Monstrous Regiment

had arms in slings, or wore red jackets with an empty sleeve. Perhaps worse were the ones like the man in the inn, gray-faced, staring straight ahead, jackets buttoned tight despite the heat.
    One or two of the injured glanced at the recruits as they lurched past, but there was no expression in their eyes beyond a terrible determination.
    Jackrum reined in the horse.
    “All right, twenty minutes breather,” he muttered.
    Igor turned, nodded to the party of wounded heading grimly onward, and said, “Permithion to thee if I can do anything for them, Tharge?”
    “You’ll get your chance soon enough, lad,” said the sergeant.
    “Tharge?” said Igor, looking hurt.
    “Oh, all right. If you must. D’you want someone to give you a hand?”
    There was a nasty laugh from Corporal Strappi.
    “Some athithtance would be a help, yeth, Thargeant,” said Igor with dignity.
    The sergeant looked at the squad, and nodded.
    “Private Halter, step forward! Know anything about doctorin’?”
    The red-headed Tonker stepped forward smartly.
    “I’ve butchered pigs for me mam, Sarge,” he said.
    “Capital! Better than an army surgeon, upon my oath. Off you go. Twenty minutes, remember!”
    “And don’t let Igor bring back any souvenirs!” said Strappi, and laughed his scraping laugh again.
    The rest of the boys sat down on the grass by the road, and one or two of them disappeared into the bushes. Polly went on the same errand, but pushed in a lot further, and took the opportunity to make a little sock adjustment. They had a tendency to creep if she wasn’t careful.
    She froze at a rustling behind her, and then relaxed. She’d been careful. No one would have seen anything. So what if someone else was taking a leak? She’d just push her way back to the road and take no notice—
    Lofty sprang up as Polly parted the bushes, breeches around one ankle, face red as a beetroot.
    Polly couldn’t help herself. Maybe it was the socks. Maybe it was the pleading expression on Lofty’s face. When someone’s broadcasting “don’t look!,” the eyes have a mind of their own and go where they’re not wanted.
    Lofty jumped up, dragging at her clothes.
    “No, look, it’s all right—” Polly began, but it was too late. The girl had gone.
    Polly stared at the bushes and thought: Blast! There’s two of us! But what would I have said next? It’s okay, I’m a girl too? You can trust me! We could be friends? Oh, and here’s a good tip about socks?

    Igor and Tonker arrived back late, without saying anything. Nor did Sergeant Jackrum.
    The squad moved off.
    Polly marched at the back, with Carborundum. This meant she could keep a wary eye on Lofty, whoever she was.
    For the first time, Polly really looked at her. She was easy to miss, because she was always, as it were, in Tonker’s shadow. She was short, although now Polly knew she was female, the word “petite” could be decently used, and was dark and dark-haired and had a strange, self-absorbed look, and she was always marching with Tonker.
    Come to think of it, she always slept close to him, too.
    Ah, so that was it. She’s following her boy, Polly thought. It was kind of romantic, and very, very dumb. Now she knew to look beyond the clothes and haircut, she could see all the little clues that Lofty was a girl, and a girl who hadn’t planned enough.
    She saw Lofty whisper something to Tonker, who half-turned and gave Polly a look of instant hatred and a hint of threat.
    I can’t tell her, she thought. She would tell him. I can’t afford to let them know. I’ve put too much into this. I didn’t just cut my hair and wear trousers. I planned …
    Ah, yes…the plans.
    It had begun as a sudden strange fancy, but it had continued as a plan.
    At first, Polly had started to watch boys closely. This had been reciprocated hopefully by a few of them, to their subsequent disappointment. She watched how they moved, she listened to the rhythm of what passed, among boys, for conversation, she’d noted how they punched one another in greeting. It was a new world.
    She had good muscles for a girl, because running a large inn was all about moving heavy things, and she took over a number of the grittier chores, which coarsened her hands nicely. She’d even worn a pair of her brother’s old breeches under her long skirt, to get the feel of them.
    A woman could be beaten for that sort of thing. Men dressed like men and women like women; doing it the other way around was “a