of those nice Zebra fellows we recruited. I like that guy who makes jokes about anything on the spot, he's pretty good. Auran I think his name was. I hope our group come back down from the mountain soon. I wonder, why are the princesses at the top of the latter? Why not just be queen? Bah. Who knows.
> The Twelfth entry, or: Always keep promises, lest you look like a douchebag.
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	We've been staying in the Castle for about a week as 'honored guests' and yet we feel the burden of carrying the news back to the others. When we first arrived, we marched next to Twilight with our heads high and proud. We had to make a good impression after all. We did attract a bit of attention. And wouldn't you know it, we were stopped by a Husband and Wife who thanked us at least ten times over for rescuing their daughter, who was apparently one of the slaves in the dogs' gem mines. Long story short, we made it to the Castle after having been thanked by at least twenty more ponies along the way. It felt nice, doing good and being thanked for it.

Anyways, we meet the other royals here. The tall white one, Celestia. The slightly less tall but you could hardly tell blue one, Luna. And the Noticeably shorter but still tall in her own right pink one, Cadance something-or-other.  We managed to get along rather well considering. We were invited to dine with them and we took the offer. Celestia is quite nice, but she's kind of condescending. When we asked why we were invited to the capital, she kept dodging the question and saying 'All in due time.' in a rather noncommittal tone. We weren't happy with this, and told her as such. She relented after we threatened to walk out, thinking she was wasting our time, and patience. Luna is rather brash. And loud. And kind of haughty in that old-timey royal kind of way. But she's at least more honest and to the point than her sister. Cadance is rather chatty. But she's quite empathetic. 

After the meal, Celestia guided us to what was apparently a less often used part of the castle. We all came to rest in a small, comfortable room with a few chairs and couches, and a warm, inviting fireplace. There, she told us a bit of new that was rather shocking. At least to Twilight.

Equestria was about to get double teamed by the changelings and the Gryphons. Okay, she didn't say it like that. But she did say that their Kingdom would come under very trying times. Apparently the last major war they had fought was a civil war. And they had never fought a war against multiple enemies on multiple fronts. They had heard of what we had done, that is, freeing the slaves and making a base in the Everfree, fighting the wildlife all the while. They were practically begging for our help. So we decided to all go back together in chariots, used for transportation in the air, and regroup with the others in the Everfree. Once there we would hammer out a deal. Maybe for a bit of gold for our services. But far less than your average mercenary group would charge.

I should get to sleep. We're going tomorrow. This bed is pretty comfy. We won't leave them to rot. I refuse to.
> The thirteenth entry, or: Gold tastes awful on rye.
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	Well it took us long enough, i mean, i'm not complaining but by this time we'd usually be up to our elbows in various assholes trying to tear us limb from limb. It's nice though, at least the occasional animal attack keeps things from being too boring. Now it seem's we've been, for lack of a better word, 'hired' to help Equestria fight a two front war they'd probably have no chance of winning otherwise. We didn't want much for payment, though they seemed surprised at what we asked for. Food, shelter, a few metal breastplates, not very much. It's mostly food and board though. When they asked us why we didn't want payment in gold 'bits'. We just said that you can't eat gold.

Trust me, we've tried. Some deployments we'd get cut off from our allies and their supplies. We'd go hungry a lot. It never got too bad though, like, not 'Donner Party' bad.

Anyways, i'm sure that we'll be on the offensive eventually. I'm sure we'll be able to loot whatever's not nailed down then while we're in enemy territory. Though our first deployment will probably be sometime soon, maybe in the next week or so we'll be transported by train to the farthest settlement west. Appleoosa. Apparently they've reported what could be an imminent attack by the Changelings. With reports of black shapes zipping over the horizon near dawn and after dusk. Maybe scouts.

I'm sure it won't be too bad, from what i know Changelings act like a swarm. A hive mind maybe? Though we'll have to make preparations for mass wave attacks. Machineguns and mortars will be the name of the game. I'd better go help link up ammo belts for our MG's anyways. We're going to need all the ammo we can get. 
> Bonus Chapter 006: Notes on IAF Artillery Doctrine
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	When it comes to the matter of artillery, coined as the 'God of War' by Soviet Premier Stalin, the IAF have very little in the way of heavy ordinance. The majority of the IAF Bombardment Corps is made up of Mortars of various calibers. Typically crewed by four to five personnel, mortar crews excel in a defensive role. Providing much needed firepower to scatter and suppress enemy formations. IAF defensive positions are usually defended by at least ten separate mortar crews. Usually placed in the center of the defenses so that they may quickly re-align directions if need be.

Light mortars are also used in assault roles, they can be mounted on the backs of flatbed trucks, providing greater mobility as well as a greater chance of survival. If they come under return fire, assault mortar crews can quickly turn and retreat without risking taking the time to pack up and take their gear with them.

The few Heavy Artillery pieces that the IAF possesses are usually stationed in key positions in Occupied Provinces, acting as key roles in the defense of the Province, with the crews made up of hardened veterans.
> The fourteenth entry, or: My feet hurt. I'm tired. Are we there yet? This train sucks. My back itches.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	We've been cooped up in this train for about half the day and most of us are getting a little cranky. God, if another pony comes up and asks me one more fucking inane question i'm going to scream. At least we're almost there anyways, thank god. The only downside is that we'll be out in the sun and the heat. We've made sure to pack plenty of water and such. We've also taken quite a few tarps and other coverings for the trenches to help keep things tolerable.

