The four lesser horsemen of Panic, Bewilderment, Ignorance and Shouting took control of the room, to Corporal Strappi's obscene glee. Polly, though, ducked out of the door, pulled a small tin mug out of her pack, dipped it into a water butt, balanced it on an old barrel behind the inn, and started to shave.
She'd practised this, too. The secret was in the old cut-throat razor that she'd carefully blunted. After that, it was all in the shaving brush and soap. Get a lot of lather on, shave a lot of lather off, and you'd had a shave, hadn't you? Must have done, sir, feel how smooth the skin is...
She was halfway through when a voice by her ear screamed: "What d'you think you're doing, Private Parts?"
It was just as well the blade was blunt.
"Perks, sir!" she said, rubbing her nose. "I'm shaving, sir! It's Perks, sir!"
"Sir? Sir? I'm not a sir, Parts, I'm a bloody corporal, Parts. That means you calls me 'corporal', Parts. And you are shaving in an official regimental mug, Parts, what you have not been issued with, right? You a deserter, Parts?"
"No, s¨C corporal!"
"A thief, then?"
"No, corporal!"
"Then how come you got a bloody mug, Parts?"
"Got it off a dead man, sir¨C corporal!"
Strappi's voice, pitched to a scream in any case, 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 little villages in the mountains. Polly 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 space 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 the soldier's 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.
It's little details like that which get remembered, as undirected white-hot rage fills the mind. Apart from the letter and the medal, all the man left behind was a tin mug and, on the floor, a stain which wouldn't scrub out.
Corporal Strappi listened impatiently to a slightly adjusted version. Polly could see his mind working. The mug had belonged to a soldier; now it belonged to another soldier. Those were the facts of the matter, and there wasn't much he could do about it. He resorted, instead, to the safer ground of general abuse.
"So you think you're smart, Parts?" he said.
"No, corporal."
"Oh? So you're stupid, are you?"
"Well, I did enlist, corporal," said Polly meekly. Somewhere behind Strappi, someone sniggered.
"I've got my eye on you, Parts," growled Strappi, temporarily defeated. "Just you put a foot wrong, that's all." He strode off.
"Um..." said a voice beside Polly. She turned to see another youth, wearing secondhand clothes and an air of nervousness that didn't quite conceal some bubbling anger. He was big and red-haired, but it was cut so close that it was just head fuzz.
"You're Tonker, right?" she said.
"Yeah, and, er... could I have a borrow of your shaving gear, right?"
Polly looked at a chin as free of hair as a billiard ball. The boy blushed.
"Got to start sometime, right?" he said defiantly.