'Yes, sir. I meant... more... well... positioned, sir.'
'Nothing wrong with 'em, man. Beautifully lined up! Hey? A wall of steel poised to thrust at the black heart of the Klatchian aggressor!'
'Yes, sir. But – and I realize this is a remote chance, sir it might be that while we're thrusting at the heart of the Klatchian aggressor––'
'––black heart–' Rust corrected him. '––black heart of the Klatchian aggressor, sir, the arms of the Klatchian aggressor, those companies there and there, sir, will sweep around in the classic pincer movement.'
'The thrusting wall of steel served us magnificently in the second war with Quirm!'
'We lost that one, sir.'
'But it was a damn dose–run thing!'
'We still lost, sir.'
'What did you do as a civilian, lieutenant?'
'I was a surveyor, sir, and I can read Klatchian. That's why you made me an officer.'
'So you don't know how to fight?'
'Only how to count. sir.'
'Pah! Show a little courage, man. Although I'll wager you won't need to. No stomach for a battle, Johnny Klatchian. Once he tastes our steel, he'll be off!'
'I certainly hear what you say, sir,' said the adjutant, who had been surveying the Klatchian lines and had formed his own opinion about the matter. His opinion was this: the main force of the Klatchian army had, in recent years, been fighting everyone. That suggested, to his uncomplicated mind, that by now the surviving soldiers were the ones who were in the habit of being alive at the end of battles. And were also very experienced at facing all kinds of enemies. The stupid ones were dead. The current Ankh–Morpork army, on the other hand, had never faced an enemy at all, although day–to–day experience of living in the city might count for something there, at least in the rougher areas. He believed, along with General Tacticus, that courage, bravery and the indomitable human spirit were fine things which nevertheless tended to take second place to the
combination of courage, bravery, the indomitable human spirit and a six–to– one superiority of numbers. It had all sounded straightforward in Ankh–Morpork, he thought. We were going to sail into Klatch and be in Al–Khali by teatime, drinking sherbet with pliant young women in the Rhoxi. The Klatchians would take one look at our weapons and run away. Well, the Klatchians had taken a good look this morning. So far they hadn't run. They appeared to be sniggering a lot. Vimes rolled his eyes. It worked... but how did it work? He'd heard plenty of good speakers, and Captain Carrot was not among them. He hesitated, lost the thread, repeated himself and in general made a mess of the whole thing. And yet... And yet... He watched the faces that were watching Carrot. There were the D'regs, and some of the Klatchians who had stayed behind, and Willikins and his reduced company. They were listening. It was a kind of magic. He told people they were good chaps, and they knew they weren't good chaps, but the way he told it made them believe it for a while. Here was someone who thought you were a noble and worthy person, and somehow it would be unthinkable to disappoint them. It was a mirror of a speech, reflecting back to you what you wanted to hear. And he meant it all. Even so, men occasionally glanced up at Vimes and Ahmed and he could see them thinking, in their separate ways, 'It must be all right if they're in on it.' That, he was ashamed to realize, was one of the advantages of armies. People looked to other people for orders. 'This is a trick?' said Ahmed. 'No. He doesn't know any tricks like that,' said Angua. 'He really doesn't. Uh–oh...' There was a scuffle in the ranks. Carrot strode forward and reached down, bringing up Private Bourke and a D'reg, each man held by the collar in one big fist. 'What's going on, you two?'
'He called me the brother of a pig, sir!'
'Liar! You called me a greasy dishcloth–head!' Carrot shook his head. 'And you were both doing so well, too,' he said sadly. 'There really is no call for this. Now I want you, Hashel, and you, Vincent, to shake hands, right? And apologize, yes? We've all had a rather trying time, but I know you're both fine fellows underneath it all–' Vimes heard Ahmed murmur, 'Oh, well, now it's all over...'
'–so if you'll just shake hands we'd say no more about it.'
Vimes glanced at 71–hour Ahmed. The man was wearing a sort of waxen grin. The two scufflers very gingerly touched hands, as if they were expecting a spark to leap the gap. 'And now you, Vincent, apologize to Mr Hashel...' There was a reluctant '
'ry'. 'And we're sorry for what?' Carrot prompted. '...sorry for calling him a greasy dishcloth–head...'
'Well said. And you, Hashel, apologize to Private Bourke.' The D'reg's eyes scurried around their sockets, looking to find a way out that would allow their body to come too. Then he gave up. '
'ry...'
'For... ?'
' 'ry for calling him a brother of a pig...' Carrot lowered both men. 'Good! I'm sure you'll get along splendidly once you get to know each other–'
'I didn't just see that, did I?' said Ahmed. 'I didn't just see him talk like a little schoolteacher to Hashel who, I happen to know, once hit a man so hard his nose ended up in one of his ears?'
'Yes, you did,' said Angua. 'And now watch them.' When the rest of the men turned their attention back to Carrot the scufflers looked at one another, as unfortunates who had both been through the same baptism of fiery embarrassment. Private Bourke gingerly offered Hashel a cigarette. 'It only works around him,' said Angua. 'But it does work.' Let it go on working, Vimes prayed. Carrot walked over to a kneeling camel and climbed into the saddle. 'That's “Evil Brother–in–Law of a jackal”,' said Ahmed. 'Jabbar's camel! It bites everyone who ride it!'
'Yes, but this is Carrot.'
'It even bites Jabbar!'
'And you notice how he knew how to get on a camel?' said Vimes. 'How he wears the robes? He's fitting in. The boy was raised in a dwarf mine. It took him about a month to know my own damn city better than I do.' The camel rose. Now the flag, Vimes thought, give him the flag. When you go to war, there's got to be a flag. On cue, Constable Shoe passed up the spear with the tightly rolled cloth around it. The constable looked proud. He'd stitched the thing in conditions of great secrecy half an hour before. One thing about a zombie, you always knew someone who had a needle and thread. But don't unfurl it, Vimes thought. Don't let them see it. It's enough for them to know they're marching under a flag.
Carrot brandished the spear. 'And I promise you this,' he shouted, 'if we succeed, noone will remember. And if we fail, no one will forget!' Probably one of the worst rallying cries, Vimes thought, since General Pidley's famous 'Lees all get our throats cut, boys!' but it got a huge cheer. And once again he speculated that there was magic going on at some bonedeep level. People followed Carrot out of curiosity. 'All right, you've got an army, I suppose,' said Ahmed. 'And now?'