The plan is that once we disembark, we'll set up a ring of trenches about a fourth of a mile from the town.  We'll have the trench system envelop the town in the center, as we're not sure what direction they'll be coming from. We've loaded up two whole boxcars with equipment and ammunition for the mortars and machineguns. What little we know of the changelings is that they're connected by a hive mind, that and the fact that there's a lot of them.

So we've packed as much ammo as we can haul on our backs. We're going to have to put a lot of effort into the defenses. Overlapping fields of fire for the machineguns, and a setup to have the mortars firing in continuous volleys. We're all that stands between Appleoosa and the Changeling horde. We cannot fail.
> The fifteenth entry, or: Sand gets friggin' everywhere, all the time.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	I had a dream last night. I had dreamed that I was at Disney World, but that's not the thing. It was so vivid, i could feel the afternoon sun heating my face. The dull roar of the crowds, the call of employees directing the flow of the endless bodies. The chatter of so many people from abroad. German, Indian, Chinese. People from all over the United States, Southerners, Northerners. The cry of young children. The feel of the cool breeze on my body. The occasional respite from the heat by the scattered clouds, darkening everything just a tint.

And above it all, i remembered, family, perhaps? We were eating, laughing, joking. Tiring from the long day, the long walks. The ever present heat.


I awoke crying. I don't know why. Thankfully, the only one to hear me was one of the griffons who i was commanding. I don't remember how, but we ended up cuddling together. I didn't mind, having to comfort yourself is, awkward, i'd say. It was nice. His name was Konstantin Talonsweeper. Having someone there to comfort me helped. It really did.

But the more i think, the more i realize, it wasn't a dream. It was a memory. Probably from 'The First', the one who we're all cloned from. Things are fuzzy from before the IAF was formed. Can't remember a lot of things.

We've been here at Appleoosa for about a day or so. Nothing has happened so far, besides digging, getting near-heatstroke and eyestrain. We've requested extra water for the garrison here, but it'll take a while. We can do with what we have for now though.
> Bonus Chapter 007: Notes on IAF Urban Warfare Doctrine
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Urban Warfare is often described as being brutal, confusing, and terrifying. It is no different for the IAF, who have engaged in such close quarter fighting on numerous occasions, usually upon assaulting a regional capital. IAF Doctrine calls for the use of large assault teams equipped with submachine guns and shotguns for the room-to-room, house-to-house fighting typical of Urban Warfare. These veteran infantry are usually supplemented by small squads wielding Molotovs and high capacity flamethrowers for clearing enemy hardpoints.

Some of the IAF's bloodiest battles have taken place while on the defensive in urban environments.   They know that it is very costly for an opposing force to attack cities and large towns, and it also renders the use of heavy tanks and such useless in the narrow streets. As well as lessening the effectiveness of enemy artillery.

When a city occupied by the IAF comes under siege, IAF Personnel usually do their best to herd the local population either out of the city towards allied territory, or into subways and bomb shelters to wait out the fight. Once the civilian population is either safely squared away or evacuated, IAF Personnel dig in, and dig in hard. IAF Infantry will fanatically fight to hold every inch of ground, Mortar crews will strain their muscles to the point of tearing to constantly feed their weapons, snipers will use the urban environment like a playground, sprinting and vaulting through the ruined cities and killing an enemy with every pull of the trigger. Even vehicle crews will dig their vehicles into pits and reinforce them with extra machineguns and sandbags, turning them into makeshift bunkers, and when their rides are turned to scrap, they will jump right into the fray with their personal sidearms.
> Bonus Chapter 008: Notes on IAF Ideological and Political Warfare
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The IAF make heavy use of the Ideology of such basic tenants as free speech, the banishment of archaic practices such as slavery and indentured servitude, basic education, as well as the creation of a government of democratically elected officials. The prime targets of this Ideological warfare are the lower classes of the low-tech and borderline barbarian kingdoms that the IAF usually come into conflict with.

Those that the IAF attempts to influence are those such as serfs, peasants and disgruntled, less affluent Barons and lords. Often, the IAF will spread their influence through the deployment of 'Preachers', smooth-talking public orators  who attempt to convince listeners about the benefits of living under the IAF's banner using plain, language understandable to the common man, alongside passionate, fiery rhetoric.

Converting these wretched serfs, living under the local lord's whip that life under the IAF is far more free and beneficial has many upsides, usually creating a greater pool of manpower to watch over Occupied Provinces, as well as destabilizing belligerent Kingdoms and Governments.
> Bonus Chapter 009: Notes on common IAF armaments 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The  equipment utilized by what is usually referred to as the 'Interdimentional Army of Freedom' Or, 'IAF', is usually of poor or intermediate quality, The most common weapons being listed henceforth.

'London' Mk.I Sub-machine gun: The Mark I is the most common weapon utilized by IAF personnel, from frontline Infantry, to weapon and vehicle crews, the weapon actually has several variants, though there is little difference in performance, and is mostly cosmetic. The Mk.I is similar to the German Mp40, or the British Sten. While not the most accurate or powerful, the Mk.I is used mainly for it’s most valued design, in that it takes little to no effort to manufacture, utilizes the ever common 9mm Parabellum round, and is easily replaceable. Most IAF personnel carry up to seven magazines of ammunition.

Molotov: Many IAF personnel utilize these in lieu of traditional shrapnel grenades, as they can be made anywhere, at anytime, even on the frontlines in the brutal rage of combat. Some IAF Infantry are known to swarm enemy armor, and attempt to pry open a door or hatch before bathing the enemy crew in flame.

