Trenchline Hope reflects over better times, before reality catches up to him.
A short story taking place in the Equestria at War alternate timeline, where Equestria is in a total war against Queen Chrysalis' militarized autocracy.
It is told from the perspective of Sergeant Trenchline Hope , a pony who was ostracized for most of his life for his useless talent: Conflict. As one of the only professional full-time soldiers of the vastly underfunded Equestrian military at the beginning of the conflict, Trenchline has seen more than a few comrades come and go, but he remembers them all.
My one and only talent. My only source of pride, and of sorrow.
In the peaceful lands of Equestria, what use is there for somepony like me, who is only good at what Equestria exists to prevent?
As I lie on my back, face up, I contemplate my usual griefs; Celestia's Sun kissing my unkempt facial fur, and the blooming wheat-strands tickling the little exposed fur not covered by my NCO uniform. I've been told that Rarity herself designed this uniform. The Element of Charity herself. It shows in the finished product too, magically enchanted threads adjusting to my form as required to make a perfect, snug fit.
Ah... how I'd like to stay here a little longer. But alas, smoke begins to waft across the golden fields, blocking my view of the Sun.
I wipe the blood off my nose. It's not mine, although whether that's a good thing or not, I am unsure.
Time to wake up.
"-OPE! WAKE UP SERGEANT COME ON!"
My eyes snap open. The scent of dust and ash assaults my nostrils like tear gas, and I convulse on the ground in a coughing fit, violently hacking up the particles of war.
"Luna be praised, I thought we'd gone and lost you Sarge!"
I reorient my head toward the familiar voice. It's Applebloom, a young recruit assigned to my platoon. She can't be more than 19 years old. She would have been just starting High School when the war started. Her future taken from her, and placed into my hooves.
I grab my machine-pistol, a trusty Macintosh Limestone, and wearily stand up, shoulders heavy with my burden.
"Bloom, how long have I been out?"
"Just a few seconds Sir, you were hit by artillery debris, nothing too serious from what I could ascertain."
"That's good... where did the artillery land?"
Applebloom points over at a building adjacent from ours. It's a residential block, probably erected more than 200 years ago. It used to house the working ponies of Manehattan. Families. It's not unlikely that many of those families were now fighting as my comrades at this very moment. The building is significant to me for another reason however.
"So that means our ammo reserve is now buried under 3 meters of concrete, along with most of 2nd Platoon."
Applebloom is about to respond to this, but is interrupted by the sound of our machinegunner opening fire. The ear-deafening roar of PFC Solid Throw's Buck Mk. IV taking away my opportunity for an after-concussion briefing.
"WE'VE GOT CHANGELINGS ASSAULTING THE GROUND FLO-!"
His call-out is cut short as he rapidly ducks out of the way of the hailstorm of suppressive fire shot at him in return for his machinegun's short outburst. Soon, the sounds of Gewehrs and MP10's echo up the stairwell, followed soon by shouting.
"Applebloom, I need you to assist Solid Throw with fire superiority. Give me your Type E."
Applebloom hands me her Commonwealth-made bolt-action rifle, and I hand her my machinepistol in return, rushing down the stairs as soon as the weapons have changed hooves. Charging down the creaking, rotted steps right into the sight line of a very angry looking Changeling.
"Auf viedersehen, du Scheisspo-AAAARGHHHHH"
The black-clad figure is assailed by Stabby flying at him at full speed, trench knife in hoof. It first pierces the Changeling in its right shoulder, before the relentless fury that "Stabby" Scootaloo has become known for begins in earnest.
"DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE YOU BUCKING INSECT!"
By the time I reach the end of the stairs, the Changeling is already a gurgling mess on the floorboards. Raspy breathing, like air out of a broken flute, is the only thing escaping his lips when Scootaloo finally gets off him, claiming the insects M39/B2 magical submachine gun as she does so.
"They're flying in through the windows Sergeant, watch yourself!"
"Stabby, you're with me, the neighboring platoon just got hit by an artillery shell and is no doubt being assaulted as we speak. How much can you lift"?
"Enough, Sir, but I think we've got enough on our hooves here!"
"Good, out the window toward them with you, quickly!"
She hesitates, but only for a moment. Thank Celestia she is still alive, I may still be able to save some of 2nd Platoon with her help. Many times I have wondered what in the Diarchy's name she was doing in an On-Hooves division, but the amount of time her mobility has come to use has, by now, silenced my curiosity.
Without 2nd Platoon and their anti-tank weaponry we're dead ponies. It's do or die. I turn my head to shout up the stair-well with all my might, hoping to punch through the red orchestra filling the building.
"Solid Throw, abandon covering the street, give Stabby covering fire as she scouts out 2nd Platoons holdout. Applebloom, cover the window entrance on your floor, we've got light flyers inbound"!
"Aye sir" they shout in unison, the firing of their weaponry fading as I move down the decrepit stairwell. With every step I risk my fully outfitted weight shattering a board, and me falling to my demise, but now is no time for caution.
Every floor I descend down, I am greeted by fresh vistas of hell. My ponies killing, dying, or something in-between. Locked in close-combat brawls, or building-to-building shootouts from windows, one thing usually unites all of them:
They have no cutie marks.
"Belle, Spoon, Rumble, on me, across the courtyard, we're digging out 2nd Platoon before they suffocate along with our ammunition!"
