Monstrous Regiment

by Pratchett, Terry

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Tonker. ‘We fight for liars.’

  ‘Ah, they may be liars,’ snapped Polly, in a passable imitation of Strappi’s yap, ‘but they’re our liars!’

  ‘Now, now, children,’ said Maladict. ‘Let’s try to get some sleep, shall we? But here’s a happy little dream from your Uncle Maladict. Dream that when we go into battle, Corporal Strappi is leading us. Wouldn’t that be fun?’

  After a while, Tonker said: ‘In front of us, you mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I can see you’re with me, Tonk. Right in front of you. On the noisy, frantic, confusing battlefield, where oh so much can go wrong.’

  ‘And we’ll have weapons?’ said Shufti wistfully.

  ‘Of course you’ll have weapons. You’re soldiers. And there’s the enemy, right in front of you . . .’

  ‘That’s a good dream, Mal.’

  ‘Sleep on it, kid.’

  Polly turned over, and tried to make herself comfortable. It’s all lies, she thought muzzily. Some of them are just prettier than others, that’s all. People see what they think is there. Even I’m a lie. But I’m getting away with it.

  A warm autumnal wind was blowing leaves off the rowan trees as the recruits marched among the foothills. It was the morning of the next day, and the mountains were behind them. Polly passed the time identifying the birds in the hedgerows. It was a habit. She knew most of them.

  She hadn’t set out to be an ornithologist. But birds brought Paul alive. All the . . . slowness in the rest of his thinking became a flash of lightning in the presence of birds. Suddenly he knew their names, habits and habitats, could whistle their songs and, after Polly had saved up for a box of paints off a traveller at the inn, had painted a picture of a wren so real you could hear it.

  Their mother had been alive then. The row had gone on for days. Pictures of living creatures were an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan. Polly had asked why there were pictures of the Duchess everywhere, and had been thrashed for it. The picture had been burned, the paints thrown away.

  It was a terrible thing. Her mother had been a kind woman, or as kind as a devout woman could be who tried to keep up with the whims of Nuggan, and she’d died slowly amidst pictures of the Duchess and amongst the echoes of unanswered prayers, but that was the memory that crawled treacherously into Polly’s mind every time: the fury and the scolding, while the little bird seemed to flutter in the flames.

  In the fields women and old men were getting in the spoilt wheat after last night’s rain, hoping to save what they could. There weren’t any young men visible. Polly saw some of the other recruits steal a glance at the scavenging parties, and wondered if they were thinking the same thing.

  They saw no one else on the road until midday, when the party was marching through a landscape of low hills; the sun had boiled away some of the clouds and, for a moment at least, summer was back – moist and sticky and mildly unpleasant, like a party guest who won’t go home.

  A red blob in the distance became a rather larger blob and resolved itself into a loose knot of men. Polly knew what to expect as soon as she saw it. By the reaction of some of the others, they did not. There was a moment of collision and confusion as people walked into one another, and then the party stopped, and stared.

  It took the wounded men some time to draw level, and some time to pass. Two able-bodied men, as far as Polly could tell, were trundling a handcart on which a third man lay. Others were limping on crutches, or had arms in slings, or wore red jackets with an empty sleeve. Perhaps worse were the ones like the man in the inn, grey-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 round 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 a word. Sergeant Jackrum said nothing. 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, 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. First, Polly had started to watch boys closely. This had been reciprocated hopefully by a few of them, to their subsequent disappointment. She observed 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 already 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 round was ‘a blasphemous Abomination unto Nuggan’, according to Father Jupe.

  And that was probably the se
cret of her success so far, she thought, as she trudged through a puddle. People didn’t look for a woman in trousers. To the casual observer, men’s clothes and short hair and a bit of swagger were what it took to be a man. Oh, and a second pair of socks.

  That had been gnawing at her, too. Someone knew about her, just as she knew about Lofty. And he hadn’t given her away. She’d suspected it was Eyebrow, but doubted it; he’d have told the sergeant about her, he was that sort. Right now she was guessing it was Maladict, but perhaps that was just because he seemed so knowing all the time.

  Carbor— no, he’d been out cold, and in any case . . . no, not the troll. And Igor lisped. Tonker? After all, he’d know about Lofty so maybe . . . No, because why would he want to help Polly? No, there was nothing but danger in owning up to Lofty. The best she could do was try to see to it that the girl didn’t give both of them away.

