Jingo - Terry Pratchett [119]
“’ere, are you one of ours, too?”
“No, I’m one of—”
“He’s with me,” Vimes snapped. “How come you’re here, Willikins? Sergeant Willikins, I see.”
“We were on patrol, sir, and were attacked by some Klatchian gentlemen. After the ensuing unpleasantness—”
“—you should’ve seen ’im, sir. ’e bit one bastard’s nose right orf!” a soldier supplied.
“It is true that I endeavored to uphold the good name of Ankh-Morpork, sir. Anyway, after we—”
“—and one bloke, sarge, stabbed ’im right in the—”
“Please, Private Bourke, I am apprising Sir Samuel of events,” said Willikins.
“Sarge ort to get a medal, sir!”
“Those few of us who survived tried to get back, sir, but we had to conceal ourselves from other patrols and were just considering lying up until dawn in this edifice when we espied you and this gentleman here.”
Ahmed was watching him with his mouth open.
“How many were in this Klatchian patrol, sergeant?” he said.
“Nineteen men, sir.”
“That’s a very precise count, in this light.”
“I was able to enumerate them subsequently, sir.”
“You mean they were all killed?”
“Yes, sir,” said Willikins calmly. “However, we ourselves lost five men, sir. Not including Privates Hobbley and Webb, sir, who regrettably seem to have passed away as a result of this unfortunate misunderstanding. With your permission, sir, I will remove them.”
“Poor devils,” said Vimes, aware that it was not enough but that nothing else would be, either.
“The fortunes of war, sir. Private Hobbley, Ginger to his friends, was nineteen and lived in Ettercap Street, where until recently he made bootlaces.” Willikins took the dead man’s arms and pulled. “He was courting a young lady called Grace, a picture of whom he was kind enough to show me last night. A maid at Lady Venturi’s, I was given to understand. If you would be good enough to pass me his head, sir, I will get on with things SMUDGER WHO TOLD YOU TO SIT DOWN GET ON YORE FEET RIGHT NOW GET OUT YORE SHOVEL TAKE OFF YORE HELMET SHOW SOME RESPECT GET DIGGINGHA!”
A cloud of smoke rolled past Vimes’s ear.
“I know what you are thinking,” said Ahmed. “But this is war, Sir Samuel. Wake up and smell the blood.”
“But…one minute they’re alive—”
“Your friend here knows how it works. You don’t.”
“He’s a butler!”
“So? It’s kill or be killed, even for butlers. You’re not a natural warrior, Sir Samuel.”
Vimes thrust the baton in his face.
“I’m not a natural killer! See this? See what it says? I’m supposed to keep the peace, I am! If I kill people to do it, I’m reading the wrong manual!”
Willikins appeared silently, hefting the other corpse. “I was not privileged to know much about this young man,” he said, as he carried him behind a rock. “We called him Spider, sir,” he went on, straightening up. “He played the harmonica rather badly and spoke longingly of home. Will you be taking tea, sir? Private Smith is having a brew-up. Er…” The butler coughed politely.
“Yes, Willikins?”
“I hardly like to broach the subject, sir…”
“Broach it, man!”
“Do you have such a thing as a biscuit about you, sir? I hesitate to provide tea without biscuits, but we have not eaten for two days.”
“But you were on patrol!”
“Forage party, sir.” Willikins looked embarrassed.
Vimes was bewildered. “You mean Rust didn’t even wait to take on food?”
“Oh, yes, sir. But as it transpired—”
“We knew there was somethin’ wrong when the mutton barrels started to explode,” muttered Private Bourke. “The biscuits was pretty lively, too. Turned out bloody Rust’d bought a lot of stuff even a rag’ead wouldn’t eat—”
“And we eat anything,” said 71-hour Ahmed solemnly.
“PRIVATE BOURKE YOU ORRIBLE MAN SPEAKIN OF YORE COMMANDIN OFFICER LIKE THAT YOU WILL BE ON A CHARGE I apologize, sir, but we are feeling a little faint.”
“Long time between noses, eh?” said 71-hour Ahmed.
“Ahahaha, sir,” said Willikins.
Vimes sighed. “Willikins…when you’ve finished, I want you and your men to come with me.”
“Very good,