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*****

I heard the bells tolling from one of the nearby monasteries throughout the night, so it was with plenty of time that I was up and about and out of the billet by the time the sun rose. It looked to be a rather sunny and cloudless summer day.

One of the prowling Red Caps felt my collar, and demanded my papers. He seemed quite disappointed that I was sober, had my documents, and that I was actually out and about at an early hour on authentic business. One did appreciate that this must have been a novelty for him. With an audible snarl, and a flick of his nightstick, he pointed out where the Bachelor Officers' Quarters were located.

This proved to be on a side-street a short walk away from the main Parade Ground. The street gave rather a nice impression, since it was lined with shade-trees sheltering a number of small bungalow-type buildings with what appeared to be back-gardens. At this hour, it appeared to be quiet.

Appearances as to tidiness and quiet were shattered by the door of one of the bungalows banging open with a crash. From it emerged a figure that was simultaneously attempting to eat a slice of buttered bread, put on an officer's cravat, and handle a variety of implements, including a recalcitrant map-case. The figure was not doing well on any of these activities.

It was with a sinking feeling that I realized that I was looking at a squirrel, and therefore likely the officer I was going to be responsible for. I walked up to him, and saluted.

In attempting to return the salute, a half-slice of buttered bread went sailing into a nearby yard.

"Blast! Oh, well, wasn't hungry anyway."

"Good morning, sir, I am..."

"Eh? What? Oh, yes, quite, quite. Sorry I didn't leave a note. Let's see. A loaf of bread, one quart of milk, and a pint of yoghurt, please. I'd have left you a note, only my batman's been gone somewhere for days, hang his impudence."

"Um, sir..."

"By the way, you can put that on the slate, can't you? Little short until the end of the month, y'know..."

"But, sir..."

"Splendid! Splendid! It's very good of you chaps to be so accommodating."

"If I may, sir..."

"Eh? Oh, yes, well, bung them in the icebox. Hopefully, there's still some ice in there. Sorry, must dash. Leave the chit in my quarters. Here's the key...blast...where is it..."

There followed a fumbling in the pockets of his tunic, which produced a few pieces of candy, a copper or two, a broken reed, and eventually a small iron key, which was thrust into my paw. With a smile and a hurried apology, the fur who I supposed was Lieutenant Sir Jasper Chitterleigh dashed off toward the parade ground.

Without his hat, I noticed. I suspected that I would not be the only one.

I gathered my kit together, and walked toward the bungalow from which the squirrel had emerged. I was brought up short at the threshold.

In part, this was amazement. In part, this was because my path was blocked by what appeared to be a pile of laundry. The two were not unconnected.

My late mother herself had come from an old Army family, and had married into one. You can therefore imagine the standards that were applicable to housekeeping. I learned to make up my bed at roughly the same time I graduated from a crib to a real bed.

Speaking of beds, I was not entirely sure where it was located in the bungalow. The main room was dark because of the closed curtains, and it did not seem like the lamps were oiled. Moving aside the curtains produced a large cloud of dust, largely caused by the curtains sliding off the rings and collapsing.

What appeared to be the aftermath of a riot at a habersdasher's was revealed, with assorted tunic jackets, tunic pants and body linen scattered in all directions. Some were on tables and chairs, and there appeared to be a jacket caught up in the rafters. One package from a tailor's shop was partially torn open, revealing the likely source of this morning's outfit and what was in all probability the only clean uniform in the house.

Peering into the bedroom revealed more of the same, only a bed was discernable in roughly the centre of the room. The kitchen, judging from the pile of dishes and glassware and utensils, had been used vigorously at one point, but not recently.

There was a small room off to the side, which I assumed was my room. I rather hoped it wasn't, since it was furnished largely by means of piles of laundry that formed a rough approximation of a bed and sofa.

I was rather at a loss to explain the situation. Either somefur had been bribed, or somefur had given things up as a hopeless job. It was depressing to see that this was going to be my responsibility.

After unsticking a stubborn back door, I found what might possibly have been, at some point in time, a back garden. A well in some semblance of working order was at least a hopeful sign. Less hopeful was the sight of an empty log rack. Even less hopeful was the fact that there was no sight of a laundry-kettle.

"A state of nature, eh?"

I turned to find that I was being looked upon kindly by a somewhat jug-eared boar, with a semi-shaven head that gave him the look of a recently released convict. He was placidly smoking an ornate pipe with a metal lid, and even at this early hour, was toting a large ceramic stein, from which he was refreshing himself.

"By mighty Fuma's own quivering whiskers...!"