The three ponies shout their acknowledgement back at me, cutting their Squad down to half manpower as they leave to assist me on my death march across the debris-littered courtyard.
"Stick to the walls, rifles in, shovels out, Throw is covering us from the 4th floor behind us, so don't worry about firepower!"
We move as fast as our hooves can carry us across the courtyard, throwing our weaponry across our backs and converging towards Scootaloo, who is already at work, having apparently found where to begin already. The sound of artillery homing in on my Platoon's building, and the sound of the Buck Mk. IV covering us, hurts my ears.
"Sir, the artillery only took out the outside facades, the buildings supports are holding strong"!
"Celestia's Sun, that's a relief! Belle, Spoon, Rumble, get to work digging the basement free of debris, move the ammunition we need to our building before it's too late"
"Aye sir!"
"Stabby, help me inside and help me find Lieutenant Lumber!"
I don't hear Scootaloo's reply over the thunder of war, but she quickly fishes me up in her hooves and throws me through a 3rd floor window into the collapsing building. Sun's Rays that filly is strong.
The scene inside is utter chaos, as ponies lie bleeding out on the ground riddled with holes from shrapnel and debris. The screams of the dying and the scent of clotting blood fills the apartment room. Underneath the layer of cement dust, the toys of a more innocent time are still visible on the ruined carpet. I suppose this was once a foal's room.
"WHERE IS LUMBER!?"
I shout at the top of my lungs, hoping to be heard over the ruckus. A pony turns her head, only to seemingly look directly through me. Shellshock most likely. She points at the ground, were her platoon leader lay gurgling on the floor, a piece of rebar having impaled him through the lung, clear liquid leaking out where the rusty steel meets fur.
"Everypony, leave the dying! Follow me, we've got enemy tanks moving in and we need your anti-tank weaponry in 3rd Platoon, NOW!"
I shout, but to no response. The young ponies are too busy standing over their dead comrades in a near catatonic state. I've of course seen this a thousand times by now, even suffered through it. It's the natural consequence of the tight bonds of friendship that ponies naturally form with each other being severed much too quickly.
I take out my pistol, move to the nearest dying pony, a filly trying to hold her misplaced intestines inside her stomach, and put her out of her misery.
This catches their attention.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"
"SAVING YOUR LIFE!" I snap at the teenager, "There's NOTHING you can do for these ponies, but there is something you can do for the ones still living! Now get a BUCKING MOVE ON"
I start orchestrating the survivors. Priority is of course given to making sure we get the anti-tank launchers out of the building, followed by surplus ammunition. I'm not sure how much longer our building will stand up to the shelling, but it'll at least be longer than here.
I make it back to my platoons shelter with perhaps half of a platoon in tow. Together we'll make up one whole platoon, so at least we have a fully manned unit now. The firefight seems to have died down as well. First Squad, who were holding the ground floor, rush to the assistance of me and my merry band of supply mules, helping us carry the heavy ammunition crates into the basement of our apartment block.
"We seems to have beaten them back for now, Sir"
I can barely understand what Sergeant Glitterhoof is saying over his loud panting. He was never a strong unicorn, but he does his best to carry his weight, even after his horn was shot off.
"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Glitter. Get the anti-tank weapons distributed along the floors, we still haven't heard from 1st Platoon since they reported tanks over the radio."
"You got it."
Sergeant Glitterhoof was a jeweler, and is one of the few ponies here with a cutiemark. While I doubt he will ever be able to perform the tasks he was capable of before the war, with him now missing his horn and all, he has become an invaluable aid to me as the leader of First Squad. While he has the same rank as me, that is only because we have had no time for promotion ceremonies for years. Because of that, I am still officially a sergeant while de-facto occupying the role of a Captain.
The PATR recoilless rifles are quickly distributed amongst the newly reformed platoon, as I move up the the 4th floor once more. It's time for me to once again begin my useless daily ritual. I sit down at the radio, turn it on and grab the microphone, speaking as I shuffle across channels.
"Battalion, this is 3rd Platoon, come in, over."
~scrrrrrrrrrttttttttttt~
"Battalion, this is 3rd Platoon, come in, over."
~scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttt~
And such my futile attempt at saving the ponies under my command continues. This has been going on for 2 weeks now, as Manehattan continues to be besieged by Queen Chrysalis' 3rd Army. Rumors from before contact was lost had it that Feldmarschall Trimmel himself was coming down with his 1st. Panzer Division to finish the job. I really hope it wasn't him that 1st Platoon were panicking over a couple hours ago.
"Battalion, this is 3rd Platoon, how copy, over."
~scrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttttt~
I raise my hoof at my assistant platoon leader, Sergeant Partytime, to order some coffee as the radio continues giving me nothing but static.
sccccccrrrtttttttttis is Wing 3, we copy, over.
Party drops the cup in shock, spilling coffee all over the floorboards. I grab the microphone with greater gusto than I have mustered in weeks.
"Wing 3, this is Functioning Captain Trenchline Hope with 3rd Platoon of the 1st Battalion of the Royal Equestrian Army, who am I speaking with, over."
"This is Captain Rainbow Dash with the Third Close Air Support wing of Her Twin Majesties Royal Air Corps, now give me some targets Captain, over."
I shout at the top of my lungs in relief, but quickly come to my senses, my military concerns winning out over my dopamine rush.