Captured Weapons: IAF personnel are very likely to scavenge from enemy corpses not a moment after they've dropped dead. Either for weapons or their corresponding ammunition.  Many foes may find their own anti-tank weapons or artillery being fired on them.

Artillery: The IAF have little in the way of anything heavier than infantry grade light and heavy mortars, anything that packs more of a punch must either be captured or scavenged from enemy positions, or purchased from allied nations.

'Venice' Mk.II bolt action rifle: The Rifle is the second most common weapon besides the Mk.I Sub-machine gun, the Mk.II rifle is an improvement on the Mk.I 'Hamburg' rifle, which was little more than a single-shot pipe rifle. The Mk.II is based off of the American Springfield rifle. Most IAF prefer the more powerful Mk.II rifle, over the Mk.I Sub-machine gun, but complications with manufacturing limit the use of the Mk.II rifle more than IAF personnel would prefer.
> The sixteenth entry, or: This 'aint Starship Troopers
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	This was his third, his third, night on watch in a row. The Infantryman sighed, he couldn't complain though, after all someone had to suffer through the dull monotony of nightwatch duty, and if noone did it, then who would? He turned his head slightly to the left, then he lazily drifted his sight towards the right. He rolled his shoulders, then adjusted his grip on the Venice rifle, it wasn't common, but he'd managed to snag it, as well as the rifle's 7.62 Caliber ammo bag, off the body  of another IAF marksman during a failed charge on an enemy position during a previous deployment elsewhere in the multiverse. It was a bloody battle, the man could recall; They'd had to fight inch by bloody inch in that hellhole of a city. 

'But,' the Veteran mused, 'At least it hadn't been as bad as Hamburg.' He shuddered. Noone talked about Hamburg, They hadn't lost persay, they'd held out. But far, far too many civilians had been stuck in the middle of that raging hellstorm. He still remembered standing over that one woman, she'd been clutching a bundle in her arms before she'd been thrown like a ragged doll by a stray artillery shell. He'd turned her over, and he saw..


NO.


He bit down on his hand, hard, he drew a little blood. But he refused to remember. He rubbed his eyes, he hated the quiet. He suddenly herd light scuffling, and then the silence was broken by a shout, and the sharp report of a pistol rapidly going off. His eyes snapped towards the source, but he could also hear more shouting, more shooting. 'Ambush!', an Infantryman yelled, The Veteran saw a dark shape rapidly closing in on him, it was an equine, but he knew Changelings had horns, he couldn't tell whether it could be one of Zebra Volunteers or not.

They needed light, he had a Flaregun on him, but by the time he fired it into the air, the shape could be upon him. He had to act, so he made his choice.

The desert was surprisingly well lit under the moon, but just only enough to be able to clearly pick out shapes against the sand, compared to the flare that rocketed into the sky however, it was dull as weathered steel.

The Desert was illuminated with a crimson red bloom of light.
> The Seventeenth entry, or: What's sticky, green, and won't wash off?
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Rage and pain was all the Commissar felt. When the black bug clad in scars both upon it's carapace and it's dull azure armor (Which indicated some sort of veterancy, if only through simply not dying.) had sprinted into the First Griffon Volunteer Company's (Which was also just officially formed the day before, and was still dangerously undermanned.  Consisting of the handful of Griffons that had been liberated from the slave mines.) Trench system-slash-impromptu barracks and used it's black, jagged horn to stab Corporal Talonsweeper, the one who had comforted him when he had woken screaming from his nightmare, the Commissar, the one who shouldered the burden of keeping his subordinates happy and safe, screamed in defiance and tackled the black beast.

He could not recall for how long they tumbled and writhed in the dirt, each trying to strangle the life out of the other. The Commissar, in his rage, abandoned his revolver in favor of attempting to rip the offender apart with his own hands.

The Changeling, a veteran of many swift, brutal raids, fought just as violently. The Commissar tore off a wing, the Changeling cracked the man's ribs. A gouged eye, a broken hand, a crushed hindleg. Until finally, the man wrapped his hands around the bug's throat. 

All it took was a little pressure for the Changeling's throat to make a sickening crunching sound.

The Commissar smiled.


He didn't know how long he sat there, staring at the dead bug's corpse, but by the time he regained any lucidity, the changelings had been repelled, and the IAF crawled out of their trenches to take stock of the dead.
> The Eighteenth entry, or: Clean your rifle, sharpen your bayonet, bandage your wounds, repeat.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The Infantryman hadn't really known exactly what to expect on this deployment. It was his first. He'd had spent a bit of time before having to cross the portal on the firing range, enough to qualify for a Venice rifle before he'd had to join a hundred others as part of the third wave of reinforcements. It was rather easy at first, all he'd had to do in that dark forest was stand watch and occasionally shoot at the hostile wildlife to scare them off.

Now he was here, under this harsh, unforgiving light and heat. With little respite save the covered trenches and the nearby town, which he forgot the name of. Apple-something-or-other. Then came that night skirmish with the Bugs. Thankfully the other infantrymen who had been ambushed were able to either fight back, or otherwise make a lot of noise, which completely killed the enemy's element of surprise.

He had impaled one of those Changelings on his bayonet as it literally jumped into his trench. He remembered how the cold steel had, with a combination of the Bug's own momentum, and the quality of the bayonet's steel, had led to it smashing through the changelings' hard carapace with frighteningly little resistance.