  She could hear Tonker whispering to his girl. ‘. . . had just died so he cut off one of his legs and an arm and sewed ’em on men who needed ’em, just like I’d darn a tear! You should’ve seen it! You couldn’t see his fingers move! And he has all these ointments that just . . .’ Tonker’s voice died away. Strappi was haranguing Wazzer again.

  ‘Dat Strappi really gets on my crags,’ muttered Carborundum. ‘You want I should pull the head off ’f him? I c’d make it look like a accident.’

  ‘Better not,’ said Polly, but she did entertain the thought for a moment.

  They’d reached a junction, where the road down from the mountains joined what passed for a main highway. It was crowded. There were carts and wheelbarrows, people driving herds of cows, grandmothers carrying all the household possessions on their backs, a general excitement of pigs and children . . . and it was all heading one way.

  It was the opposite way to the way the squad was going. The people and animals flowed around it like a stream around an inconvenient rock. The recruits bunched up. It was that or be separated by cows.

  Sergeant Jackrum stood up in the cart. ‘Private Carborundum!’

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’ rumbled the troll.

  ‘To the front!’

  That helped. The stream still flowed, but at least the crowds parted some distance further ahead and gave the squad a wide berth. No one wants to barge up against even a slow-moving troll.

  But faces stared as the people hurried by. An old lady darted out for a moment, pressed a loaf of stale bread into Tonker’s hands, and said, ‘You poor boys!’ before being swept away in the throng.

  ‘What’s this all about, sarge?’ said Maladict. ‘These look like refugees!’

  ‘Talk like that spreads Alarm and Despondency!’ shouted Corporal Strappi.

  ‘Oh, you mean they’re just people getting away early for the holidays to avoid the rush?’ said Maladict. ‘Sorry, I got confused. It must be that woman carrying a whole haystack we just passed.’

  ‘D’you know what can happen to you for cheeking a superior officer?’ screamed Strappi.

  ‘No! Tell me, is it worse than whatever it is these people are running away from?’

  ‘You signed up, Mr Bloodsucker! You obey orders!’

  ‘Right! But I don’t remember anyone ordering me not to think!’

  ‘Enough of that!’ snapped Jackrum. ‘Less shouting down there! Move on! Carborundum, you give people a push if they don’t make way, y’hear?’

  They moved on. After a while the press of people abated a little, so that what had been a torrent became a trickle. Occasionally there would be a family group, or just one hurrying woman, burdened with bags. One old man was struggling with a wheelbarrow full of turnips. They’re even taking the crops out of the fields, Polly noted. And everyone moved at a kind of half-run, as if things would be a little better when they’d caught up with the mass of people ahead. Or merely passed the squad, perhaps.

  They made way for an old woman bent double under the weight of a black and white pig. And then there was just the road, rutted and muddy. An afternoon mist was rising from the fields on either side, quiet and clammy. After the noise of the refugees, the silence of the low countryside was suddenly oppressive. The only sound was the trudge and splash of the recruits’ boots.

  ‘Permission to speak, sarge?’ said Polly.

  ‘Yes, private?’ said Jackrum.

  ‘How far is it to Plotz?’

  ‘You don’t have to tell ’em, sarge!’ said Strappi.

  ‘About five miles,’ said Sergeant Jackrum. ‘You’ll get your uniforms and weapons at the depot there.’

  ‘That’s a milit’ry secret, sarge,’ Strappi whined.

  ‘We could shut our eyes so’s we don’t see what we’re wearing, how about that?’ said Maladict.

  ‘Stop that, Private Maladict,’ said Jackrum. ‘Just keep moving, and guard that tongue.’

  They plodded on. The road grew muddier. A breeze sprang up, but instead of carrying the mist away it merely streamed it across the damp fields in twisty, clammy, unpleasant shapes. The sun became an orange ball.

  Polly saw something large and white flutter across the field, blown by the wind. At first she thought it was a migratory lesser egret that had left things a little late, but it was clearly being blown by the wind. It flopped down once or twice and then, as a gust caught it, blew across the road and wrapped itself across Corporal Strappi’s face.

  He screamed. Lofty grabbed at the fluttering thing, which was damp. It tore in his— her hands, and most of it dropped away from the struggling corporal.