"Stabby, get Stabby up here now! And get me the flare pistol and rounds!"
My staff scramble to their feet to give me what i ask for, and within seconds Scootaloo stands ready, outfitted with a flare pistol to mark our enemies for death from above.
"Wing 3, this is 3rd Platoon, we're sending our best to give you some targets. Do you have IR on your birds, over."
"3rd Platoon, this is Wing 3, we sure do, over."
Scootaloo doesn't need to hear any more, and quickly flies out the window at full speed. Her departure is soon followed by the hollow thud of the flaregun going off. The Changelings shoot after her of course, but she's a fast flier and hasn't let me down yet.
"3rd Platoon, this is Wing 3, we've got visual on your IR flare, confirm target, over."
"Wing 3, this is 3rd Platoon, target confirmed, let them have it, over."
The sound of roaring plane engines deafen me as the Skua's fly over our building, making a low pass to spray their payload of 8x magically amplified rockets at our designated targets. The ground quakes as the two buildings once housing the Changeling invaders collapse under the assault, and the screams of the damned fill the air, joining the hellish chorus already filling the battlefield.
"3rd Platoon, this is Wing 3, pass complete. We've got visual on an enemy mechanized unit moving towards your building. We're out of ammunition and are turning back to reload, hang in there until then, over."
I curse under my breath.
"3rd Wing, this is 3rd Platoon, thanks for the assist, and the heads-up, over."
I sigh deeply, standing up from my radio station to coordinate a response to this new threat, as an orange figure crashes through the window. Applebloom is the first to notice the identity of the feathered clump now lying on the floor.
"Shit, Scoot's been hit, MEDIC!"
The only remaining corpsman rushes to the young pegasus' side, as I bite my tongue to contain my frustration.
"Enemy mechanized unit moving in. We've got maybe 5 minutes before they're on us. First squad, move across the street and occupy the ruins opposite of us and on the left. Third squad, ditto, but on the right, got that?"
A chorus of ayes meet my rapid command.
"Clear out remaining Changeling survivors and set up for a crossfire. We'll try to lure them towards us, and in-between you so your PATR's can penetrate their hide. Go go go!"
The squads scramble out of the building, just in time for a violent scuffle to break out between the corpsman and Applebloom.
"What do you mean? SAVE HER!"
A right hoof strikes the corpsman before I can break up the scuffle, Applebloom raging against my grip to the backdrop of Scootaloo's labored breathing. I guess she didn't make it out unharmed this time.
"I'm sorry Bloom, but Stabby needs a field hospital and we have none. It'd just be a waste of morphine to do anything!"
The corpsman rapidly backs off as Applebloom escapes my hooves. I'm about to reprimand her, before I notice that she isn't charging for the corpsman any more, but for the broken body of her friend.
"Scoot, come on, Scoot! You promised we'd get our cutie marks once the war was over, don't break your promise, come on!"
Alas, shaking the bleeding pegasus does little to revive her. I signal to the corpsman and to the rest of the squad to leave Bloom to her grief. We need to get to work.
"Scoot... please..."
The pool of blood seeping from Scootaloo now envelops Applebloom as well, as her tear-choked voice hoarsely begs the dying pegasus to defy reality and stand up. Needless to say, it's not going to happen. This is really an awful time to loose two of my best soldiers, but there's nothing to do but to work with what I have.
"Throw, I'm going to need you to take a risk. Move from window to window, shoot at their lightly armored vehicles, draw them in."
"Aye Sir!"
"Everyone else, fire the PATR's at their frontal armor. It's not going to do anything, but we need them to get bold if we want this to work. Now get into position, chop chop!"
The 7 functioning squad members rush to their tasks, as I move towards the sobbing pony hanging over her now dead friend. If I recall, the two of them were part of a group they called the "Cutie Mark Crusaders". Apparently, they wished to help each other earn their cutie marks. A dream that will now never be realized, just like the dreams of the hundreds before them.
"Bloom, it's over for her, but not for you. You have to get up."
I put my hoof on her shoulder. It's quivering.
"Why Sir? Why is it like this? I remember playing outside with her like it was yesterday... Why can't it go back to how it once was?"
Part of what she says strikes me, and I feel my facade cracking. I get up and leave her to her grief before I get pulled into it as well. That can't happen. I am needed sane and present. My issues can come, when the Changelings are gone.
The roar of anti-tank rifles affirms my thoughts, as my diversion tactic kicks into gear. I rush down the creaky stairs once more, ready to shout out orders to relocate to my ponies, so that they are not shot in retaliation too fast. Many of them will die because of this gambit, I am experienced enough to know that with certainty, but the least I can do is limit the amount to the best of my ability.
The mechanized platoon draws closer, as HE shells rock our compound.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
The beat of warfare fills my ears, drowning out the cries for help coming from Galloping Carrier, who has been dismembered at the waist by one such HE shell. At least he dies quickly, the hole in the wall revealing the guilty Panzer IV responsible for this murder. Its engine roaring as it advances towards me.
"Got you now you cockroach"
The Changeling armor is lit up by rocket-fire from the sides, many of them ceasing movement after only the first volley. Screaming changelings emerge from the tanks' hatches, skin set ablaze by the searing hot metal ricocheting inside their hull. They are lit up and put out of their misery before long. Before long, the ambush is over, and the 3 remaining tanks wave little white flags over their cupolas.
