The Heroes

wrong way round.
    ‘Previous profession, Klige?’ asked Forest.
    ‘Was going to be a weaver, sir. But I hadn’t been ’prenticed more than a month before my master sold me out to the recruiter.’
    Tunny gave a further grimace. The replacements they were getting lately were an insult to the bottom of the barrel.
    ‘Worth.’ The next was gaunt and bony with an ill-looking grey sheen to his skin. ‘I was in the militia and they disbanded the company, so we all got drafted.’
    ‘Lederlingen.’ A tall, rangy specimen with big hands and a worried look. ‘I was a cobbler.’ He offered no further detail on the mechanics of his entry into the King’s Own and Tunny’s head was hurting too much for him to pry. The man was here now, unfortunately for everyone involved.
    ‘Yolk.’ A short lad with a lot of freckles, dwarfed by his pack. He glanced guiltily about. ‘They called me a thief but I never done it. Judge said it was this or five year in prison.’
    ‘I rather think we may all come to regret that choice,’ grunted Tunny,though probably as a thief he was the only one with transferrable skills. ‘Why’s your name Yolk?’
    ‘Er … don’t know. Was my father’s name … I guess.’
    ‘Think you’re the best part of the egg, do you, Yolk?’
    ‘Well …’ He looked doubtfully at his neighbours. ‘Not really.’
    Tunny squinted up at him. ‘I’ll be watching you, boy.’ Yolk’s bottom lip almost trembled at the injustice.
    ‘You lads stick close to Corporal Tunny here. He’ll keep you out of danger.’ Forest had a smile that was tough to define. ‘If there was ever a soldier for staying clear of danger, it’s Corporal Tunny. Just don’t play cards with him!’ he shouted over his shoulder as he made off through the shambles of ill-kempt canvas that was their camp.
    Tunny took a deep breath, and stood. The recruits snapped to ill-coordinated attention. Or three of them did. Yolk followed up a moment later. Tunny waved them down. ‘For pity’s sake don’t salute. I might be sick on you.’
    ‘Sorry, sir.’
    ‘I’m not sir, I’m Corporal Tunny.’
    ‘Sorry, Corporal Tunny.’
    ‘Now look. I don’t want you here and you don’t want to be here—’
    ‘I want to be here,’ said Lederlingen.
    ‘You do?’
    ‘Volunteered.’ A trace of pride in his voice.
    ‘Vol … un … teered?’ Tunny wrestled with the word as if it belonged to a foreign language. ‘So they do exist. Just make damn sure you don’t volunteer me for anything while you’re here. Anyway …’ He drew the lads into a conspiratorial huddle with a crooked finger. ‘You boys have landed right on your feet. I’ve done all kind of jobs in his Majesty’s army and this right here,’ and he pointed an affectionate finger at the standard of the First, rolled up safe under his hammock in its canvas cover, ‘this is a sweet detail. Now I may be in charge, that’s true. But I want you lads to think of me as, let’s say … your kindly uncle. Anything you need. Anything
extra.
Anything to make this army life of ours worth living.’ He leaned in closer and gave the suggestive eyebrows.
‘Anything.
You can come to me.’ Lederlingen held up a hesitant finger. ‘Yes?’
    ‘We’re cavalrymen, aren’t we?’
    ‘Yes, trooper, we are.’
    ‘Shouldn’t we have horses?’
    ‘That’s an excellent question and a keen grasp of tactics. Due to an administrative error, our horses are currently with the Fifth, attached to Mitterick’s division, which, as a regiment of infantry, is not in a position to make best use of them. I’m told they’ll be catching up with us any day, though they’ve been telling me that a while. For the time being we are a regiment of … horseless horse.’
    ‘Foot?’ offered Yolk.
    ‘You might say that, except we still …’ and Tunny tapped his skull, ‘think like cavalry. Other than horses, which is a deficiency common to every man in the unit, is there anything else you need?’
    Klige was next to lift his arm. ‘Well, sir, Corporal Tunny, that is … I’d really like something to eat.’
    Tunny grinned. ‘Well, that’s definitely extra.’
    ‘Don’t we get food?’ asked Yolk, horrified.
    ‘Of course his Majesty provides his loyal soldiers with rations, Yolk, of course he does. But nothing anyone would actually
want
to eat. You get sick of eating things you don’t want to eat, well, you come to me.’
    ‘At a price, I suppose.’ Lederlingen, sour of