By the time he'd managed to remove the corpse from the end of his rifle, the initial shock of the ambush had worn off. And the bugs, black as night. Had slipped into the dark as soon as they'd realized the tide had shifted against them. All the infantryman could do was let off a few parting shots.

Now he sat in his company's trench, cleaning his rifle of the wretched sand that plagued everyone at the outpost. With a wayward glance, the Rifleman could see the IAF medics, with the assistance of the Pony town's doctor, attending to one of the Griffons that had been wounded in the nighttime ambush. They'd lost three men to the skirmish,  and seven had been wounded. The Bugs lost around five or six, at last count of the corpses.

The Rifleman wondered whether there would be any other ambushes, or if the Changelings would have to learn their lesson time and time again. He didn't look forward to any more nighttime ambushes. He kept cleaning his rifle.
> The Nineteenth entry, or: The burden of High Command.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	On the day's eve, not two days past since the surprise attack, and two more attacks since, Five men stood in a tent just scarcely larger than the average moving van. By the light of a gently flaring lantern, five men, with their peaked caps and decorated overcoats, argued of their next course of action. These men, who had been tasked with coordinating an Operation to locate the nearest Changeling outpost and eliminate it. Tragically, they had no leads on which to locate their quarry.  

All five men may wear so many decorations, however, every single one of them had, at one point, been an ordinary, faceless infantryman in the IAF's Innumerable leigons of clones. But, they had risen slowly through the ranks by proving their competence in leadership under fire. First, they led squads, then companies, then regiments. Every one was a hardened veteran, yes some rose more quickly than others, but none would be standing had they not proven their worth on the field.

'We have no leads!' Cried one in exasperation. 'We'll find some!' Another challenged stubbornly. 'I will not stand for any more casualties than necessary!' He continued, slamming one gloved hand on the relatively old wooden table, covered in maps and hastily scribbled plans. 'We could assign patrols into the desert, and slowly expand after we've thoroughly combed the immediate area.' Said yet another, wiping his forehead with an old cloth. 'We cannot leave the town vulnerable!' Said one more, clenching his hands in frustration. 'If the bugs slip by, they would fall upon the populace like rabid dogs on meat, we need every man at their post!'

They would have continued arguing into the night, cries of frustration, indignant rage and concern would drift out of the tent's opening. That is, had not a messenger stumbled into the tent, his chest heaving of effort. 'The westward patrols have been wiped out, the bugs march in great numbers!'

After two heartbeats' worth of utter silence, the tent exploded in a cacophony  of noise as the Commanders and their aids rushed to coordinate the defense of the Appleoosa Forward Defensive Position.
> Another Time, Another Place: Civil Repression
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

		To the IAF, the existence of the Multiverse is all but certain. Any who would disagree would be shown very physical proof. Scars, weapons, and looted trinkets give even the average IAF Infantryman's words far more weight.

Of course, with so many vastly different Universes in said Multiverse, it is only natural that there would be those which were very similar, yet very, very different.


We focus on one such Alternate Equestria, here the key differences are that most inhabitants, Ponies, Griffons, Zebras and such, walk on two legs instead of four. Another difference is that, in the land of Equestria itself, under the rule of the Sisters of the Sun and Moon, is it's population. Where there is one Male for Every ten females, this unfortunately, means that the rights of males are greatly restricted 'for their own safety'. 

This fact, that is, that males have less rights simply for being male, and these restrictions being made in the name of 'protecting' them, A cause that is known to be a very slippery slope, greatly upset the IAF when they had deployed into this Alternate Universe, as they belive in equal rights, civil liberty and a firm, benevolent government established to serve and be served by the people, etc.

Though the IAF and this Alternate Equestria had their differences, the IAF's superior weaponry, vast legions of die-hard fighting Infantry, and mechanized tactics ended up saving Equestria from a vast invasion from a race of Caribou from their far northern Empire. In this massive battle, the IAF's vaunted 33rd Mechanized Infantry Division, known as the 'Deadmen' faced off against the Caribou's invasion force of One-hundred thousand of their Empire's veteran troops.

It was a massacre. Limbs flew and so much blood and gore soaked the ground of the field in which the Caribou smashed themselves into the IAF's steel-strong defensive line to no avail, that nearby towns began circulating ghost stories of how one could still hear the agonized screams of the attackers. The vast field, long nameless, was christened as 'The Crimson stretch.'

Despite the horror that was wrought, the Equestrians were thankful, and in the gleaming city of Canterlot, a massive parade was held in the IAF's honor. At the Climax of this event, in her fervor, The royal sister of the moon, Luna, announced that, under an ancient law long past, the IAF would be awarded dominion over the City of Manehatten and it's surrounding countryside.

This caused a great amount of consternation among the populace, as well as among the IAF. Celestia herself later admitted, in private, that of all things she had expected to happen, that was not one of them. Of course, Luna realized she had jumped the gun, unfortunately, the clause of this nameless, ancient law was, 'no take-backsies.'

Though unexpected, the IAF took this in stride, and they wasted little time setting up in Manehatten. However, in the following months, several ugly issues reared their head.

The first was that there was a large amount of grumbling among the locals when the IAF forced Manehattan's local government to award more rights to males, this itself did not fester much resentment, but it did lay down fuel for future problems.

The second was that IAF patrols were accosted at least a dozen times a day by the mares of the city, which made the Infantrymen very uncomfortable, and not too little upset, with how they were constantly leered at, eyed like objects.

