They walked for a long time, keeping up a brisk pace, through woods and fields and patches of uncultivated meadow grass. The wounded stallion, limping on three legs, was helped along by the mare, so he didn’t fall behind. No one offered to do the same for Turnip.

She kept up as best she could, taking four steps for every one of their three. At every step, a spike of pain throbbed up her right foreleg, but momma didn’t raise no wimp, and she gritted her teeth and kept on.

She glanced at her fellow travelers. She was near the front of the group, with the corporal; they weren’t going to let her fall behind and slip away. The shadows were beginning to lengthen as the sun slipped away.

“Say, er, I’ve been wondering…” Turnip spoke up.

“What’s that, li’l missy?” the corporal said, casually.

“You… from up-country roundabouts Turnpike?”

The corporal chuckled. “Not from there, no, but I been up and around nearby.”

Turnip hesitated before her next question. She wasn’t taking chances now; she had to know where she stood ahead of time. Before she got blindsided again.

“So… ya know what I am, then, right?”

He looked over and down at her questioningly. “What are ya?”

“My name.”

“Ah, The Turnip family, is that what yer getting’ at? Sure, I’ve heard of ya. No offense, but you ask me, all of y’all’s hoppin’ mad, is what all y’all are. Crazy business. But that don’t concern me.”

Despite his answer, Turnip felt relieved. At least he wasn’t another one of them. She wasn’t in any shape to fight just yet.

She didn’t try to talk to the corporal anymore, only walked on in silence. Not even when he tried to make idle conversation about her home did she respond. They entered another dense bit of woods, old growth, where the trees were thick and far apart. Turnip could tell they were approaching a camp of some kind; she spotted the warm and flickering glow of firelight ahead, even if she couldn’t see the fires, and heard the passive hum of many ponies in a small space.

Another ragged pony in the same Equestrian grey materialized before them and leveled a rifle, startling Turnip with the suddenness of his appearance. Bits of grass and twigs stuck to his uniform, and he had wrapped twine around the crown of his helmet, in which was stuck more small greenery.

“Halt, who goes there!” he barked at the group.

The corporal stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Scouting party from Second Platoon. The afternoon password is ‘if aardvarks could fly, we’d all be in the soup’.”

The sentry nodded and stepped aside, eyeing Turnip dubiously. “Who’s the filly in uniform?” he asked the corporal.

“Just a li’l somethin’ we found along the way,” he replied with an amused twinkle in his eye. “Snatched her from a whole heap o’ rockheads.”

“Nightmare-taken rockheads,” the sentry agreed, spitting to the side ritualistically before shaking his head. “Just when I think they can’t get any lower…”

Turnip scowled and passed by with the rest of the group.

Now they walked into the camp proper, and Turnip was forced to admit to herself that they might be real soldiers after all. Everypony was in uniform, or close enough to it. They had Equestrian weapons, for the most part, Equestrian trucks, and, further back, out of the firelight of the several sunken cookfires, they even had a hooffull of Equestrian tanks. One of them was a new long-barreled support model, so they weren’t just working with old dregs, either.

“Shortcake, get Gutter to the medics,” the corporal directed. “Strongheart, get that gear stowed. And you, li’l missy,” and he turned to look down at Turnip, “Are comin’ with me to deliver a report.”

He led her towards a tent covered in cut tree branches, one of the very few set up, and she limped after him. This was probably the brass tent, if Turnip had to guess. Oh, well, the sooner this was over, the sooner she could beg a pair of pliers off somepony and do something about this stabbing feeling in her leg…

The corporal ducked inside the tent flap, Turnip right behind him. He saluted and announced, “Corporal Dusty Trails, second platoon recon, ready to report.”

This was indeed the brass tent, and the small collection of unicorns who had been huddling around a map spread out on a folding card table all looked up. Strangely, the map was creased and water-damaged. Turnip ran her eyes over the officers, and one unicorn's appearance in particular stopped her dead in her tracks.

“Sergeant Meadows?” Turnip blurted out.