I command my platoon to cease fire, as I move with 2nd Squad to "secure" the prisoners of war. Moving across the ruined streets of Manehattan towards the surrendering tanks, exhaustion grips me and I fall to the ground.
"Come on Son, what was wrong with the name we gave you?"
Ah... it's this one.
"Come on Dad... I already have my cutiemark, why can't you just accept what I am?"
"A warmongering soldier? Like some sort of changeling? How can you even say that?"
My father is reprimanding me loudly outside the Civil Service Center, as Mother stands behind him crying. It's a rainy day in Manehattan, but the streets are still full of ponies going about their business. Many of them stop to stare at the spectacle unfolding on the sidewalk.
"Dad... I don't like it either, but who is going to protect Equestria from Chrysalis when she comes back for round 2?"
"The Elements of Harmony will convince them to leave, just as they did last time! There's no need for you to muck around with that uniform, playing Griffon-at-war!"
I sigh. This isn't the first time my family protests my career choice. It's not that I don't understand them, likely, I am the one least in favor of this choice out of everyone here, but what can I do? My talent was decided from birth, to fight that is to fight myself.
"Maybe so, but I was born as a safeguard."
I point at my cutiemark, a field shovel.
"If I end up being useless, I'll be the happiest pony in Equestria, but I have to follow my destiny dad."
Dad slumps his shoulders.
"Fine son... we understand. We just had to try one last time."
My father moves in to embrace me. I notice he's fighting to hold back sobbing.
"Son... we'll always love you. We just want what's best for you, but we've tried enough times. Don't worry. We'll let you go now. If you ever need a break, you can still come home... We're sorry for being so hard on you, my boy..."
The rain splatters on the sidewalk. It's pouring down, yet, I am not wet, aside from the tears rolling down my cheeks.
As I look up into the rain, my eyes sting from the ash and dust assaulting my corneas.
Come on... don't take me away again...
My eyes jolt open. The corpsman is standing over me with an empty syringe. I can't believe I didn't notice that I was coming down. I suppose the day has been a bit hectic.
"Thanks for that doc"
"You're welcome Sir..."
Razor Cut, my Corpsman, was never all too happy about using the "medication" we looted from the Changeling supply depots. He was especially unhappy with my hoarding of a certain medication: Injectable Methamphetamine. However, I need to be awake for days at a time, so he reluctantly cooperates in my abuse.
"How long was I out?"
"Just a few seconds sir, don't worry."
I sigh with relief, and stand up to make my way towards the Changeling crew, who are in the process of vacating their tanks with their hands up. I count maybe... 13 or so in total? I utter a short prayer under my breath, begging this not to be some Changeling trick or ambush, as I open my mouth to speak to the invaders.
"EIN REIHE, VOR DEM PANZER!"
I flex my Changeling a little. I took my education very seriously, and learning the language of the enemy was part of that diligence. My hard work pays off, as the tank crew obey my command, forming a neat line in front of their scuttled war machines.
"We surrender, please don't shoot!"
The Changeling with the fanciest cap, likely the commander of this group, begs on behalf of his men in near-incomprehensible Equestrian. I let out my thousandth sigh today and utter a tired response, one that has also been repeated a thousand times.
"Legt Ihrer Waffen bei Ihrer Huf, und dann komm mit Mihr."
"The rest of you, get to work getting these to safety in the courtyard. Driving them can't be that hard."
I accompany the POWs back towards the apartment, and into a basement separate from our ammunition. Gun pointing towards them, I order them to sit down on the floor. I eye them, wondering if I should even bother with the procedure, as it usually always ends the same way. Better safe than sorry I suppose.
"Ihrer Leben geht wieder... mit einen Bedingung." I slowly pronounce, the Changeling straining to understand my accent. "Ihr müssen meiner Ponys Panzerfahren lehren".
The Changelings look at each other briefly, before the Commander once again speaks out in broken Equestrian:
"Zis is not a problem for us. We wish to join your side anyways" he takes a deep breath before continuing: "Queen Chrysalis has taken all of these young boys from their homes to replace my dead crew mates. I cannot abide it any longer. I have heard the POW camps of Equestria are far to the south, away from this war. We wish to go zere."
I suppose the propaganda has finally paid off. I give up on Changeling, as their commander seems fluent enough, and I don't particularly like their language.
"Well, one problem with that. You have us besieged. If you want to go to a POW camp, you've got to fight alongside us to get to that camp first."
I make the last remark almost as a joke, expecting them to assault me any second, as the last dozen POW groups have done.
"I see no problem with zis. We can fight to fight, or fight to maybe live. We choose ze latter."
I take a moment to gather my thoughts at this response. Three functioning tanks, with a trained crew, could give us a fighting chance when it comes to breaking out of the siege. Never mind escaping, breaking out would open a corridor for crucial supplies to save the cities defenders. It's the number one priority for every fighter in Manehattan right now.
Then again... how can I trust these creatures...
"You, commander, come with me."
I bring the Commander outside, and hand him one of my last cigarettes.
"What's your name?"
"Otto Schmidt, und Du?"
"Trenchline Hope".
"I did not know you ponies had such war-like names."
"We don't. I'm one of the only ones. I suppose it's why I've lived so long."
"Too long?"
