Monstrous Regiment

flamboyant pose as the one beginners tend to use just before they’re stabbed through the heart by a more experienced fighter.
    “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 inn will do it. What’s for supper?”
    “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 Defense.
    “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 them 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. “Obvious 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 toward 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, re-tucked the end of one under her belt as an anchor, and hurried down to the inn’s kitchens. A look told her all she wanted to know. Food hygiene here consisted of making a half-hearted effort not to gob in the stew.
    “I want onions, salt, pepper—”