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By Root 415 0

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.

“Soundth 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 champ-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 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 hat