Pratchett
A voice by her ear screamed: "What do you think you're doing, Private Parts?"
It was just as well the blade was blunt.
"It's Perks, sir!" she said, rubbing her nose. "I'm shaving, sir!"
"Sir? I'm not a sir, Parts, I'm a bloody corporal. That means you call me 'Corporal', Parts. And you are shaving with an official regimental mug, Parts, which you have not been issued with, right? You a deserter, Parts?"
"No s- Corporal!"
"A thief, then?"
"No, Corporal!"
"Then how come you got a bloody mug, Parts?"
"Got it off a dead man, sir-- Corporal!"
Corporal Strappi's voice became a screech of rage.
"You're a looter?"
"No, Corporal! The soldier--"
--had died almost in her arms, on the floor of the inn.
There had been half a dozen men in that party of returning heroes. They must have been trekking with grey-faced patience for days, making their way back to their homes in little villages in the mountains. She had counted nine arms and ten legs between them, and ten eyes.
But it was the apparently whole who were worse, in a way. They kept their stinking coats buttoned tight, in lieu of bandages over whatever unspeakable mess lay beneath, and they had the smell of death about them. The inn's regulars made a place for them, and talked quietly, like people in a sacred place. Her father, not usually a man given to sentiment, quietly put a generous tot of brandy into each mug of ale, and refused all payment.
Then it turned out that they were carrying letters from soldiers still fighting, and one of them had brought the letter from Paul. He pushed it across the table to Polly as she served them stew, and then, with very little fuss, he died.
The rest of the men moved unsteadily on later that day, taking with them, to give to his parents, the pot-metal medal that had been in his coat pocket and the official commendation from the Duchy that went with it. Polly had taken a look at it. It was printed, including the Duchess's signature, and the man's name had been filled in, rather cramped, because it was longer than average. The last few letters were rammed up tight together.
Apart from the letter and the medal, all the man left behind was a tin mug and, on the floor, a stain that wouldn't scrub out.
It was just as well the blade was blunt.
"It's Perks, sir!" she said, rubbing her nose. "I'm shaving, sir!"
"Sir? I'm not a sir, Parts, I'm a bloody corporal. That means you call me 'Corporal', Parts. And you are shaving with an official regimental mug, Parts, which you have not been issued with, right? You a deserter, Parts?"
"No s- Corporal!"
"A thief, then?"
"No, Corporal!"
"Then how come you got a bloody mug, Parts?"
"Got it off a dead man, sir-- Corporal!"
Corporal Strappi's voice became a screech of rage.
"You're a looter?"
"No, Corporal! The soldier--"
--had died almost in her arms, on the floor of the inn.
There had been half a dozen men in that party of returning heroes. They must have been trekking with grey-faced patience for days, making their way back to their homes in little villages in the mountains. She had counted nine arms and ten legs between them, and ten eyes.
But it was the apparently whole who were worse, in a way. They kept their stinking coats buttoned tight, in lieu of bandages over whatever unspeakable mess lay beneath, and they had the smell of death about them. The inn's regulars made a place for them, and talked quietly, like people in a sacred place. Her father, not usually a man given to sentiment, quietly put a generous tot of brandy into each mug of ale, and refused all payment.
Then it turned out that they were carrying letters from soldiers still fighting, and one of them had brought the letter from Paul. He pushed it across the table to Polly as she served them stew, and then, with very little fuss, he died.
The rest of the men moved unsteadily on later that day, taking with them, to give to his parents, the pot-metal medal that had been in his coat pocket and the official commendation from the Duchy that went with it. Polly had taken a look at it. It was printed, including the Duchess's signature, and the man's name had been filled in, rather cramped, because it was longer than average. The last few letters were rammed up tight together.
Apart from the letter and the medal, all the man left behind was a tin mug and, on the floor, a stain that wouldn't scrub out.
