Monstrous Regiment

“Ah, Perks, isn’t it?” he said, lowering the blade. “Just, er, limbering up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s some laundry in the bag over there. I expect someone in the i

“I’ll check, sir.”

“What are the men having?”

“Scubbo, sir,” said Polly. “Possibly with hor—”

“Then bring me some, will you? We are at war, after all, and I must show an example to my men,” said Blouse, sheathing the sword at the third attempt. “That would be good for morale.”

Polly glanced at the table. A book lay open on top of a pile of others. It looked like a manual of swordsmanship, and the page it was open at was page five. Beside it was a thick-lensed pair of spectacles.

“Are you a reading man, Perks?” said Blouse, closing the book.

Polly hesitated. But, then, what did Ozzer care? “A bit, sir,” she admitted.

“I suspect I shall have to leave most of these behind,” he said. “Do take one if you want it.” He waved a hand at the books. Polly read the titles. The Craft of War. Principles of Engagement. Battle Studies. Tactical Defence.

“All a bit heavy for me, sir,” she said. “Thanks all the same.”

“Tell me, Perks,” said Blouse, “are the recruits in, er, good spirits?”

He gave her a look of apparently genuine concern. He really did have no chin, she noticed. His face just eased its way into his neck without much to disturb it on the way, but his Adam’s apple, now, that was a champion. It went up and down his neck like a ball on a spring.

Polly had been soldiering for only a couple of days, but already an instinct had developed. In summary, it was this: lie to officers. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Getting everything they need?”

The aforesaid instinct weighed the chances of their getting anything more than they’d got already as a result of a complaint, and Polly said, “Yes, sir.”

“Of course, it is not up to us to question our orders,” said Blouse.

“Wasn’t doing so, sir,” said Polly, momentarily perplexed.

“Even though at times we might feel—” the lieutenant began, and started again. “Obviously warfare is a very volatile thing, and the tide of battle can change in a moment.”

“Yessir,” said Polly, still staring. The man had a small spot where his spectacles had rubbed on his nose.

The lieutenant seemed to have something on his mind, too. “Why did you join up, Perks?” he said, groping on the table and finding his spectacles at the third attempt. He had woollen gloves on, with the fingers cut out.

“Patriotic duty, sir!” said Polly promptly.

“You lied about your age?”

“Nosir!”

“Just patriotic duty, Perks?”

There were lies, and then there were lies. Polly shifted awkwardly. “Would quite like to find out what’s happened to my brother Paul, sir,” she said.

“Ah, yes.” Lieutenant Blouse’s face, not a picture of happiness to begin with, suddenly bore a hunted look.

“Paul Perks, sir,” Polly prompted.

“I’m, er, not really in a position to know, Perks,” said Blouse. “I was working as a… I was, er, in charge of, er, I was engaged in special work back at headquarters, er… obviously I don’t know all the soldiers, Perks. Older brother, w—is he?”

“Yessir. Joined the Ins-and-Outs last year, sir.”

“And, er, have you any younger brothers?” said the lieutenant.

“No, sir.”

“Ah, well. That’s something to be thankful for, at any rate,” said Blouse. It was a strange thing to say. Polly’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

“Sir?” she said.

And then she felt an unpleasant sensation of movement. Something was slipping slowly down the inside of her thigh.

“Anything the matter, Perks?” said the lieutenant, catching her expression.

“Nosir! Just a… a bit of cramp, sir! All the marching, sir!” She clamped both hands around one knee and edged backwards towards the door. “I’ll just go and… go and see to your supper, sir!”

“Yes, yes,” said Blouse, staring at her leg. “Yes… please…”

Polly paused outside the door to pull her socks up, retucked the end of one under her belt as an anchor, and hurried down to the i

“I want onions, salt, pepper—” she began.

The maid who was stirring the soot-black pot on the soot-black stove glanced up, realized she had been addressed by a man, and hastily pushed her damp hair out of her eyes.

“It’s stoo, sir,” she a

“I don’t want any. I just want the stuff,” said Polly. “For the officer,” she added.

The kitchen maid pointed a soot-blackened thumb to a nearby door and gave Polly what she probably thought was a saucy grin.

“I’m sure you can have anything that takes your fancy, sir,” she said.

Polly glanced at the two shelves that had been dignified by the name of pantry, and grabbed a couple of large onions, one in each hand.

“May I?” she said.

“Oh, sir!” giggled the maid. “I do hope you’re not one of them coarse soldiers who’d take advantage of a helpless maiden, sir!”

“No, er… no. I’m not one of them,” said Polly.

“Oh.” This didn’t seem to be the right answer. The maid put her head on one side. “Have you 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 horse-meat 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 flavour if you do that,” said Shufti.

“Hey, lad, the stuff I’ve ate, you wouldn’t want to taste it!”

“Saute stuff first, especially the onions,” Shufti went on. “Improves the flavour. 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.”

“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 over 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 gri

“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, if’n 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’re 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 pease. A pint o’ molasses sometimes, too. We get stale horse-bread and what we scrounge. He’ll have scubbo and like it.”