//------------------------------//
// Potatopleniye I Nakazaniye 
// Story: Blackacre 
// by Princess Woona 
//------------------------------//

18 March, Y.C. 970
Foal Mountain

“That worked out well.”
Clove laughed, tossed the potato into the pile, and grabbed a fresh one.
“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it.”
“Jealous.” Vera rolled her eyes. “Yeah, we’ll go with that.”
“Come on,” he needled, waggling the fresh potato. “That little shortcut got us to the objective in half the time. A third!”
“By cutting straight through the live fire range.”
“Nopony was using it at the time, and you know it,” shrugged Clove. “Besides, Sarge said to do whatever it took.”
“Within reason,” said Vera, slicing off a length of potato skin. It rolled up into itself, joining the others on the ground as a little spiral. “Which should have been obvious. And he even said so!”
“And it was!” he said. “Within reason. Within my reason, at least.”
“We’re here to follow orders, not think up new ones.”
“It wasn’t a new one.”
“Or new interpretations of them,” she sighed gustily. “Besides, we could have probably taken that hill.”
“Probably. Could have.”
“Could’ve.”
“And somehow you still signed off on this terrible idea,” he said with the slightest of grins. “You, listenin’ to the little guy. Big shot like you, squad leader.”
“We’ll see how long that lasts,” she shot back.
For a moment, they peeled in silence.
She was right and they both knew it. He hadn’t given her much of a choice on that little stunt, having taken off at a run with three others in his fireteam, but she was still in command. She still shared in his punishment, though. Sarge had roared something about if you can’t control, start digging your hole. In this case, it seemed the hole referred to a literal one; they hadn’t made much of a dent in the pile of potatoes, but it wasn’t for want of trying.
“So I was thinking,” started Clove, in a casual tone that instantly flagged the thought as something more than just casual, “why are we doing this?”
Vera paused, took a deep breath, threw the potato at him, and calmly picked up a fresh one.
“I’m serious,” he said, picking up the projectile — no worse the wear for a few seconds on the mostly clean snow — and peeling off the last of the skin. “Why are we doing this, instead of a cook or something?”
“Because cooks don’t disobey orders and run across a range,” she said, angrily slicing another chunk off a potato. He was starting to get on her nerves, but what was she going to do about it? By the size of the pile, they’d be here for a few hours yet.
“No, I mean this in general,” he said, waving his slightly soggy knife in the air. “The cooking. The cleaning. This place doesn’t have much of a support staff.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” she said acridly. “This isn’t a Hoofton Hotel.”
“Didn’t expect it to be,” he said in an almost pleasant tone. “But think about it. We’re the ones doing the cleaning. Inside, outside, everything. And we do all the cooking, too. Not just peeling the taters, I mean everything, from unpacking the raws to cleaning up after.”
Vera snorted. “Yes, and I suppose next you’ll be telling me that peeling potatoes isn’t a fundamental part of boot.”
“Well sure it is,” he conceded. “It’s just that normally that’s all we do. Peel and clean, sure, but actually cook?”
“I’m not complaining. Screw’s good at what he does.”
“Sure he is,” shrugged Clove. Screw — Nutmeg, though no one remembered it by this point — had a sprinkling of his eponym on his flank. Though he was a baker by trade, he was no slouch in the kitchen. Their unit ate pretty well when Screw was in the kitchen, no doubt about that.
“But there aren’t any full time kitchen staff around here, though,” he pressed. “Cleaning staff neither. Except for the admin building, the whole place is like a ghost town.”
“You know how it is,” she said, grabbing another potato. “From each according to his ability.”
“Sure, and since none of us has anything to claim as our own, we share everything we have. One in hoof and heart, and all that. But doesn’t it seem just a little odd that they’ve got a handful of supervisors for a few hundred of us? Even the armory has recruit guards!”
“Under the supervision of a deputy from the Royal Guard!”
“A deputy. One.” Clove shook his head. “Look, building character is one thing, but this place is understaffed. You’ve got to see that.”