"Nice assistance if you can get it, lad."

"Well, look, speaking of help..."

"Glad to oblige, lad, only with me knees, I'm sort of limited. Name's Schweink."

"Oh. Hullo, Schweink. I'm Lieutenant Chitterleigh's new batman, Winterbough."

"Another one?"

"Well, I heard his previous one was sacked for being drunk."

"Well, it wasn't for being sober. They'd have been waiting until Fuma's Day for that. Never saw such a fur for a thirst." This, even when he took a swig from his stein. "Reminded me of my old sergeant from the Thirty-Ninth, back in the day..."

"Yes, well..."

"Now there was a chap with a heroic thirst. We went on march one time, and passed a vineyard, and you know how it is, the lads were ready for a little refreshment, and the owner of the establishment had every right to be worried..."

"But, see here..."

"So he gave us a proposition that we could have all we wanted in one pull for a silver piece. It was his awful luck that the sergeant took first go. Rank, y'know..."

"But..."

"Circular breathing, they calls it. Passed out drunk as a lord, but by Fuma's shining stripes, he got value for that silver piece. Now, the lieutenant, when he heard about this, was..."

I interrupted the flow of the narrative with an urgent request for firewood and his officer's laundry-kettles. Schweink cheerfully pointed out the necessary with his pipe, and excused himself, on the grounds that the early morning dew played hob with his knee joints.

He did offer assistance, in the form of an anecdote relating to how he and some of his old comrades from the Thirty-Ninth burned down a wheat-field cooking their breakfast on another march. I'm not sure what the point of it all was, as I was trying hard not to listen.

I had changed into my fatigues, and while the water was coming to a boil in the washing-kettle, I began to remove piles of laundry from the bungalow and sort them in the garden.

Some of the tunics appeared lumpy, and I had to borrow a few bowls from Schweink while I emptied out the contents of some pockets. I produced a startling array of coins, broken reeds, crumbled pieces of papyrus, collar-buttons, and in at least two or three cases, articles of clothing that were decidedly not standard-issue for Imperial Army officers.

"There was a captain in my old regiment who was fond of keeping those as souvenirs. Called 'em battle standards, he did, and hung 'em up over his bed. Had quite a collection of 'em, too. Looked exactly like the Hall of Flags in the Palace, only with more colour. Came to a bad end, though. The colonel of the regiment came around for an inspection one time and recognized a few pair. There was the father and mother of a row when that happened..." Schweink chuckled merrily at the memory, while I found a small bag in which to hide the silken articles.

We were joined by another fur coming from the other side of the bungalow, a large, shambling ram, who waddled up.

"Eeee, by gum. Tha is havin' breakfast?"

He seemed disappointed that the steaming kettle contained only boiling water and the smell of lye and ashes. He dipped a finger into the water and licked it to test whether I had added anything like carrots or oats.

"Morning, Bagoum. This is Winterbough, Chitter's new man."

I was the recipient of a lopsided grin and a wave from the ram.

"Eee, doin' laundry, then?"

As I was surrounded by a pile of clothes that I was sorting, this at least evidenced some powers of observation on his part, obvious as it may have been.

"Dost tha want any more lye un ashes, then?"

This was, so far, the first evidence of any helpfulness that might be coming my way, and I indicated that I could use some more cleaning supplies.

"Market oop th' street. Ah cood get tha soom."

I fished a few silver pieces, ones culled from tunic pockets, from a bowl, and handed them to Bagoum, who immediately grinned, and ambled off as fast as his significant bulk could carry him.

"Schweink, who's your officer?"

The boar looked sadly at his empty stein, and set it aside to concentrate on his pipe. "Lieutenant Wicker. He's an A.D.C., just like your Lieutenant, and Bagoum's Lieutenant Banks."

"Hmm. Lieutenant Chitterleigh was already up this morning. Met him on my way in."

"Aye, it's a big conference today, lad, and all the A.D.C.'s are going to be there. All-day affair."

"Must be important."

Schweink shrugged, and puffed on his pipe. "Business will be over before lunch, and after lunch..." He shrugged his shoulders again, chuckled, and puffed on his pipe.

I got the first cleaning-kettle going, and began to make further inroads on the accumulation in the bungalow. Or, at least, I thought I was making inroads until I opened an armoire and was almost buried in an outflow that had been hidden in there. It took me the better part of a half-hour to finally organize the new lot, charge the rinsing-kettle, and get a second cleaning-kettleload going.

"Have you seen Bagoum, Schweink?"

"Likely having breakfast, Winterbough."

"Well, I think he should at least have that after he goes to the market."