The third, and most pressing of issues, was the Heat season. the Heat itself was self-explanatory, however the problem was that with the utterly lopsided gender division in Manehatten's population, males were often hunted down and used to the point of injury. The worst part of this issue was that younger, underage males were not exempt.

This fact drove the IAF into a frothing rage.

Approximately one week before the Heat season came, the IAF issued an edict that, before the Heat cycle, all males would be moved into the IAF's main fortified compound in the center of the city. None were exempt.

Despite loud protesting from the average mare, as well as the local government dragging their feet collecting the registered locations of the male's homes, the Edict went into effect.


This brings us several days into the Heat cycle. Now, if one were to focus their eyes in front of the IAF compound, one would see a large line of black armored figures bearing weighted Batons and Steel Riot Shields. This line of one hundred men are of the IAF's MP Division. They are here because a massive crowd of Five-hundred mares are slowly making their way towards the Compound. Besides the Compound's guards, they are all that stands between the mob, and the Stallions and young Colts in the Compound.

All other local IAF forces are tied up trying to restore order in the rest of the city. They cannot fail.


We focus on one of the line, he is as faceless as those around him, sporting gasmasks with black, glossy eyepieces. He stands resolute, even as hundreds of rioters edge closer. He can hear the MP's Commanding officer call for them to disperse through the Compound's PA system, to no avail. He grips his Baton, weighted with a steel core, tight enough that it feels as if the bones of his knuckles would burst from under his skin.

As the mob closes in, the MP Officer calls for Tear Gas to be launched, and, following his words several trails of the dense, chocking gas over his head into the advancing mob. A dozen of the rioters run away, not having expected any resistance. However, hundreds still close upon the Line of MP's. And they are given the order to advance, and forcefully disperse the mob. 

A single MP we focus upon again, and one can see him perfectly in step, as his shield is raised, baton in hand. The mob closes in, and across from him the MP can see a young earth pony mare charging wildly with the crowd.

The mob smashes against the line of MP's but they do not falter. And that's when things go downhill, for the mob, and for IAF-Equestrian relations.

The MP smashes his baton across the face of the earth pony mare, leaving a large gash across her forehead. She falls, and across the line the scene repeats itself over and over. Ribs break, teeth fly, wings and wrists alike are broken and twisted as the MP's advance over the writhing, but alive bodies of the downed rioters. 

The rest of the mob begins to falter and panic, the shock of such brutality completely unexpected. 


Even as the rioters begin to falter, the MP's continue their merciless advance. The nameless MP swings his steel Riot Shield in a wide arc, stunning a Pegasus with a broken board. He swings his baton, catching her in the ribs with a sickening crack. Again he steps over a withing form. Again he swings his baton, this time smashing an earth pony across the jaw, leaving her coughing blood and teeth into the pavement. 

Again. He breaks the wrist of a Unicorn.

Again. A Pegasi's leg is bent backward, and she is left screaming in agony.

Again. A Mare's snout is crushed, and she is left writhing.

Again. He leaves a bloody gash across the forehead of another, and she lays still, moaning quietly.


By this time, almost more than a hundred of the mob are brutally put down, and the rest are already running in fright, in shock from the sheer violence of the MP's. The street leading to the Compound is relatively quiet, save for the whimpers and the agonized moans from the broken rioters.

The nameless MP falls behind from the rest of the line as they advance to subdue the rest of the city, he looks upon all the broken bodies. He knows he should feel guilt or such for what he has done. But despite trying, he can only feel pity, and scorn. The MP jogs forward to meet with the rest of the Line.

And a horrified news crew from Canterlot on the top of a nearby apartment building hurredly packs up, having broadcast live far more than they had ever expected to.


		
		
> The twentieth entry, or: Trenches can make for pretty brutal mosh pits, if not quite cramped.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

		


The Rifleman swung his Venice rifle like a crude club, smashing it across the face of a Bug.
As it fell to the floor of his squad's trench, he clenched his teeth and brought his foot down upon the Changeling's neck.

Once.

Then twice.

And on the third, the Rifleman heard a crunch. He knew if it wasn't dead it was dying, so he swung his rifle up; sighted on a charging Bug, and pulled the trigger.

*Click*

He cursed loudly and with such vulgarity as to make a sailor wince. Wrenching open the bolt, he shoved a clip of the Five-fiftysix caliber rounds into the receiver. Several were closing now, but if he brought up his rifle fast enough, he could take down one or two before they were upon him.

He was still trying to close the bolt when two bugs were brought down by the chattering of another Infantryman's London submachinegun. Though the rest of the bullets in the volley missed the other three Changelings, the Rifleman was able to finish loading his piece and pulled the trigger. And another bug was brought down with a loud crack.

The last two were upon him, and he was the last one in this single trench in the center of this offensive. They were five before the attack caught them off guard.

One Infantryman was caught by a blast of magic across the face, and he had fallen cursing and screaming in pain and rage. The other three had been overwhelmed by the bugs over the last hour, falling one by one as the offensive dragged on.

'This day sucks.' The Rifleman thought as he bashed one Changeling across the face; before throwing down his rifle, drawing his knife, and throwing himself screaming onto the other. 
> The Twenty-first entry, or: Distance, Wind, Velocity.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------




Despite the chaos that raged, the veteran Sniper kept low, and quiet.
He lay on his stomach, in the side of a desolate, uneven outcropping of stone that jutted out of the sands. In comparison to the low dunes, the tall, rocky formation stood like a monolith in the desert.