I turn to face Otto, and only now truly look into his eyes. They are the eyes of a broken old man. I am not even sure if I am seeing his eyes, or my own in their reflection. He has, like me, long outlived his will to live.
I make up my mind in that very moment. He may be deceiving me, but I am so desperate for this one olive-branch of hope that I ignore the paranoia that has saved me dozens of times.
"...yes." I sigh. "I feel we may have that in common."
Otto takes a deep puff of his cigarette. Coughing as he does so.
"I've never smoked you know. My mother always said it was bad for the lungs. But what use is that now, nä?"
"Indeed."
I reach out my right hoof, and he stares at it curiously for a moment, before shaking it with his own.
"We'll get the living out of here Otto. You and me, the living dead."
"If it's the last thing we do, Herr Trenchline."
The sun sets on a strengthened platoon, invigorated by the addition of two new machines of war. The ponies made their protests known of course, but I've given the harmony and friendship speech enough times to have perfected it, and I quickly convince them of the merits of this unorthodox addition to our forces.
I didn't see Applebloom for the rest of that day until she showed up for her watch duty, wordless and sullen. At least she had washed her hands since the incident. Sadly, there is no way to wash away your sorrow. Or at least, no ways that we have in stock here in the apartment.
The night went by with trying to regain contact with Wing 3, to no avail. Otto and I stayed up as long as we could, powered by coffee and Panzerschokolade, devising an escape route using the Changeling Commander's fly-over pictures, courtesy of Chrysalis' scout planes.
I wouldn't say I was hopeful for once. That may just be the sleep deprivation talking, but I was at least less cynical than usual.
"Direct hit on enemy light tank, no more movement Herr Oberfeld!"
The Panzer's internal speakers amplified the words of Panzerschütze Wilhelm, making it possible to hear them over the heavy sounds of combat. As the commander of not one, but four tanks, Oberfeldwebel Otto Schmidt had no time to keep track of his own tanks' accomplishments. As such, this feedback was crucial, as he could now hand out the next command without fear of interrupting the work-flow of his nearly independent crew.
"Load high-explosive, turret to 38 degrees, third window from the left!"
The dull thump of the Panzer's cannon breech followed by the loader's signature "GELADEN!" came way before the turret was able to turn, and the good Wilhelm was already squeezing the trigger by the time the whirring electric motors driving the turret finished making their traverse.
An ear-deafening explosion, even through the protective ear-pieces worn by the entire crew, followed by the violent shaking of the hull signalled a succesful shot. The accuracy was shortly thereafter proven by the targeted building collapsing, the troublesome ponies within turning into either red mist or paste, depending on their proximity to the impact site itself.
"Volltreffer! Next tar-"
The gunner's triumph was cut off by a loud explosion, one not caused by the metal beast they were residing in. Rotating his commander's seat to the left, Otto peered out of the cupola towards where a friendly Panzer had once been keeping up with them. The burning hulk currently being evacuated by its crew meant that the Equestrians had finally found their anti-tank weaponry. That was very bad.
"2nd Panzerzug, this is Oberfeldwebel Otto, deploy smoke-launchers and reverse. We have unidentified anti-tank positions. Let the infantry flush them out! Over."
Otto was quick to react. It wasn't like this was his first rodeo, and while he had lost many subordinates on the warpath, there remained a veteran core who also knew exactly how to respond to his orders. Immediate smoke-launcher discharges justified Otto's pride in his changelings, as their responses, cool and professional, came in through the radio headset.
"Oberfeld, this is Panzer 2, understood, over."
The husky voice of Unterfeldwebel Hermann, years of tobacco abuse tangible even over the hissing distorting of radio signal, responded first. His Panzer II rapidly pulling into a reverse, blindly firing its 20mm autocannon through the freshly deployed smoke to dissuade the hidden shooter from taking another shot.
"Oberfeld, this is Panzer 3, you got it, over."
Easily recognisable through pitch alone, Unterfeldwebelin Maria's response came immediately after, exactly as protocol dictated. Commanding a slightly more imposing Panzer III, Maria had replaced the former commander of said tank when his head was blown off by an anti-tank round piercing straight through the glass of his cupola. She had done well for herself, and could proudly claim to be one of the only changelings still in the same tank as when the war broke out.
Opening the commanders hatch, Otto peaked his head out to locate the infantry commander accompanying his armoured platoon. Luckily, the changeling was not hard to locate, his officer's sabre's sheath gleaming in the Equestrian sunlight.
"Herr Leutnant, we're pulling back for a bit. We need you to locate that PATR gunner and flush him out before we loose another tank."
The hive-born aristocrat had initially left a very bad first impression on Otto through his looks alone. The spitting image of the stereotypical old warrior nobility that Great Queen Chrysalis had supplanted with party loyalists, Otto had expected to be met with a bitter old fart who hadn't yet realised what way the wind was blowing.
"Worry not mein Freund, we are expendable, but your machines are the personal property of Her Majesty herself."
Well, not all first impressions are true. Otto had realised that soon after doing his first couple of missions with the man. A soldier to the core, this noble was dedicated to the mission at hand, and cooperated fully with anything that would further the completion of said mission.
Gathering his squad leaders, the lieutenant rapidly spread out his platoon, getting ready to clear out the two lines of apartments framing the street they were advancing down.
"Los los los!"
