Monstrous Regiment

that we publicly shake the hand of friendship.” He smiled again, or at least allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up.
    Because she could think of no other way out, Polly took the huge hand and obediently shook it.
    “Oh, ver’ good,” said Otto, grasping his picture box. “I can only take zer vun, of course, because unfortunately I shall haf to use flash. Just vun moment…”
    Polly was learning that an art form that happens in a fraction of a second nevertheless needs a long time to take place, allowing a smile to freeze into a mad grimace or, in the worst cases, a death rictus. Otto muttered to himself as he adjusted the equipment.
    Heinrich and Polly maintained the grip and stared at the picture box.
    “So,” muttered the prince out of the corner of his mouth, “the soldier boy isn’t a soldier boy. That is your good luck!”
    Polly kept her fixed grin.
    “Do you often menace frightened women?” she said.
    “Oh, that was nothing! You are only a peasant girl, after all! What do you know of life? And you showed spirit!”
    “Everyvun say chiz!” Otto commanded. “Vun, two, three…oh, bug—”
    By the time the after-images had died away, Otto was back on his feet again. “Vun day I really hope to find a filter zat works,” he muttered. “Thank you, everyvun, neverzerless.”
    “That was for peace and goodwill between nations,” said Polly, smiling sweetly and letting go of the prince’s hand. She took a step back. “And this, Your Highness, is for me…”
    Actually, she didn’t kick. Life was a process of finding out how far you could go too far, and you could probably go too far in finding out how far you could go. But a mere twitch of a leg was enough, just to see the idiot collapse in the ridiculous, knock-kneed, protective crouch that is as instinctive to a man as saving half an onion is to a woman.
    She marched away, singing inside. This was not a fairy-tale castle and there was no such thing as a fairy-tale ending, but sometimes you could threaten to kick the handsome prince in the ham-and-eggs.
    And now, there was one other little thing.

    The sun was setting before Polly found Jackrum again, and blood-red light shone through the high windows of the Keep’s biggest kitchen.
    He was sitting alone at a long table by the fire, in full uniform. And he was eating a thick slab of bread plastered with pork dripping. A mug of beer was not far from his other hand.
    Jackrum looked up as she approached, and nodded companionably toward another chair. Around them, women ran to and fro.
    “Pork drippin’ with salt and pepper, and a mug of beer,” he said. “That’s the ticket. You can keep your cuisine. Want a slice?” He waved a hand at one of the kitchen girls who was dancing attendance on him.
    “Not right now, Sarge.”
    “Sure?” said Jackrum. “There’s an old sayin’: ‘Kissing don’t last, cooking do.’ I hope that it’s one you don’t have cause to reflect upon.”
    Polly sat down.
    “Kissing is lasting so far,” she said.
    “Shufti get sorted out?” said Jackrum. He finished the beer, snapped his fingers at the serving girl, and pointed to the empty mug.
    “To her own satisfaction, Sarge,” said Polly.
    “Fair enough. You can’t get fairer. So what next, Perks?”
    “Dunno, Sarge. I’ll go with Wa—with Alice and the army and see what happens.”
    “Best of luck. Look after ’em, Perks, ’cos I ain’t coming,” said Jackrum.
    “Sarge?” said Polly, shocked.
    “Well, looks like we’re going to be short by one war at present, eh? Anyway, this is it. The end of the road. I’ve done my bit. Can’t go on now. Shot me quiver with the general, and I daresay he, ahem, will be glad to see the back of me. Besides, old age is creepin’ on. I killed five poor devils when we attacked today, and afterwards I found meself wonderin’ why. Not good, that. Time to get out before I blunt me own edge.”
    “You’re sure, Sarge?”
    “Yeah. Seems to me the ol’ ‘my country right or wrong’ thing has had its day. Time to put my feet up and find out what it is we’ve been fighting for. Sure you won’t have any dripping? It’s got crunchy bits. That’s what I call style , in dripping.”
    Polly waved away the proffered slab of grease-smeared bread, and sat in silence while Jackrum engulfed it.
    “Funny thing, really,” she said, at last.
    “What’s that, Perks?”
    “Finding out that it’s not about you. You think you’re the hero, and it turns