Polly looked along the length of the table. "We're supposed to be well equipped," she said to the one-eyed man. "We're supposed to be the finest army in the world. That's what we're told. And aren't we winning?"
The man looked at her. Inside, she stared at herself. She hadn't meant to speak out like that.
"So they say," he said, in a blank kind of way.
"And w-what do you say?" said Wazzer. He'd picked up one of the few swords. It was stained and notched.
The corporal glanced up at Carborundum, and then at Maladict.
"I'm not s-stupid, you know!" Wazzer went on, red in the face and trembling. "All this stuff is off d-dead men!"
"Well, it's a shame to waste good boots - " the man began.
"We're the last o-ones, aren't we?" said Wazzer. "The last r-recruits!"
The peg-legged corporal eyed the distant doorway, and saw no relief heading in his direction.
"We've got to stay here all night," said Maladict. "Night!" he went on, causing the old corporal to wobble on his crutches. "When who knows what evil flits through the shadows, dealing death on silent wings, seeking a hapless victim who - "
"Yeah, all right, all right, I did see your ribbon," said the corporal. "Look, I'm closing up after you've gone. I just run the stores, that's all. That's all I do, honest! I'm on one-tenth pay, me, on account of the leg situation, and I don't want trouble!"
"And this is all you've got?" said Maladict. "Don't you have a little something... put by..."
"Are you saying I'm dishonest?" said the corporal hotly.
"Let's say I'm open to the idea that you might not be," said the vampire. "C'mon, corporal, you said we're the last to go. What are you saving up? What've you got?"
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."