“Sure, there aren’t many ponies around,” she said, stripping half the potato away with a single flick of the knife. “Damn. Okay, fine; let’s assume there are supposed to be more ponies here. Official ones, with the yelling. What then?”
“What…?” He shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. I just think it’s interesting that boot camp, of all places, is hurting for staff.”
“As opposed to?”
“If they’re having trouble finding personnel, don’t you think they’d pull them from other places first?” He waved around with the knife. “I dunno. Reserves? Administration? Logistics, and replace ‘em with civilians?”
“Sure,” she shrugged. “Makes sense.”
“Then, logically, if they’re pulling ponies from boot…?”
“Then… then what? They’re needed elsewhere,” she shrugged.
“Try the front lines.”
“Oh.” She rolled her eyes. “Right. Because putting teachers on a front makes sense. Instead of having them, you know, teach us or something.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I!”
“You’ve seen the casualty figures,” he said quietly. “Got to be replacing them somehow.”
“Those aren’t official,” she said, shaking her head with a little smile. “There’s just a lot of trouble getting accurate figures on things. Ponies are gone for weeks at a time in trenches, doing their job. What, they’re going to stop for a headcount?”
“Putting an awful lot of hooves on the ground for no losses.”
“Not saying there are no casualties. Plenty of theirs, for one. Besides, look at it. Blackacre is huge. Need a lot of ponies there to watch over things, that’s all. That’s why I’m here.”
“What, you going to sit on a fence and throw sticks at them?”
“Somepony tried real hard to kill the Princess,” she said firmly. “Somepony’s out there trying to kill us, you get that? And for what? Because they want more money?” She shook her head gravely and gestured vaguely at her green cutie mark. “That rubs me the wrong way. I can’t sit around and make jewelry at a time like this. Why are you here?”
“No one’s buying it,” he shrugged. “Shopkeeper’s son. Look, I guess what I’m sayin’ is that I don’t think we’re getting the whole story here. Ponies are dying, lots of them, and they’re keeping us in the dark.”
“We’re recruits in boot, Gawker,” she laughed. “We peel potatoes, we follow orders.”
“Yeah, well. I’m starting to wonder if it’s a good idea.”
“Yeah, well, washout lane’s that way,” said Vera, jerking the knife over her shoulder without so much as a glance at him. “Twelve forty-eights in the admin office. Bet you’ll probably get a real live army officer to sign off on it too.”
For a moment, silence, broken only by the scuffling sound of potato skins being forcefully separated from their owners.
“That was uncalled for.”
“You’re uncalled for. You gonna go back to whatever cushy job your pops has lined up for you, or you actually going to do something about it?”
He bristled at that.
“I don’t really care what you think,” she said, finishing off yet another potato with supreme nonchalance. “All I know is that I’m here to follow orders. Not make them. Not yet.”
Another moment of silence.
“Makes two of us,” he said, and tossed her a fresh tuber. She caught it in midair, contemplated it for a moment, then grunted an assent and expertly pared off a long strip of skin. “Glad that’s settled.”
They peeled in silence, about two potatoes’ worth. They were getting pretty quick about the peeling process, but it was still chilly out. They couldn’t exactly wear booties on their hooves while also holding knives and potatoes; after long enough, anypony’s hooves would start to get numb.
“Well?” asked Vera, cocking an eyebrow.
“Well what?”
“We going to sit here awkwardly all day, or what?”
“I was considering it,” shrugged Clove. “What, you got a better idea?”
“I could throw another potato at you,” she offered, hefting one.
“Ha,” he said pointedly. “Ha. Hey, remember Sarge’s face when he realized what we did?”
“What you did,” she corrected with mock severity, but the eye roll took the bite out of it. “And don’t you forget that!”
“It was a good idea! And next time —”
“— great; there’s a next time —”
“— next time, all we need to do’s keep our heads down, you see….”
And with that, they were back to bantering. Senseless, pointless, but it filled the air. As long as they were following orders, they would be fine.