The corporal sighed, and swung with surprising speed over to a door, which he unlocked. ‘You’d better come and look,’ he said. ‘But it’s not good . . .’
It was worse. They found a few more breastplates, but one was sliced in half and another was one big dent. A shield was in two pieces, too. There were bent swords and crushed helmets, battered hats and torn shirts.
‘I done what I can,’ sighed the corporal. ‘I hammered stuff out and washed out the clothes but it’s been weeks since I had any coal for the forge and you can’t do nothin’ about the swords without a forge. It’s been months since I got any new weapons and, let me tell you, since the dwarfs buggered off the steel we’ve been getting is crap anyway.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘I know you think quartermasters are a thieving bunch and I won’t say we might not skim a bit off the top when things are going well, but this stuff? A beetle couldn’t make a living off this.’ He sniffed again. ‘Ain’t been paid in three months, neither. I guess one-tenth of nothing is not as bad as nothing, but I was never that good at philosophy.’
Then he brightened-up. ‘Got plenty to eat, at least,’ he said. ‘If you like horse, that is. Personally I prefer rat, but there’s no accounting for taste.’
‘I can’t eat horse!’ said Shufti.
‘Ah, you’d be a rat man?’ said the corporal, leading the way out into the big room.
‘No!’
‘You’ll learn to be one. You’ll all learn,’ said the little one-tenth corporal, with an evil grin. ‘Ever eaten scubbo? No? Nothing like a bowl of scubbo when you’re hungry. You can put anything in scubbo. Pork, beef, mutton, rabbit, chicken, duck . . . anything. Even rats, if you’ve got ‘em. It’s food for the marching man, scubbo. Got some on the boil out there right now. You can have some of that, if you like.’
The squad brightened up.
Thoundth good,’ said Igor. ‘What’th in it?’
‘Boiling water,’ said the corporal. ‘It’s what we call “blind scubbo”. But there’s going to be old horse in a minute unless you’ve got something better. Could do with some seasonings, at least. Who’s looking after the rupert?’
They looked at one another.
The corporal sighed. ‘The officer,’ he explained. ‘They’re all called Rupert or Rodney or Tristram or something. They get better grub than you do. You could try scrounging something at the inn.’
‘Scrounge?’ said Polly.
The old man rolled his one eye.
‘Yeah. Scrounge. Scrounge, nick, have a lend of, borrow, thieve, lift, acquire, purrrr-loin. That’s what you’ll learn, if you’re gonna survive this war. Which they say we’re winnin’, o’ course. Always remember that.’ He spat vaguely in the direction of the fire, possibly missing the cooking pot only by accident. ‘Yeah, an’ all the lads I see coming back down the road walking hand in hand with Death, they probably overdid the celebrating, eh? So easy to take your hand right off if you open a bottle of cham-pag-nee the wrong way, eh? I see you’ve got an Igor with you, you lucky devils. Wish we’d had one when I went off to battle. I wouldn’t be kept awake by woodworm if we had.’
‘We have to steal our food?’ said Maladict.
‘No, you can starve if that takes your fancy,’ said the corporal. ‘I’ve starved a few times. There’s no future in it. Ate a man’s leg when we were snowed up in the Ibblestarn campaign but, fair’s fair, he ate mine.’ He looked at their faces. ‘Well, it’s not on, is it, eating your own leg ? You’d probably go blind.’
‘You swapped legs?’ said Polly, horrified.
‘Yeah, me an’ Sergeant Hausegerda. It was his idea. Sensible man, the sergeant. That kept us alive for the week and by then the relief had got through. We were certainly relieved about that. Oh, dear. Where’s my manners? How d’yer do, lads, my name’s Corporal Scallot. They call me Threeparts.’ He held out his hook.
‘But that’s cannibalism!’ said Tonker, backing away.
‘No it’s not, not officially, not unless you eat a whole person,’ said Threeparts Scallot levelly. ‘Milit’ry rules.’
All eyes turned to the big pot bubbling on the fire.
‘Horse,’ said Scallot. ‘Ain’t got nothing but horse. I told you. I wouldn’t lie to you, boys. Now kit yerselves up with the best yer can find. What’s your name, stone man?’
‘Carborundum,’ said the troll.
‘Got a wee bit o’ decent snacking anthracite saved up out the back, then, and some official red paint for you ‘cos I never met a troll yet that wanted to wear a jacket. The rest of you, mark what I’m telling yer: fill up with grub. Fill yer pack with grub. Fill yer shako with grub. Fill yer boots with soup. If any of you run across a pot of mustard, you hang on to it – it’s amazin’ what mustard’ll help down. And look after your mates. And keep out of the way of officers, ‘cos they ain’t healthy. That’s what you learn in the army. The enemy dun’t really want to fight you, ‘cos the enemy is mostly blokes like you who want to go home with all their bits still on. But officers’ll get you killed.’ Scallot looked round at them. ‘There. I’ve said it. And if there’s a political amongst you: mister, you can go an’ tell tales and to hell with you.’
After a few moments of embarrassed silence Polly said: ‘What’s a political?’
‘Like a spy, only on your own side,’ said Maladict.
‘That’s right,’ said Scallot. ‘There’s one in every battalion these days, snitching on their mates. Get promotion that way, see? Don’t want dissent in the ranks, eh? Don’t want loose talk about losing battles, right? Which is a load of bloody cludgies, ‘cos the infantry grumbles all the time. Moaning is part of bein’ a soldier.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, there’s a bunkhouse out the back. I beats the pallyarses regular so there’s probably not too many fleas.’ Once again he looked at blank faces. ‘That’s straw mattresses to you. Go on, help yourselves. Take what you like. I’m closing up after you’ve gone, anyway. We must be winning now you rattling lads are joining, right?’
The clouds had broken when Polly stepped out into the night, and a half-moon filled the world with cold silver and black. The inn opposite was another rubbishy alehouse for selling bad beer to soldiers. It stank of ancient slops, even before she opened the door. The sign was flaked and unrecognizable, but she could read the name: The World Turned Upside Down. She pushed open the door. The smell got worse. There were no customers and no sign of Strappi or Jackrum, but Polly did see a servant methodically spreading the inn’s dirt evenly across the floor with a mop.
‘Excuse m—’ she began, and then remembered the socks, raised her voice and tried to sound angry. ‘Hey, where’s the lieutenant?’
The servant looked at her and gestured up the stairs with a thumb. There was only one candle alight up there, and she knocked on the nearest door.
‘Enter.’
She entered. Lieutenant Blouse was standing in the middle of the floor in his breeches and shirtsleeves, holding a sabre. Polly was no expert in these matters, but she thought she recognized the stylish, 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 Defence.
‘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.