“Speak when spoken to, enlisted,” snapped a tomato-red unicorn mare next to Summer.

“Let it go this once, Marinara,” Summer said. She looked at Turnip directly; she wore a monocle over her right eye. “I know you. Enlisted Sprout, was it? However did you come to be here?”

A messy-looking unicorn stallion with a deep voice and a coat just a few shades off from Turnip’s own spoke up. “We’ll hear the corporal’s report first, sergeant, if you please. Fraternize with the enlisted on your own time.”

Summer dipped her head deferentially. “Of course, Major. Forgive me.”

The major gave Summer a wan smile and then turned back to the corporal. “Report.”

“The enemy’s been through the forest just north o’ the section six headquarters in numbers as late as this morning; their hoofprints‘re everywhere. Looks like they got some light tanks through them woods, too, since we found tracks. We were jest pressin’ on to see ‘bout the state of the headquarters itself when we ran into this soldier here,” and he gestured to Turnip, “Bein’ chased by a few enemy soldiers. We engaged ‘em and killed four, but one got away, so ya have my apologies for that one, sorry.”

The major nodded. “Hmm. Thank you, corporal. I’d like to hear of your findings in more detail, but wait there a moment for now, please.” The corporal saluted and stood at ease, glancing at Turnip. The major shifted his attention to her. “Now, Enlisted Sprout, it sounds to me like you can tell us a lot more about the state of headquarters than he can. So, let’s hear it.”

Turnip cast about for some nicer way of putting it, then gave up and said it as the pause began to border on insubordinate. “Well, sir,” she began, “It’s prob’ly not there no more, fer starters.”

That got a reaction out of the officers, alright, but most of them didn’t seem very surprised. The red one fixed her with a hard stare. “Elaborate.”

Celestia, did they want the whole life story? Well, fine.

She gave them all of it. Well, leaving out the little stuff that didn’t matter, like how she attacked an officer, or anything about her friend – friend? No, enemy – Corduroy, or the specifics of the flight and subsequent fight, such as why she was currently giving the dirt in the tent a slow drip supply of her blood.

When she finished, the major leaned his elbows on the table and steepled his hooves, frowning at the map. Addressing Turnip without looking up, he said, “Your report is well appreciated, enlisted. You may go now.”

Turnip saluted uncertainly and backed out of the tent. The instant the flap closed, she heard the officers begin to talk among themselves in raised voices. She paid no attention; the conversation was not meant for her ears, and she didn’t care. She had a lot to think about of her own.

Sergeant Meadows being here was a surprise, since last she heard the commander was still on base, and she herself was still the cannoneer, although she had been wondering why it had been a few days since Cashmere had visited her. Cashmere; Turnip was becoming increasingly certain that was another of her enemies. That pony tried to hide her accent, but she couldn’t hide her name, and Turnip was on to her.

Wait a minute – if the sergeant was here, then was that long-barrel model hers?

Turnip would have to check later. For now, this leg was going to be a problem, and her bandages needed changing, or her older wounds’d start festering for sure. And she needed something to eat, and she was thirstier than a dog on a summer day, and she was sure she would just collapse from exhaustion before much longer… priorities, Turnip. Worrying about army stuff can come later.

She limped around until she found the medics, such as they were. They were a hoofful of army surgeons and nurses, plus some more ponies who were evidently acting as helpers, set up near the back of where the trucks were parked. Shortcake was there, also, laying a wet rag on a soldier’s brow, and Turnip approached her. She had said she was a nurse, right?

“Hey, doc, ya got any pliers or forceps or somethin’ I can borrow?”

The mare looked at her sideways. “And you’re asking me?”

“Figgered ya might know.” Turnip shrugged. “Do ya or don’t ya?”

“I can’t just go giving out medical equipment to anypony who asks,” Shortcake replied. She moved on to the next unconscious soldier in the truck bed and checked his condition.

“Fer pete’s sake, girl,” Turnip growled angrily, “I got a spike or somethin’ in my leg that hurts like all getout, or didn’t ya notice?”

