Monstrous Regiment by Terry Pratchett

had much to do with young women, sir?” she asked.
    “Er…yes. Quite a lot,” said Polly. “Er…lots, really.”
    “Really?”
    The maid drew closer. She smelled mostly of sweat, tinged with soot. Polly raised the onions as a kind of barrier.
    “I’m sure there’s things you’d like to learn,” the maid purred.
    “I’m sure there’s something you wouldn’t!” said Polly, and turned and ran. As she made it out into the cold night air, a plaintive voice behind her called out, “I’m off at eight o’clock!”

    Ten minutes later, Corporal Scallot was impressed. Polly got the feeling this did not happen often.
    Shufti had wedged an old breastplate beside the fire, had hammered some slabs of horsemeat until they were tender, dipped them in some flour, and was frying them. The sliced onions sizzled next to them.
    “I always just boil ’em,” said Scallot, watching him with interest.
    “You just lose all the flavor if you do that,” said Shufti.
    “Hey, lad, the stuff I’ve ate, you wouldn’t want to taste it!”
    “Sauté things first, especially the onions,” Shufti went on. “Improves the flavor. Anyway, when you boil you ought to boil slow. That’s what me mam always says. Roast fast, boil slow, okay? This isn’t bad meat, for horse. Shame to boil it, anyway.”
    “Amazin’,” said Scallot. “We could’ve done with you in Ibblestarn. The sarge was a good man but a bit, you know, tough in the leg?”
    “A marinade would probably have helped,” said Shufti absently, flipping a slice of meat with a broken sword. He turned to Polly. “Was there any more stuff in the larder, Ozz? I can make up some stock for tomorrow if we can—”
    “I’m not going in that kitchen again!” said Polly.
    “Ah, that’d be Roundheels Molly?” said Corporal Scallot, looking up and grinning. “She’s sent many a lad on his way rejoicing.”
    He dipped a ladle in the boiling scubbo pot next to the pan. Disintegrated gray meat seethed in a few inches of water.
    “That’ll do for the rupert,” he said and picked up a stained bowl.
    “Well, he did say he wanted to eat what the men eat,” said Polly.
    “Oh, that kind of officer,” said Scallot uncharitably. “Yeah, some young ones try that stuff, ifn’ they’ve been readin’ the wrong books. Some of ’em tries to be friends , the bastards.” He spat expertly between the two pans. “Wait ’til he tries what the men eat.”
    “But if we’ve having steak and onions—”
    “No thanks to the likes o’ him,” said the corporal, ladling the slurry into the bowl. “The Zlobenian troops get one pound of beef and a pound of flour a day minimum, plus fat pork or butter and half a pound of peas. A pint o’ molasses sometimes, too. We get stale horse-bread and what we scrounge. He’ll have scubbo and like it.”
    “No fresh vegetables, no fruit,” said Shufti. “That’s a very binding diet, Corp.”
    “Yeah, well, once battle commences I reckon you’ll find constipation’s the last thing on your mind,” said Scallot. He reached up, pushed some rags aside, and pulled down a dusty bottle from a shelf.
    “Rupert’s not having none o’ this, neither,” he said. “Got it off’f the baggage of the last officer that went through, but I’ll share it with you, ’cos you’s good lads.” He casually knocked the top of the bottle off against the edge of the chimney. “’S only sherry, but it’ll make you drunk.”
    “Thanks, Corp,” said Shufti and took the bottle. He sloshed a lot over the sizzling meat.
    “Hey, that’s good drink you’re wastin’!” said Scallot, making a grab for it.
    “No, it’ll spice up the meat a fair treat,” said Shufti, trying to hang on to the bottle. “It’ll— sugar! ”
    Half the liquid had gone on the fire as the two hands fought for it, but that wasn’t what had felt like a small steel rod shooting through Polly’s head. She looked around at the rest of the squad, who didn’t appear to