It was quite comfortable in the small hole in which he lay, there were canteens of water, boxes of food, even a bed and a long-range radio in his spider-hole.

He knew he'd had to wait for a good target. Now he had his chance. He braced his shoulder against his weapon, an Anti-tank rifle, a noticeably worn Soviet PTRD that he'd found far ago during the Battle of Kurgzgrad. It had been left forgotten in the basement of an old pawn shop. It has served him well ever since.

As he stared down his high-magnification scope, he locked his cold, uncaring eyes upon his target. The Changeling commander.
It was as if they were completely ignorant of the dangers that snipers like him could pose. The commander bellowed orders at a constant rate, as well as smashing the face in of a subordinate who had brought him unwelcome news. If that didn't give him away, then the decorated, polished dark green armor, lined with silver designs gave no room for doubt.

He'd only one shot.

He only needed one shot.

Wind. 

Distance.

Velocity.

And now that he had compensated for these factors, he only needed to take his chance.

He cannot miss.

He will not miss.

With his finger on the trigger, he emptied his lungs. His aim would be as steady as it would ever be.

He slowly, ever so slowly, squeezed.
> The Twenty-second entry, or: Crunch.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	

The Veteran Tanker laughed madly as he heard the terrified screeches of the Bugs as they either ran for their lives or were crushed underneath.

He had been in command of this StuG IV for at least two years since he had been assigned to it's crew. From what he could remember, the IAF had 'acquired' it from a museum long ago during a previous deployment. Whoever decided to take it back with them must have done so thinking what a shame it was that it was simply sitting there gathering dust when it was fully operational.

And the Veteran Tanker was glad for it, for he had the honor of commanding one of the handful of actual Tanks that the IAF had at it's disposal. Most other armored vehicles that the IAF had to make do with were little more than civilian trucks with metal plates welded to them and mounted with light AT guns.

The front of the tank-destroyer vibrated slightly now and again, as if someone were throwing large rocks at them, the Tank Commander scowled, and, squinting his eyes up against the thin view slit, strained to see a large mass of black shapes against the bright world of the desert outside.

Green bolts of light impacted the front, but left little more than dark scars.

The Tank Commander hollered at the top of his lungs, calling for his crew to ready another High Explosive round.

'Three hundred meters, closing to two!', called the Gunner as the Loader slammed the large Explosive shell into the receiver, and the Commander smiled viciously.

'Wait!' He called, as the battered, old StuG rumbled just a bit closer to the Bugs' firing line. He could almost see the enemy beginning to waver, witnessing their magic bolts do nothing but scar the metal beast.

The Commander screamed wordlessly, though the meaning was obvious as only seconds after, the Explosive shell rocketed towards the enemy line screaming like some hellbound Wraith.

The Crew cheered as limbs flew and organs were spilled, and the line of dozens upon dozens of Changelings were reduced to mangled corpses.

The Commander rifled through a small pile of papers as the Tank's aged radio blasted calls for support alongside enemy troop numbers.

He scrunched his eyes as sucked on his teeth in impatience as he marked several spots, before shouting orders.

'And to think,' The Commander thought ruefully, 'There are more Bugs on the way!'


> Bonus Chapter 010: Notes on IAF Infantry composition and Basic equipment as mandated.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The IAF is made of various types of Infantry and Vehicles. From the die hard Veterans to the armored cars of the IAF's mechanized corps, many (but not all) of the various divisions, organizations, as well as the individual equipment of each Infantry or Vehicle type that are part of the IAF are listed below.

For now, several Infantry types will be listed in this chapter, more Unit descriptions are to follow.

Light Infantry - The stubborn, fanatical backbone of the IAF, the Basic Infantry are completely made up of the endless legions of clones that the IAF has at it's disposal. Though overall competent and stalwart in the face of death itself, Infantrymen will often panic if faced with an unknowable or otherwise eldritch foe. Infantrymen often work in squads of various sizes. IAF Doctrine mandates that when total IAF forces number less than Regimental strength, for Infantry to work in squads of a minimum of five. Any larger, and squad sizes are adjusted to compensate, with up to ten to fifteen men for one squad, depending on the circumstances.

Infantrymen are usually armed with the subpar London submachine gun, due to it's ease of both use and manufacturing. Infantrymen are recognizable by their heavy light grey and silver greatcoats, and matching field caps, most can often be seen hefting large backpacks, the contents of which usually include spare ammunition, food and water, medicine, and personal effects.

Martyrs - Indistinguishable from regular Infantry, but infinitely more dangerous, Martyrs are the logical conclusion to the IAF's self aware nature as disposable clones. Whenever the time is right, such as when encountering enemy Armored elements, a seemingly innocuous Infantryman will throw down their weapon, wrench open their greatcoats (Revealing a bomb vest that can be composed of everything from dynamite to satchel charges meant to level buildings) and sprint toward their targets with unnatural speed, witnesses will attest that Martyrs often laugh in madness, with utter terror mixing with resignation, elation, and sheer contempt for the enemy combining for an emotional cocktail that frays their very sanity. 

When or if they reach their target, the result is often compared to a massive wreck, a terrible sight that one cannot tear their eyes away from.

Veterans - The 'class' of Veteran is often a broad term. But Veterans are usually identified as those who have survived through several deployments and have served with distinction through a number of battles. Equipment is massively varied, as Veterans often loot anything useful from the enemy's corpses. From high grade armor, to rapid fire laser rifles, to personal shields. The best of the best among Veterans are often determined by the quality of their equipment. The better or more 'overpowered' their armor or weapons, the tougher they are.