She was running out of patience for this. She waved her bleeding foreleg at the mare, and winced as another spike of pain shot up it. She turned to find somepony else who wasn’t too busy. Maybe her knife would do the trick to extract the little shard.

“Oh, sorry! Sorry about that,” the mare said, behind her, suddenly apologetic. “I can help you with that if you want. Wait one moment.”

Turnip sighed and lay on her belly on a handy toolbox, letting her legs dangle to the ground on either side. She fought the overwhelming urge to close her eyes and drift off, now that she didn’t need to concentrate on staying on her hooves. Then Shortcake was there and fussing over her injured hoof, and she had something to pay attention to again.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she crooned. Turnip would have felt insulted if she had any energy left to do so. “When did this happen?”

“Yer grenade,” Turnip said shortly. Shortcake produced a pair of long, thin grasping implements and held them in her teeth.

“Wher’ ish i’?” she asked, and Turnip pointed to the entry wound, which was still oozing blood. Shortcake nodded and winked. “One shec,” and she plunged the probes in with the grace of a butcher.

Turnip hissed in pain, but kept her leg still. She would definitely have been better off doing this herself. Shortcake probed around for a minute, and, finding something, dug out a small triangular fragment of steel. She deposited the bloody item on the toolbox in front of Turnip’s chest.

“Ta-da!” she said proudly, once she had put away her instrument. “All done!”

Turnip’s hoof was on fire from the treatment it had received, and sweat stood out on her brow. “Where’d ya learn that, the choppin’ block? I thought ya were a nurse!”

Turnip’s leg was bleeding more now. Shortcake looked embarrassed. “Um. I’m not really. I’m just a helper, since the unit’s been so short-hoofed, you know?” she said, as she produced a roll of bandages and started wrapping Turnip’s bleeding leg.

Turnip groaned. When her family asked her how she’d lost a leg in the war, she’d have to tell them, ‘I let the wrong pony dig out a bit of shrapnel.’ It just didn’t have the same ring as, say, ‘a gun shot it right off’.

“Well, if ya got any more of them bandages, I’d ‘preciate it if ya could see yer way to changin’ these others too.”

“Oh, for sure,” Shortcake said, tying off the end of her handiwork. Blood already stained the fresh white linen. She began unwinding the dirty bandages around Turnip’s head. “Sorry about earlier. Did it hurt to walk all this way like that?”

“A bit,” Turnip answered, not wanting to get into it.

“I would have carried you if you’d asked. I had to help my buddy Gutter over there first, though.” She nodded over at where the pony in question was lying, hind leg stretched out behind him. “Bullet shattered his bone, you see. He wouldn’t have made it back otherwise. Say, your eye is just fine!”

Turnip blinked back at her, squinting slightly as her now-uncovered right eye got used to the dim ambient light of their surroundings. The half-healed wound under the eye, the whole reason for the bandage to have been wrapped so, stung a little in the evening air. She gave the mare a toothy grin.

“Sure is. The last orderly to do it messed up, and I never set him straight. Helps me look worse, ya know. When ya wrap it up again, make sure ya leave the eye uncovered, eh? It’s a mite hard to shoot a gun with my good eye covered like that.”

“Um, sure,” Shortcake said uncertainly, unwrapping the bandages on Turnip’s chest.

They made small talk while the mountain-rose-colored mare wrapped her barrel in a fresh jacket of bandaging. Turnip avoided mentioning details about her home, but that was fine; Shortcake carried the conversation with amusing stories about her own, back in her home village. Turnip didn’t catch where, exactly, only that it was close by the Everfree.

When Shortcake had finished and tied off the last knot, Turnip slowly pushed herself to her hooves.

“Well,” Turnip said, holding her foreleg out in front of her and examining the already-bloodied bandage, “Thank ya kindly, Shortcake. I really ‘preciate it.” She put weight on the leg experimentally. It still hurt to do, but at least the specific throbbing pain of something inside stabbing her with every step was gone. “Where can a pony go to get some grub around here? I’m hungrier’n a hog.”