His trusted subordinates set to work, assisted by 2nd Armoured Platoon's secondary armaments. The smoke screen had not even cleared by the time Dietrich von Vraks' Panzergrenadiers had finished their bloody, but practiced, work.
When the smoke-screen finally cleared, a full infantry platoon had also set up to look down across the crossroads, so when the PATR gunner reared their head once more, he was obliterated by a hailstorm of MG-42 fire.
Like a well-oiled machine, the Panzergrenadiers and Panzers worked in tandem, destroying the enemies of Glorious Queen Chrysalis. Such were the early days of the invasion, when everything went well, and we foolishly thought ourselves invincible.
Blowing on his cup of poorly brewed coffee, Hauptmann Otto Schmidt kept a close eye on the maintenance work his crew was doing on their Panzer IV's. With much of the crew being as fresh out of the Hive Vrak's academies as the tanks were fresh out of the factory, he had to make sure they weren't making any lazy mistakes.
"Soldat, did you remember to lubricate the transmission properly?"
Laziness was a privilege of experience, a resource in short supply in his Panzerkompanie. He had been reassigned so many times now that he would have lost count if he did not note it down in his diary. The surviving veterans of his former units being redistributed, along with himself, to bring new frontline recruits up to speed.
"Naturally, Hauptmann!"
Strict discipline would keep them in line and, most importantly, alive, until they could accrue experience of their own. As such, he could not afford to be lax, even if this tough facade was exhausting to keep up. A particular piece of news was making it very hard for him to sleep nowadays, which wasn't exactly helping.
He peered down at the photo in his uniformed hooves. A black-and-white photo sent from the Panzerakademie von Vraks. Such photo's were, of course, not foreign to him. In fact, he owned one with himself on it. No, what concerned Otto Schmidt, Panzer Ace of the Changeling Wehrmacht, was the fact that this was not his photo.
It was his son's.
On that picture, smiling from ear to ear and clad in the same cadet uniform as had once clad his father, was the newly graduated Panzerschütze Werner Schmidt.
"Bringing yourself down again Oberfeld?"
A hoof comes around his shoulders, along with the chipper voice of Oberleutnant Marie. One of the only advantages of these troop reorganisations was getting to see old friends, but it would take more than that to bring Otto out of this depression.
"What do you want me to do, Marie? Were I a pony, I would pray to one of their Demigods to protect him. But alas, I am not. All I can do is look, and wish."
"If he's anything like you Herr, I'm sure he'll be fine.", Marie says, following up the encouragement with a few claps on the back. "You'll see."
"That's exactly the problem Marie... he is not at all like me. This whole war... he is consumed by it." Otto looks around a bit, before continuing in a low voice: "The Queens Youth... he was a top aspirant, you know? They had him execute his first political traitor by age 15..:"
Otto's voice trails off for a moment, before continuing.
"He was so proud, you know? He sent me a letter that day. Were it not for his ugly handwriting I would have thought it had come straight out of the V.O.P.S's Propaganda Ministry."
Otto folded the picture, and put it back into his breast pocket.
"It's not that I'm not proud of him, but he is too eager Marie. I fear that they have given him a view on war too glamorous for him to understand how dangerous it also is."
At this point, Marie's hoof had come off Otto's back, instead now resting firmly on his shoulders. The freshly arrived tank crew would speak of this moment for months to come, honoured by seeing two legends of the battlefield in the flesh conversing right in front of them. Of course, if they knew the topic, they would sing a different tune.
"Listen Otto, I didn't just come here to tease you, but to tell you something important."
Otto's ears twitched.
"I just got the roster of new recruits assigned to my platoon. I think you know where I'm going with this."
"Ah... I see..." Otto looked into the muddy soil. This had once been a Hoofball stadium, before being turned into a makeshift staging ground for the Queen's Armed Forces. "Well, at least he will be in good hooves."
"Otto, I-, I'll do my best to take care of him. But you know the survival rates in vanguard divisions. Please, don't hold it against me if anything happens."
Otto head sank even lower upon hearing the words Vanguard Division.
"Hah... I won't Marie. The patriotic idiot likely requested to be assigned to it himself. It's not your fault."
"Thank you Otto... If you ever need any Love to take the edg-"
"Marie, you know I can't do that. Now let me return to my drug of choice. Thank you for informing me."
Marie stiffened at the interruption. The friendship between the two officers had been stagnating for quite a while, but Marie's infatuation with Love and Otto's recent downward spiral into depression had sent the relationship on a road much worse than mere status quo.
"Of course, Herr Oberfeld."
That was the last time Otto Schmidt spoke with Marie Geertz.
When the letter arrived, wax seal black as coal, Otto knew what it was.
Those letters only meant one thing. and he did not care to confirm it.
His usage of Panzerschokolade was now way above regulatory levels, serving to keep him completely occupied with work at all times. As his Panzerkompanie advanced towards Manehattan, the aged changeling couldn't help but wonder what it was all for.
Surely there were better ways of obtaining the all-important Love that the Hives had grown so dependent on? One that did not require the sacrifices currently being offered? Such thoughts could of course never be aired publicly, and Otto had nocreature left to turn to in confidence.
Marie, his last remaining confidant, had been executed by a VOPS agent for confiscating her subordinates love rations for herself; and all his other friends were far away, serving on different fronts than himself. While they had last said goodbye to each other on a sour note, the tired ace stil cried like a little child the night he received the news of Marie's demise. His use of the stimulant chocolate had spiked sharply that month.