No Veteran wields any weapon that they didn't personally tear from the cold, dead hands of the enemy.

Due to the wildly varying armors and equipment  they wield, Veterans are often used as skirmishers to assault either the enemy's flanks, or to eliminate stubborn pockets of resistance.

CHEMWAR - CHEMWAR, by nature, leads a very controversial, but necessary existence. Officially under the direct command of the IAF's 1st (and only) Biological and Chemical Warfare Command, CHEMWAR engages in various operations that all have one ultimate objective:

Purification. 

Though their work is traumatizing and they run the countless risk of infection. The CHEMWAR Infantry work tirelessly to cleanse areas ravaged by monstrous, mutational plagues natural, supernatural, and manmade Another objective is often one constant, the rescue and assured safety of any survivors of these Outbreaks.

Alongside their traditional sidearms, CHEMWAR personnel wield their trademark 'Purifier Mk.III' a combination chem-napalm thrower that will suffocate what breathes, and burn to ash what does not.
> The Twenty-third entry, or: Just a moment's rest.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



'No excuses! By god you WILL get up that fucking hill, or else i'll shoot you mysel-' -Last words of a Commissar attached to the Twentieth Penal Infantry Company, before he was turned to a red mist due to a direct hit from a stray tank shell.



All the Infantryman wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep. 

As he sat in the trench, he found he could not rest, as the overbearing desert heat, combined with the sickening, damp, sweat infused clothes he wore; He groaned in frustration, and with effort, forced himself to his feet. He thus decided to go into the town of Appleoosa proper, to see if he could find relief in the shade of a porch or alley. Huffing, he all but dragged his empty 'London' Sub-machine-gun and heavy backpack as he trudged toward Town.

He wanted someplace relatively quiet, but now that the Changelings were beaten back, for now at least, the townsponies were out and about in the town, doing their regular business, stubbornly refusing to let the uncertainty of the close battles, and the paranoia of Infiltrators to disrupt the lives they had made for themselves here.

The Infantryman saw several other IAF personnel wandering around the town, one was bartering with a shopkeeper, using his exotic trinkets as payment.

After a while, he found himself resting on one of the Train Platform's benches. With the Sun slowly but noticeably starting to sink, the Infantryman slowly fading into unconsciousness. It was when the moon started to peek over the horizon, but before the stars started to shine that he was laying out on the bench. With his pack serving as his pillow, and his coat keeping him warm, He kept his eyes toward the sky. And he closed his eyes. 

In the distance, he could hear the soft sound of music, probably set up by another Infantryman, further helping him to relax.


It was not long before he was dreaming of happier times.



> The Twenty-Fourth entry, or: Paperwork.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick Tock.

The Officer sighed as he stared blankly at the small wooden clock that sat on his desk, then he shifted his tired gaze to the ten-sheet thick stack of papers that sat in front of him. He slowly read the Outline of the report detailing uneventful search attempts by a number of squads to search for any Changeling outpost.

Nothing, they'd found nothing. He'd go so far as to say they'd found less than nothing, but there was hardly such a thing as less than nothing, was there?

He picked a pencil from the coffee cup on his left, before dropping it onto the desk and leaning back in his chair, his hands running up his face, before he wove his fingers together and held the back of his head up as he stared at the ceiling.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

At least he could be quite grateful for the locals letting them use this old house as a Command Post, they had mentioned that the owners had packed up and left to move farther north.

They had decided to rig the house with electricity, but it was crude, and the wiring was exposed. The Gas-powered Generators the Company had brought with them on their runs between here and the Main Command Area in the Everfree were certainly seeing their uses.

The Officer sighed and stood up straight, before getting out of his chair entirely and walking to the tall fan that stood in the corner of the room, he'd initially left it off to conserve power, but the air in the small room he had made his temporary office had begun to get a little too stuffy for his liking.

He quickly snapped the old fan's switch to the 'On' position, and it quickly began to spin and hum. And with it, the air in the room began to cool and circulate. Now it was a little easier to breathe.

His objective completed, the Officer returned to his desk and sat down.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

For a moment, he did absolutely nothing. Then he sighed, for he knew he couldn't put off doing those reports any longer.

'Don't mean I have to like it.', He thought as his face fell into his hands and he groaned in frustration.

He sniffed, and picked up the pencil, before going over the closing statement of the most recent scouting report.



"-are, as of this report, no enemy activity within the area encompassing Appleoosa or it's surrounding territories. Peaceful dialogues with the local Buffalo tribe has also revealed that they too, have seen nothing relating to changeling movements. Unlike the first several weeks since arriving in the territory around Appleoosa, there has been absolutely no contact with changeling scouts, skirmishers, or Infiltrators. Due to the dead silence exhibited by the Enemy, the only conclusions that can be made are that the Changelings have either completely abandoned their attack on the Appleoosa Territory, or that the Changelings are likely rallying for a large assault. Suspicions among most troops deem it the latter, and requests to the Main Command Area have been filed for more ammunition and heavy weaponry. End Report"



'If we're not fighting the enemy we came here to fight,' The Officer thought, 'Then what are we even doing here in the first place?
> The Twenty-Fifth entry, or: Things in the dark.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the patrol was yanked away, screaming obscenities and firing wildly into the black abyss that surrounded the men. Swiftly silenced by a sickening crunch.

