Jingo

document will be with you shortly and, no doubt, we will be receiving one from you.”
    “Indeed.”
    “Here, hang on, you can’t just—” Vimes began.
    “Sir Samuel, you are no longer Commander of the Watch and you have no place at these proceedings,” said Rust sharply. He turned back to the Prince.
    “It is unfortunate that things have come to this,” he said stiffly.
    “Indeed. But there comes a time when words are no longer sufficient.”
    “I must agree with you. And then it is time to test one’s strength.”
    Vimes stared in fascinated horror from one face to the other.
    “We will, of course, allow you time to quit your embassy. Such of it as remains.”
    “So kind. And of course we will extend to you the same courtesy.” Kalif bowed slightly.
    So did Rust.
    “After all, just because our countries are at war is no reason why we should not respect one another as friends,” said Lord Rust.
    “What? Yes, it bloody well is!” said Vimes. “I can’t believe this! You can’t just stand there and…good grief, whatever happened to diplomacy?”
    “War, Vimes, is a continuation of diplomacy by other means,” said Lord Rust. “As you would know, if you were really a gentleman.”
    “And you Klatchians are as bad,” Vimes went on. “It’s that green mouldy mutton Jenkins sells. You’ve all got Foaming Sheep Disease. You can’t just stand there and—”
    “Sir Samuel, you are, as you are at pains to point out, a civilian,” said Rust. “As such, you have no place here!”
    Vimes didn’t bother with a salute but just turned away and walked out of the room. The rest of the squad followed him in silence back to Pseudopolis Yard.
    “I told him he could put it where the sun didn’t shine,” said Sergeant Colon, as they crossed the Brass Bridge.
    “That’s right,” said Vimes woodenly. “Well done.”
    “Right to his face. ‘Where the sun don’t shine.’ Just like that,” said Colon. It was a little difficult to tell from his tone whether this was a matter of pride or dread.
    “I’m afraid Lord Rust is technically correct, sir,” said Carrot.
    “Really.”
    “Yes, Mr. Vimes. The safety of the city is of paramount importance, so in times of war the civil power is subject to military authority.”
    “Hah.”
    “I told him,” said Fred Colon. “Right where the sun does not shine, I said.”
    “The deputy ambassador didn’t mention Prince Khufurah,” said Carrot. “That was odd.”
    “I’m going home,” said Vimes.
    “We’re nearly there, sir,” said Carrot.
    “I mean home home. I need some sleep.”
    “Yes, sir. What shall I tell the lads, sir?”
    “Tell them anything you like.”
    “I looked him right in the eye and I told him, I said, you can put it right where the—” mused Sergeant Colon.
    “You want me an’ some of der boys go and sort out dat Rust later on?” said Detritus. “It no problem. He bound to be guilty o’ somethin’.”
    “No!”
    Vimes’s head felt so light now that he couldn’t touch the ground with a rope. He left them outside the Yard and let his head drag him on and up the hill and round the corner and into the house and past his astonished wife and up the stairs and into the bedroom, where he fell full length on the bed and was asleep before he hit it.

    At nine next morning the first recruits for Lord Venturi’s Heavy Infantry paraded down Broadway.
    The watchmen went out to watch. That was all that was left for them to do.
    “Isn’t that Mr. Vimes’s butler?” said Angua, pointing to the stiff figure of Willikins in the front rank.
    “Yeah, and that’s his kitchen boy banging the drum in front,” said Nobby.
    “You were a…military man, weren’t you, Fred?” said Carrot, as the parade passed by.
    “Yes, sir. Duke of Eorle’s First Heavy Infantry, sir. The Pheasant Pluckers.”
    “Pardon?” said Angua.
    “Nickname for the regiment, miss. Oh, from ages ago. They were bivvywhacking on some estate and came across a lot of pheasant pens and, well, you know, having to live off the land and everything…anyway, that’s why we always wore a pheasant feather on our helmets. Traditional, see?”
    Already old Fred’s face was creasing up in the soft expression of someone who has been mugged in Memory Lane.
    “We even had a marching song,” he said. “Mind you, it was quite hard to sing right. Er…sorry, miss?”
    “Oh, it’s all right, sergeant,” said Angua. “I often start to laugh like that for no reason