Many evenings he would hold his service-pistol in hoof, staring at the still sealed envelope, hands trembling.
But finally, he had arrived at a new battlefield. Something to keep his mind occupied and, most important, something to finally bring him long overdue rest.
On the horizon, he could see the high-rises of Manehattan.
"Yes... this place will do."
"What was that Hauptmann?" a young Panzerschütze, his command tank's gunner, shouted back at him.
"Nothing Soldat... nothing..."
Otto took out his son's graduation photo and looked at it one last time, before dropping it off the side of the tank to be swept away by the winds. With this, Otto had nothing left to loose.
"Hey... are you going to drink that before it gets cold hun?"
I resist turning my head towards the voice. Years of this nightmare had trained me to handle it, at least somewhat. With that being said, I was already crying. Nothing to do about that I guess.
"Hun?"
Tears escalated into heavy breathing, the warm fire of the dreamscape doing nothing to comfort me when confronted with the biggest failure of my entire life.
"Hun are you all right?"
Oh no.
"Hun..."
A touch on my right shoulder involuntarily caused my head to turn. Looking straight into the mangled form of a pony I had once known dearly. Her head was more similar to a cracked cantaloupe than what you would expect to sit at the end of a pony's neck. Blood and other liquids oozed from the flappy skin, skull fragments suspended from thin strings of sinew. Her "head" undulated and squirmed as she spoke.
"Ah there you are, I thought you'd fallen asleep for a second there."
She leaned in for a kiss, and the sloppy mess that was her face made contact with my skin. Every inch of my body revolted as it was reminded of the worst feeling its nerve-endings had ever registered in its long service time. The greasy, slimy flaps of skull and skin brushing against my fur, forming a revolting concert with the smell of powder and flesh emanating from her.
"Please... leave me alone" I uttered weakly.
"What? Honey what's wrong?" came her response. The escape of air from her exposed windpipe intensifying the horrifying odor.
Behind her stood now dozens of other ponies, all in various states of dismemberment. I couldn't stand to look into the eyes of those who still had identifiable faces, but I had done so in previous tours of this horror. I knew each and every one of them of course, otherwise my subconscious couldn't conjure them up.
"I SAID LEAVE ME ALOOONEEE-"
"-MMMMMMMMHHHHH"
I woke up screaming and covered in sweat, my fur damp with the cold perspiration that had become a regular occurrence when my body finally forced me to endure REM sleep. Removing the gag around my mouth, I gasped for air, sobbing quietly into my pillow. The gag had been a necessity for years, required to keep my screams out of the ears of my subordinates.
Minutes passed.
Finally, I composed myself and got out of bed, dipping my head in the water tray on the floor in an attempt to refresh myself. I eyed my watch and observed that I had slept for almost 10 hours.
"Where the buck is the Princess of Dreams when you need her..." I muttered as I exited the bedroom I had reserved for myself. Upon exiting, PFC Stern Eye saluted me.
"Good morning, Sir!"
"At ease boy..." I tiredly responded, his energy always a bit too much for me. He relaxed as ordered.
"Sir, Sergeant Partytime wishes to speak with you. Says he finalized the plans with the 'Ling commander."
"Thank you Stern, you can go to sleep now, I'm done relaxing for this week."
"Yes sir, thank you sir!"
Navigating through the apartment floors, I got to the spacious dining hall on the top floor that we had retrofitted to function as a strategy room. This was also where I kept my radio. Strewn across the mahogany dining table currently, was a large paper map of Manehattan. Various pieces of junk was strewn across it, remnants of yesterdays strategy meeting.
The most important of these pieces of junk, was the toy airplane at the corner of the map. We had managed to get back into contact with Rainbow Dash and her Third Wing, and had confirmed with her our plan to retreat. Since neither we nor she had any contact with High Command, we had agreed to help each other out. Apparently, one of my ponies was a protege of hers. I did not care to ask who. Half my platoon is wiped, replaced by members of Second Platoon as well as the Changeling defectors.
Her protege essentially has a 50 percent chance of being dead under my care. I couldn't risk the plan falling through because Captain Rainbow found out that what she came here for is no longer here.
"Ahh... good morning to you, Herr Sergeant." came the droning voice of the Changeling tank commander.
"Morning, Otto."
Despite only having known him for a little over a day now, I had formed a special bond with this Changeling. We were both old colts, eager to finally rest. But, we were also both too duty-bound to rest while those under us still needed us.
To put it simply, we both had a death wish, but couldn't let ourselves fulfill it before we had gotten our ponies to safety.
"I hope you are well rested mein Freund" he said, as he grabbed a cup of coffee from the table adjacent to the one with the map, drinking it in great gulps. "Today will be a very long day indeed."
"As rested as I'll ever be in this ruin", I moved next to him to get a cup from the thermos as well, pouring it into my stained steel mess cup, "You sure about this plan pal"?
"As sure as I'll ever be in these ruins", he said, chucking, but quickly became deadpan before continuing, "In all honesty Kammerat, this is the best we're going to get. We don't have ze time for a careful, elaborate plan. We must move".
He was definitely correct in that regard, so I nodded at him in affirmation.
"Let's go over it then" I said.
He conjured a small green dot with his magic to use as a pointer and began explaining.