  ‘It’s just a bit of paper,’ she said.

  Strappi flailed at it. ‘I knew that,’ he said. ‘I never asked you!’

  Polly picked up one of the torn scraps. The paper was thin, and stained with mud, although she recognized the word Ankh-Morpork. The godawful city. And the genius of Strappi was that anything he was against automatically sounded attractive.

  ‘Ankh-Morpork Times . . .’ she read aloud, before the corporal snatched it out of her hand.

  ‘You can’t just read anything you see, Parts!’ he shouted. ‘You don’t know who wrote it!’ He dropped the damp scrap pages on to the mud and stamped on them. ‘Now let’s move on!’ he said.

  They moved on. When the squad were more or less in rhythm, and staring at nothing more than their boots or the mist ahead of them, Polly raised her right hand to chest height and carefully turned it palm up so that she could see the fragment of paper that had soggily stayed behind when the rest had been pulled away.

  ‘No Surrender’

  to Alliance says

  Duchess (97)

  From William de Worde

  Valley of the Kneck, Sektober 7

  Borogrovian troops assisted by Lord V

  Light Infantry took Kneck Keep this mo

  after fierce hand-to-hand fig

  I write its armaments which

  are being turned on the remn

  Borogravian forces acr

  His Grace Commander Sir S

  told the Times that

  surrender had been rej

  view the enemy commande

  load of stiff-necked fools, don’

  in the paper.’

  It is understoo

  desperate situ

  -spread fami

  across t

  No altern

  invas

  They were winning, weren’t they? So where did the word ‘surrender’ come from? And what was the Alliance?

  And then there was the problem of Strappi, which had been growing on her. She could see he got on Jackrum’s nerves as well, and he had a struttiness about him, a certain – er . . . sockiness, as if he was really the one in charge. Perhaps it was just general unpleasantness, but . . .

  ‘Corporal?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Parts?’ said Strappi. His nose was still very red.

  ‘We are winning this war, aren’t we?’ said Polly. She’d given up correcting him.

  Suddenly, every ear in the squad was listening.

  ‘Don’t you bother yoursel
f about that, Parts!’ snapped the corporal. ‘Your job is to fight!’

  ‘Right, corp. So . . . I’ll be fighting on the winning side, will I?’

  ‘Oho, we’ve got someone who asks too many questions here, sarge!’ said Strappi.

  ‘Yeah, don’t ask questions, Perks,’ said Jackrum, absent-mindedly.

  ‘So we’re losing, then?’ said Tonker. Strappi turned on him.

  ‘That’s spreading Alarm and Despondency again, that is!’ he shrieked. ‘That’s aiding the enemy!’

  ‘Yeah, knock it off, Private Halter,’ said Jackrum. ‘Okay? Now get a—’

  ‘Halter, I’m placing you under arrest for—’

  ‘Corporal Strappi, a word in your shell-like ear, please? You men, you stop here!’ growled the sergeant, clambering down from the cart.

  Jackrum walked back down the road about fifty feet. Glaring round at the squad, the corporal strutted after him.

  ‘Are we in trouble?’ said Tonker.

  ‘You guess,’ said Maladict.

  ‘Bound to be,’ said Shufti. ‘Strappi can always get you for something.’

  ‘They’re having an argument,’ said Maladict. ‘Which is odd, don’t you think? A sergeant is supposed to give orders to a corporal.’

  ‘We are winning, aren’t we?’ said Shufti. ‘I mean, I know there’s a war, but . . . I mean, we get weapons, don’t we, and we’ll . . . well, they’ve got to train us, right? It’ll probably be all over by then, right? Everyone says we’re winning.’

  ‘I will ask the Duchess in my prayers tonight,’ said Wazzer.

  The rest of the squad looked at one another with a shared expression.

  ‘Yeah, right, Wazz,’ said Tonker kindly. ‘You do that.’

  The sun was setting fast, half hidden in the mist. Here, on the muddy road between damp fields, it suddenly felt as cold as it could be.

  ‘No one says we’re winning, except maybe Strappi,’ said Polly. ‘They just say that everyone says we’re winning.’

  ‘The men Igor . . . repaired didn’t even say that,’ said Tonker. ‘They said “you poor bastards, you’ll leg it if you’ve any sense.”’

  ‘Thank you for sharing,’ said Maladict.