Fed, watered, and freshly bandaged was a good place to be; Turnip even had a canteen someone had given her. With her belly full of thin oat gruel, she would have liked nothing more than to close her eyes. But she couldn’t allow herself to collapse just yet. Now it was time to worry about army stuff.

Excusing herself from the conversation she’d been involved in with one of the infantry squads, she got up and made her way to the tanks. If this morning was any indication of what infantry fighting was like, she wanted no part in it.

The tanks were parked away from most of the encampment and covered in cut tree boughs to offer concealment from the air in addition to the forest’s dense canopy. They were all of them deeply marked with numerous ineffective bullet impacts, the big one most especially. Stacked on the front wherever it wouldn’t interfere with either the driver or the radio operator’s position were empty meal sacks filled with dirt. More were lashed to the turret sides with rope, blocking the loader and gunner’s hatches and vision ports.

She paused before the biggest machine a moment, then climbed onto the nose and knocked on the radio operator’s hatch.

She heard a shuffling from within, a slight clanging sound, a bump and a muffled curse. The hatch swung open and Turnip dodged to the side to avoid being struck by it. Instead of a pony she had expected, Cashmere or perhaps Minty, she found an unfamiliar black stallion with large caramel-colored eyes looking back at her.

“Who the hay are you?” Turnip demanded.

“Right back atcha,” the stallion shot back. He glanced at her collar, and seeing her rank, or lack thereof, added, “No, we don’t have room for another loader. That spot’s taken by me. Buzz off.”

“The hay ya’are!” Turnip said angrily, stamping her hoof. Ow. “I’m the loader, and you’re gonna let me in!”

“Not happening, squirt,” the stallion said, and he moved to close the hatch. Turnip placed a hoof on the open hatch, preventing it. “Hey! Get off!”

“You might be a temporary replacement, but I was here first. Let me in!”

“Oh, for Celestia’s – Minty! There’s a midget here that wants me to let her in the tank!”

Finally, somepony who would be reasonable. Turnip heard more shuffling from inside, and the commander’s hatch was pushed open and Minty appeared, rubbing her eyes. “Alright, what’s the situation here?” she asked sleepily.

“This pony here –” and Turnip pointed at the unfamiliar stallion with the forehoof not holding down the hatch. “– Ain’t lettin’ me enter the tank to which I’m assigned. Set him straight, will ya?"

"Alright, let’s-" Minty started to say, then she stopped and did a double-take. “Turnip?!”

“In the flesh, yes ma’am.” Turnip did a little salute, hoping that would help her case with the corporal some.

“How did you – never mind. Thrash, let her in for now. We’ll sort this whole thing out later.”

The stallion, Thrash, snorted, but withdrew from the hatchway. Turnip lowered herself onto the radiopony’s seat, hind legs first. As she climbed from the radio operator’s station into the fighting compartment, she asked, “Where’d Cashmere get off to?”

“She’s with the other radio operators,” Minty said. She was already down from the commander’s hatch and was loafing with her hooves tucked under her in the narrow space between the forward ammunition rack and the gunner’s seat.

Turnip was pleased to see that the loader’s seat she’d removed when she’d first been assigned to the machine hadn’t been replaced. She was less pleased that her replacement was sprawling out in that spot.

“Thrash, keep your legs on your side of the turret,” Minty scolded. “Turnip, care to tell me why you’re here and not in the hospital where you belong?”

“Maybe once I’ve got a few winks,” Turnip mumbled, slinking under a bundle of canteens hanging from the gun cradle. “’S a long story.” She was small enough that when she settled down the canteens didn’t brush her head, so at least there was that. It was a good thing she had removed the canvas shell-catcher bag way back when, too, or there wouldn’t be any room under the gun for her.

She put her chin on the unfamiliar stallion’s back, closed her eyes, and dropped off instantly.

Author's Note

Aaaand we've now rejoined the mane cast. This is a tank story, after all - can't go too long away from tanks.

Incidentally, calling Turnip "Turnip" is basically the same as calling AJ "Apple".