"Our primary advantage is our armoured vehicle and air-support. But zey are also our primary disadvantage in a way."
I looked at him quizzically, raising an eyebrow, before uttering: "How is that exactly"?
"Nah ja, you are of course not familiar with Trimmel's theory of manoeuvre warfare are you..."
The Changeling pondered for a moment, then seemed to recover his groove, and began moving the green-magic pointer around again.
"To elaborate a bit, we have ze advantage of shock on our side, but zat shock will only last us for a short while. If we do not take proper advantage of it, we will be overwhelmed by ze enemies superior numbers."
His magic marker reached the location of the toy car, representing the tank, surrounded by small dolls, representing hoof soldiers.
"Something you must learn to embrace when it comes to this style of warfare, Sergeant, is chaos."
"Chaos?" I asked.
"Genau, Herr Sergeant, chaos. We will be unable to keep up proper communications moving at ze speed that we have to. It is therefore crucial that every soldier knows ze purpose of ze plan, not just its parts."
I raise my hoof to my jaw, pondering, as I respond: "I think I get it... they need to be able to make their own choices, since we'll be unable to give them more than basic guidelines during the heat of the advance, correct"?
The Changeling lights up at my deduction.
"Very good, Sergeant. Correct. Each step of ze plan has a purpose, and associated with each stage we shall have a codeword, so that every soldier knows what to pursue should they have no specific orders."
The green marker moved to where our forces were on the map, and drew a jagged line through the streets of Manehattan, towards a green flag roughly one-third the way out of the city.
"Zis is Stage Grün. The name for ze colour in both our languages are similar, so I took advantage of zat."
I nodded at him, "Clever thinking".
"The objective here is to make it to Objective Grün, where we shall briefly recuperate. It is a VOPS re-supply depot. Poorly protected, as it relies on stealth, not force. I overheard of its location during a staff meeting last week."
He dragged over some toy ponies that had been painted over black, likely to represent changelings.
"Needless to say, it will not be completely undefended, but nothing we can't handle. VOPS agents are not adept at up-front warfare."
The black ponies were animated by the green-tinted magic field to march through the streets up to Objective Green.
"Nein... our main problem is going to be ze reinforcements. My estimate is they will arrive in around 2 hours, due to the secrecy around the cache and ze difficult terrain."
He stops to look at me for a moment.
"Your scouts have been very useful in finding a way through said terrain, by the way. Good job on keeping track of ze desolation."
Strangely enough, his compliment was oddly uplifting.
"I appreciate your compliment Otto, but I won't be happy with it before it gets us out of here."
He nodded approvingly, before continuing.
"As I was saying, we will have around 2 hours before reinforcements are upon us. I recommend we only zose hours sparingly. We cannot allow them time to pinpoint our movement before we've moved on. I have planned on us recuperating zere for only 30 minutes. Any units who take longer to find the objective will have to be left behind."
A frown crept unto my face as he reached the end of his explanation. I was about to object, but sucked it in. He knew what he was doing, I had to trust him a bit.
"With our fist gathered once more, we move on to Phase Blau. This is ze most critical phase, as it will be where they will start figuring out zat zey have been betrayed. We must pray zat zey do not figure out our target before we reach it."
The green marker now came to rest on a blue flag on the outskirts of the city. Objective Blau.
"This is a vehicle resupply depot", he raised a hoof to silence me as my eyes grew wide at his statement, "before you ask, no, zere are no tanks here."
My disappointment was immeasurable, and my day was ruined.
"What zere is, however, are logistic trucks for transporting fuel around to ze various tank formations surrounding the city. Our target is zose trucks, zey are our ticket out of here."
He took out some toy cars are placed them around the blue flag.
"This place is not lightly guarded. We will suffer casualties, especially because we must move exceedingly quick."
He reached for the toy plane, and smirked.
"Luckily, we have an advantage that zey do not. Fuel supply has been scarce, and according to Captain Rainbow, the Royal Equestrian Air Force has complete control of ze skies for now."
He pulled the black-painted ponies over from the green flag and placed them a fair distance away from the toy trucks.
"It is doctrine to keep crew and vehicles away from each other. Vehicles are prime targets for airstrikes, so we prefer to not keep all our grubs in one nest."
"We do the same", I said, nodding.
"This shall work to our advantage. We are on a strict time-schedule for a reason. Exactly 70 minutes after Phase Grün ends, Captain Rainbow will hit ze tents and barracks of this camp, throwing it into disarray but leaving the assets untouched. Hopefully."
He moved the normally painted ponies, and of course the tank, representing our combined task-force up to the blue flag.
"Hopefully it will be enough to allow us for a swift victory."
He put the ponies in the toy cars, and drove them off the map.
"Then begins Phase Rot. Ze objective is to drive, petal to the metal as you say in Equish, towards the south. It will take some time for the message about the vehicles being hijacked to come out, so we should be able to blaze right through the encirclement without being stopped. Of course, my Jungs will have to be behind the wheel, yours will be hiding in the back of the trucks."
As the green-tinted magic pulled the trucks off the map, he once more looked up to face me directly.
"Verstanden?"
"What?" I replied, confused.
"Ah, pardon me. Any questions?"
"Ah... when do we move?"
He smiled at me, fangs bared.
"You look like a fast briefer, so let's say 15 minutes, ja?"
