Monstrous Regiment by Terry Pratchett

Strappi grunted.
    Jackrum looked at the rest of the recruits. “Okay. Any of the rest of you boys ever held a stick? Right. I can see we’re going to have to start slow and work up—”
    There was another grunt from Strappi. You had to admire the man. On his knees, with blood bubbling through the hand cupping his injured nose, he could find time to make life difficult for someone in some small way.
    “Private Bloodfnucker hnas a fnord, Fnargeant,” he said accusingly.
    “Any good with it?” said the sergeant to Maladict.
    “Not really, sir,” said Maladict. “Never had training. I carry it for protection, sir.”
    “How can you protect yourself by carrying a sword if you don’t know how to use it?”
    “Not me, sir. Other people. They see the sword and don’t attack me,” said Maladict patiently.
    “Yes, but if they did, lad, you wouldn’t be any good with it,” said the sergeant.
    “No, sir. I’d probably settle for just ripping their head off, sir. That’s what I mean by protection, sir. Theirs, not mine. And I’d get hell from the League if I did that, sir.”
    The sergeant stared at him for a while.
    “Well thought out,” he mumbled.
    There was a thud behind them and a table overturned.
    Carborundum the troll sat upright, groaned, and crashed back down again. At the second attempt, he managed to stay upright, both hands clutching his head.
    Corporal Strappi, now on his feet, must have been made fearless by fury. He headed for the troll in a high-speed strut and stood in front of him, vibrating with rage and still oozing blood in sticky strings.
    “You ’orrible little man!” he screamed. “You—”
    Carborundum reached down and, with care and no apparent effort, picked the corporal up by his head. He brought him to one crusted eye and turned him this way and that.
    “Did I join th’ army?” he rumbled. “Oh, coprolith…”
    “This is affnualt on a fnuperior officer!” screamed the corporal in a muffled voice.
    “Put Corporal Strappi down, please,” said Sergeant Jackrum. The troll grunted and lowered the man to the floor.
    “Sorry about dat,” he said. “Thought you was a dwarf.”
    “I dnemand this man is affrested for—” Strappi began.
    “No you don’t, Corporal, no you don’t,” said the sergeant. “This is not the time. On your feet, Carborundum, and get in line. Upon my oath, you try that little trick one more time and there will be trouble, understand?”
    “Yes, Sergeant,” growled the troll and knuckled himself to his feet.
    “Right, then,” said the sergeant, stepping back. “Now today, my lucky lads, we’re goin’ to learn about something we call marching…”
    They left Plün to the wind and rain. About an hour after they’d vanished around a bend in the valley, the shed they’d slept in mysteriously burned down.

    There have been better attempts at marching, and they have been made by penguins. Sergeant Jackrum brought up the rear in the cart, shouting instructions, but the recruits moved as if they’d never before had to get from place to place. The sergeant yelled the swagger out of their steps, stopped the cart, held an impromptu lesson in the concepts of “right” and “left” for a few of them, and, by degrees, they left the mountains.
    Polly remembered those first few days with mixed feelings. All they did was march, but she was used to long walks and her boots were good. The trousers ceased to chafe. A watery sun took the trouble to shine. It wasn’t cold. It would have been fine, if it hadn’t been for the corporal.
    She wondered how Strappi, whose nose was now about the same color as a plum, was going to handle the situation between them. It turned out that he intended to deal with it by pretending it hadn’t happened, and also by having as little as possible to do with Polly.
    He didn’t spare the others, although he was selective. Maladict was left strictly alone, as was Carborundum; whatever else Strappi was, he wasn’t suicidal.