"Oh, he's at the market, all right." Schweink lit a fresh pipe, and chuckled. I was about to beg further enlightenment, when it dawned in the form of Bagoum returning, with a shiny, greasy chin and a nearly empty sheet of papyrus that had once held a large portion of chips.

It was obvious where the silver pieces had gone, and I evidenced my displeasure, largely by applying a hoof vigorously to Bagoum's shin. With a mournful howl, the embezzler dropped the newspaper, and began hopping up and down on one leg.

After this stopped, he regarded me mournfully.

"Eee, I was 'ungry-like."

"You big, lumbering, over-fed..."

"Now, now, Winterbough. Bagoum's many things, but over-fed isn't one of them."

"Tha right, Schweink. Folks don't feed a fur like should here. Could na feed a lamb on what tha get for vittles."

Bagoum began to hunt along the ground for every last dropped chip, and crammed each and every one into a large, gaping mouth, chewing audibly and with pleasure.

I glared at Schweink. "And you were going to warn me about this, when?"

"Lad, there's no beating learning from experience in the Army, as my old sergeant in the Thirty-Ninth used to say. We had one greedy-guts that would have given even old Bagoum here a run for his money. Our regimental cook got so cheesed with this fellow pilfering from the common kettle that he added a good old slug of castor oil to the stew, just to teach him a lesson. Didn't work, of course. The entire regiment polished it off, and yelled for more. First time any of us could remember anything in the mess having any flavor. Started adding it to everything, even the oatmeal. We had bottles of the stuff on the tables. The regimental herbalist was wondering why the hell we were using ten times the castor oil of any other outfit..."

I stopped listening at that point, and told Bagoum to make himself useful, and bring me his officer's laundry kettles and his own cleaning supplies, emphasizing the point with a kick to his backside. In a few minutes, a contrite ram came back, toting the kettles and supplies with one paw, while eating a half-slice of buttered bread of awful familiarity with the other.

By noon-time, I had managed to at least get all of the laundry out of the bungalow and sorted. I did see Bagoum eyeing the bowl of coins with a greedy look, and I quickly pocketed the lot. I did see him stick a large, meaty paw in the bowl containing a few pastilles of dubious vintage, and he was welcome to them.

Schweink did allow me to borrow his man's iron and creasing-board, though he excused himself from lifting same, as heavy weights caused his "nadgers to act up."

Chitterleigh's cleaning-kettles did turn up, eventually. They were in the small-room, where they apparently formed part of a distilling apparatus. Schweink took it upon himself to remove the other parts, with a broad wink and a tap of the side of his snout.

With three sets of kettles going, and the well in the back providing fresh water, I was able to get the laundry washed, folded and ironed close to sundown, as well as the Lieutenant's mattress aired. I happily traded the two jugs of clear liquid that had been with the distilling apparatus to Schweink in exchange for the rest of his cleaning supplies. I did not think it was safe to have that liquid in any area near an open flame.

I was still confronted, after I locked the back door for the night, with the awful prospect of the kitchen and the floors. I'm not sure I even wanted to think about the W.C., as necessary as that was to the grand scheme of things. Warning or no warning from that wolf in the FAFI, desperate times called for desperate measures.

By the way, those of you who think Gramerye was constructed to cast spells of might? Don't be fooled. I swear that much of the low-level stuff was probably devised by bored students looking to cut corners in keeping everything neat and tidy. I certainly think that nothing ordinary could have either cleaned some of the crockery, attacked the dust on the floor, or attended to some parts of the W.C. At a bare minimum, it was necessary to fix some of the oil lamps. By trading wicks, oil reservoirs and some judicious, Gramerye-assisted threading, I got some light to work in the bungalow.

It was thus, well after midnight, that I could sit down with my bread-bag and a small pot of jam, and have a meal in a kitchen that was at least suitable for storing food, as opposed to what it had been storing before. I was a little nonplussed to see that the icebox had been used to store one last deposit of laundry.

I had put away my kit when I heard some fumbling at the door. I recalled that Lieutenant Chitterleigh had given me his key when we met in the morning, and it was quite possible that he had forgotten that he had done so. Opening the door revealed a somewhat bleary-eyed, though cheerful, squirrel.

"Open sesame!"

With that literary allusion, he staggered into the bungalow. He managed to hit the walls only twice before swinging into the bedroom, and collapsing face-down on his freshly-made bed. Within a few seconds, the sounds of snoring could be heard.

I think I should have been disconcerted by the fact that he was giggling as I undressed him, but I chose to put it out of my mind as I extinguished the lamps.