Monstrous Regiment

“We’ve got to stay here all night,” said Maladict. “Night!” he went on, causing the old corporal to wobble on his crutches. “When who knows what evil flits through the shadows, dealing death on silent wings, seeking a hapless victim who—”

“Yeah, all right, all right, I did see your ribbon,” said the corporal. “Look, I’m closing up after you’ve gone. I just run the stores, that’s all. That’s all I do, honest! I’m on one-tenth pay, me, on account of the leg situation, and I don’t want trouble!”

“And this is all you’ve got?” said Maladict. “Don’t you have a little something… put by…”

“Are you saying I’m dishonest?” said the corporal hotly.

“Let’s say I’m open to the idea that you might not be,” said the vampire. “C’mon, corporal, you said we’re the last to go. What are you saving up? What’ve you got?”

The corporal sighed, and swung with surprising speed over to a door, which he unlocked. “You’d better come and look,” he said. “But it’s not good…”

It was worse. They found a few more breastplates, but one was sliced in half and another was one big dent. A shield was in two pieces, too. There were bent swords and crushed helmets, battered hats and torn shirts.

“I done what I can,” sighed the corporal. “I hammered stuff out and washed out the clothes but it’s been weeks since I had any coal for the forge and you can’t do nothin’ about the swords without a forge. It’s been months since I got any new weapons and, let me tell you, since the dwarfs buggered off the steel we’ve been getting is crap anyway.” He rubbed his nose. “I know you think quartermasters are a thieving bunch and I won’t say we might not skim a bit off the top when things are going well, but this stuff? A beetle couldn’t make a living off this.” He sniffed again. “Ain’t been paid in three months, neither. I guess one-tenth of nothing is not as bad as nothing, but I was never that good at philosophy.”

Then he brightened-up. “Got plenty to eat, at least,” he said. “If you like horse, that is. Personally I prefer rat, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

“I can’t eat horse!” said Shufti.

“Ah, you’d be a rat man?” said the corporal, leading the way out into the big room.

“No!”

“You’ll learn to be one. You’ll all learn,” said the little one-tenth corporal, with an evil grin. “Ever eaten scubbo? No? Nothing like a bowl of scubbo when you’re hungry. You can put anything in scubbo. Pork, beef, mutton, rabbit, chicken, duck… anything. Even rats, if you’ve got ’em. It’s food for the marching man, scubbo. Got some on the boil out there right now. You can have some of that, if you like.”

The squad brightened up.

Thoundth good,” said Igor. “What’th in it?”

“Boiling water,” said the corporal. “It’s what we call ‘blind scubbo’. But there’s going to be old horse in a minute unless you’ve got something better. Could do with some seasonings, at least. Who’s looking after the rupert?”

They looked at one another.

The corporal sighed. “The officer,” he explained. “They’re all called Rupert or Rodney or Tristram or something. They get better grub than you do. You could try scrounging something at the i

“Scrounge?” said Polly.

The old man rolled his one eye.

“Yeah. Scrounge. Scrounge, nick, have a lend of, borrow, thieve, lift, acquire, purrrr-loin. That’s what you’ll learn, if you’re go

“We have to steal our food?” said Maladict.

“No, you can starve if that takes your fancy,” said the corporal. “I’ve starved a few times. There’s no future in it. Ate a man’s leg when we were snowed up in the Ibblestarn campaign but, fair’s fair, he ate mine.” He looked at their faces. “Well, it’s not on, is it, eating your own leg? You’d probably go blind.”

“You swapped legs?” said Polly, horrified.

“Yeah, me an’ Sergeant Hausegerda. It was his idea. Sensible man, the sergeant. That kept us alive for the week and by then the relief had got through. We were certainly relieved about that. Oh, dear. Where’s my ma

“But that’s ca

“No it’s not, not officially, not unless you eat a whole person,” said Threeparts Scallot levelly. “Milit’ry rules.”

All eyes turned to the big pot bubbling on the fire.

“Horse,” said Scallot. “Ain’t got nothing but horse. I told you. I wouldn’t lie to you, boys. Now kit yerselves up with the best yer can find. What’s your name, stone man?”

“Carborundum,” said the troll.

“Got a wee bit o’ decent snacking anthracite saved up out the back, then, and some official red paint for you ’cos I never met a troll yet that wanted to wear a jacket. The rest of you, mark what I’m telling yer: fill up with grub. Fill yer pack with grub. Fill yer shako with grub. Fill yer boots with soup. If any of you run across a pot of mustard, you hang on to it– it’s amazin’ what mustard’ll help down. And look after your mates. And keep out of the way of officers, ’cos they ain’t healthy. That’s what you learn in the army. The enemy dun’t really want to fight you, ’cos the enemy is mostly blokes like you who want to go home with all their bits still on. But officers’ll get you killed.” Scallot looked round at them. “There. I’ve said it. And if there’s a political amongst you: mister, you can go an’ tell tales and to hell with you.”

After a few moments of embarrassed silence Polly said: “What’s a political?”

“Like a spy, only on your own side,” said Maladict.

“That’s right,” said Scallot. “There’s one in every battalion these days, snitching on their mates. Get promotion that way, see? Don’t want dissent in the ranks, eh? Don’t want loose talk about losing battles, right? Which is a load of bloody cludgies, ’cos the infantry grumbles all the time. Moaning is part of bein’ a soldier.” He sighed. “Anyway, there’s a bunkhouse out the back. I beats the pallyarses regular so there’s probably not too many fleas.” Once again he looked at blank faces. “That’s straw mattresses to you. Go on, help yourselves. Take what you like. I’m closing up after you’ve gone, anyway. We must be wi

The clouds had broken when Polly stepped out into the night, and a half-moon filled the world with cold silver and black. The i

“Excuse m—” she began, and then remembered the socks, raised her voice and tried to sound angry. “Hey, where’s the lieutenant?”

The servant looked at her and gestured up the stairs with a thumb. There was only one candle alight up there, and she knocked on the nearest door.

“Enter.”

She entered. Lieutenant Blouse was standing in the middle of the floor in his breeches and shirtsleeves, holding a sabre. Polly was no expert in these matters, but she thought she recognized the stylish, flamboyant pose as the one begi