Monstrous Regiment by Terry Pratchett Page B

“That’s a laugh! Bless you, it’ll take more’n a bunch of gawains and rodneys to lever Jackrum out of his own army. Why, he’s been court-martialed twice. He got off both times! And d’you know he once saved General Froc’s life? He’s been everywhere, got the goods on everyone, knows more strings than me and I know a good few, mark my words. If he wants to march with you tomorrow he will, and no skinny little rupert’ll get in his way.”
    “So what was a man like that doing as a recruiting officer?” said Maladict sharply.
    “’Cos he got his leg cut open in Zlobenia and bit the sawbones who tried to look at it when the wound went bad, cleverdick,” retorted Scallot. “Cleaned it out himself with maggots and honey, then drank a pint of brandy and sewed himself up and lay on his bed with a fever for a week. But the general got him, I heard, came and visited him while he was too weak, and told him he was going on the drumming for a year and no argument. Not even Froc hisself would hand him his papers, not after Jackrum’d carried him on his back for fourteen miles through enemy lines—”
    The door swung open, and Sergeant Jackrum walked in, tucking his hands into his belt.
    “Don’t bother to salute, lads,” he said as they turned guiltily. “Evening, Threeparts, nice to see nearly all of you again, you artful ol’ god-dodger. Where’s CorporalStrappi?”
    “Haven’t seen him all evening, Sarge,” said Maladict.
    “Didn’t he come in here with you?”
    “No, Sarge. We thought he was with you?”
    Not a muscle moved on Jackrum’s face.
    “I see,” he said. “Well, you heard the lieutenant. The boat leaves at midnight. We should be well down the Kneck by Wednesday’s dawn. Get a few hours sleep if you can. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, if you’re lucky.”
    And with that, he turned and went out again. Wind howled outside, and was cut off when the door shut. We’ll be well down the Kneck, Polly noted. Well done, Threeparts.
    “Missing a corporal?” said Scallot. “Now there’s a thing. Usually it’s a recruit that goes ay-wole. Well, you heard the sergeant, boys. Time to wash up and turn in.”
    There was a washroom and latrine, in a rough-and-ready fashion. Polly found a moment when she and Shufti were in it alone. She’d racked her brains about how best to raise the subject, but as it turned out, just a look was all it took.
    “It was when I volunteered to do the supper, wasn’t it,” Shufti mumbled, staring into the stone sink, which had moss growing in it.
    “That was a clue, yes,” said Polly.
    “A lot of men cook, you know!” said Shufti hotly.
    “Yes, but not soldiers, and not enthusiastically,” said Polly. “They don’t do marinades.”
    “Have you told anybody?” mumbled Shufti, red in the face.
    “No,” said Polly, which was, after all, strictly true. “Look, you were good, you had me fooled right up until ‘sugar.’”
    “Yes, yes, I know,” Shufti whispered. “I can do the, the belching and the walking stupidly and even the nosepicking, but I wasn’t brought up to swear like you men!”
    Us men, thought Polly. Oh, boy.
    “We’re the coarse and licentious soldiery. I’m afraid it’s shit or bust,” she said. “Er… why are you doing this?”
    Shufti stared into the dank stone sink as if strange green slime was really interesting, and mumbled something.
    “Sorry, what was that?” said Polly.
    “Going to find my husband,” said Shufti only a little bit louder.
    “Oh, dear. How long have you been married?” said Polly, without thinking.
    “…not married yet…” said Shufti in a voice as tall as an ant.
    Polly glanced down at the plumpness of Shufti. Oh, dear. Oh, dear.
    She tried to sound reasonable. “Don’t you think that you should—”
    “Don’t you tell me to go home!” said Shufti, rounding on her. “There’s nothing for me back home except disgrace! I’m not going home! I’m going to the war and I’m going to