Dear journal I have landed today. This land is far different from anything I have seen in Manehattan. I can see smoke for miles it smells of chemicals and blood. The stallions around here look like they were put through something more than Tartarus. I fear I will have that look on my face soon. My orders are to meat up with my squad sergeant and start my first patrol. I am to be the medic of the squad, a funny role seeing as how I have only put a band-aid on myself. The bullet wounds in the ponies I see around are going to need a lot more. I fear this for I don't want to be responsible for not being able to save a life. The guilty thought of going home and hearing about a grieving mare's son who I could not save would tear me down to a husk of worthlessness. That responsibility has been thrust upon me though I can not change it... so I guess I will do my best.
When I got to the worn down tent my squad was in I felt happy but not smile came. I felt happy because my squad looked like if a bullet hit them, they would laugh and tear the shrapnel out and kill the pony who shot them with it. I introduced myself and they quickly through my name away and gave me the nickname, "Cherry" because of my inexperience. A little chuckle let out a chuckle to act like I was okay with it, I didn't mind but I don't really care for nicknames. But of course when I asked for their names they listed off nicknames. Our sergeant was, "Rock Tosser," and the others were: "Itchy," and, "Soggy." I was about to ask how they got those silly nicknames but our patrol route came out and the rest of the squad looked at me and said, "Set the timer." My happy feeling felt like it was starting to leave. But I saddled up and set out anyway.
We started our