Of course, the Arsonist was too concerned with blasting the writhing, dark shape in font of him with his makeshift, petrol-fueled flamethrower. It screeched like that of the damned, and though he could not see it's form that was cloaked by an unnatural darkness, he caught a glimpse or two as it was illuminated by it's current state of 'illumination'.

It was. Unspeakable. Were those eyes or mouths? By god, were they both? Those shouldn't be there, shouldn't have that many. His grip shook, and his heart raced, yet he only grit his teeth and focused more of the flame onto the eldritch foe. He was certain that, with enough fire, even the most horrifying foe could be cleansed. It's wailing reached new heights, and it fled at a speed revealing of it's somewhat small stature. Fleeing as so burning and screeching into the dark underbrush. 

That one, at least had been defeated, but it was only one of how many the eighteen strong patrol fought. As the other men of the IAF fought with savage desperation utilizing bullet and bayonet, the Arsonist turned his Flamethrower onto another one of the terrible shapes, or perhaps it was more than one? Sweat poured from both intense heat and frayed nerves as he freely sprayed burning petrol at the enemy. As he and the rest of the patrol fought, with deafening shots, determined yells of defiance, and unnatural screeches, He could not help but recall at how this was supposed to be a simple scouting mission into the deeper parts of the Everfree.

As his targets were sent wailing and writhing to the ground, he doused them once more with purifying flame, before turning his attention to another beast. In the early days of their deployment, one of the scouting teams that were sent in this direction never came back. Not even echoes of gunfire to mark their absence.

Now they knew why, at least. They just needed to tell Command what lies back in these Darkest Depths. But first, they had to get back to the Base as soon as possible. They couldn't handle this for too long.

A rifleman was sent to the ground as he was pinned under one of the foes, already he began gurgling through blood as the creature began to all but flay the flesh from his bones. Crimson flew as bladed appendages blurred with speed in their gruesome work.

It was with little hesitation that the Arsonist torched them both. They couldn't keep this up, not with these casualties, but it seemed that the assault from these unknowable things was beginning to slack. Once all was quiet, they could flee with all due haste back to the Portal Base.

He refused to die here, in the dark, filthy undergrowth. He had not come this far to die now.
> The Twenty-Sixth entry, or: Static in the Wind.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

"To all infantry sec&@#&$@#&of several enemy squads hav&%@@#$%lease confirm immediatel@&%@$&@!

*BAM*

The Operator cursed under his breath as he slammed his hand into the side of the weather-worn Olive green radio, with the winds blowing to create a maelstrom of sand outside the Comm tent they'd set up in the middle of their defenses, organizing the others was a sure pain.

He began turning knobs and flipping switches, doing whatever he could to adjust the radio waves in the faint hope of getting a clearer signal, the symphony of clicks and curses behind him was proof that he was not the only one attempting the same. Hissing, the Operator stood, reached around to look at the open insides of the radio, a mess of wires and faint lights, and screwed and switched on several secondary systems.

In all honesty, using them that way could burn the insides out, but he thought it prudent to take the risk in the face of the Infantry fighting blind and devoid of support.

A few more clicks, a few more turns, and-

"This is East Checkpoint, the Bugs are making an actual push, I'm reading close to a hundred, maybe more! I've got several guys too badly hurt to fight, and almost the other half of my men are dead. Half my Machineguns are down, and I've lost all of our men that can bandage a wound to enemy fire!

Well, that wasn't good. Dragging the attached Microphone closer, the Operator spoke into it, making sure to be as concise and clear as he could. 

"East Checkpoint, East Checkpoint. Comms reads you clear and true, we have mortars set up, but with this sandstorm we can't use them without specific coordinates."

"Damn, Just a moment, Comms! We'll get you those coordinates!"

Five seconds passed, then ten. Then Fifteen. And as the Operator was about to consider switching channels to inform command that the East was lost, the response finally crackled through. And the Infantryman on the other side rattled off a series of coordinates.

The Operator frowned. "That's a little close for comfort, East. If those rounds stray just a bit-"

"Hell, that might be close, but so is the goddamn enemy!" The increasingly loud sounds of gunshots and screams seemed to support that.

Wordlessly, he took the coordinates he had written down on a slightly yellowed piece of paper, and switched the channel set up for the Mortar Pits, a request for a response gained him the sounds of someone working frantically to clear something wet from his mouth. The Operator frowned, the Artillery Corps had a penchant  for boozing when they were bored. Drunks and Explosives didn't mix. Not well, at least.

With a sigh, he relayed the coordinates.

"Those are a little clos-"

"That's what I said." the Operator shot, impatience clear in his voice. A thoughtful murmur could be heard on the other side.

"Well, their funeral I suppose."

About ten seconds had passed before the Operator heard the low thumping noises of the Mortars, and and about seven seconds before he heard the boom between each. Another channel switch had him back on the General frequenc-

"&@%@#&%@**%@**$*%&

A sneer graced his lips, and his body cringed as the static burst through the aging speakers. He cursed with enough vitriol to peel paint, and stood and hunched himself over once again to mess with the slew of wires. It was hard to deal with all this interference, especially when this damned storm came out of nowhere.

It was especially strange when one considered that the Wind Factor was forecast to be especially low. Then again, whether forecasts were never the most accurate of things. 

Perhaps it's the work of enemy mages. He thought sarcastically, before tripping himself up on a particularly thick wire and nearly falling.

The Operator let out a long groan of frustration.

This was indeed a pain.