shenevermisses | 15th Throw

15th Throw - [ written ]

[It's a question that's been on Clove's mind.

Okay, she's had a lot of questions lately. Valentine's Day and that whole week... It wasn't unkind, but it made her think too much. There were too many uncertainies. The ones with Cato... She didn't feel like thinking about.

But Katniss. She can talk about some of that.]

What do you all do for a living, where you're from? Or what were you going to do? Does everyone in your area do it?

In Panem... your district says a lot about what your job will be. Not always, but probably. Like me... If I hadn't gone to the Games? I'd probably have been the foreman in a factory. Or an overseer of a quarry.

And what you do... When did you learn to do it? And from who?

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Most can't. [ even officers much more senior to him. though he supposes he's doing them a disservice by writing them off so casually. in point of fact, most officers were mostly decent, if not always effectual. ]

It only takes some gettin' used to, Clove.

We don't learn anything like that where I'm from. I mean... We kind of learn how to act as a group, sort of. But it's not... organized. Not like that.

If there's a place what teaches its, Clove, I've never been there. [ the implication being that it wasn't the sort of skill one necessarily had to learn in official capacity. if anything, sharpe learned by doing. and by serving under men he considered as possessing genius in these matters. ]

But it works. I saw a force only five thousand strong eventually beat back seven thousand at a place called Barrosa. [ by god, but sir thomas graham had been one of those geniuses. somehow, he'd pulled the anglo-portuguense reargard division to bloody, brutal victory.

and sharpe half-wonders if he doesn't know why. it had all been one in that precipitous moment when the order had come to fix bayonets. the french might have outnumbered them. the bastards might have held the high ground. but they were conscripts and the british were professional killers. at that battle, sharpe himself had sliced his wicked blade across a frenchman's throat and had watched his body continue to run forward even as his head slumped back in a spray of blood. ]

There's always a point where organization dies and arithmetic fails and it's just war. Even when you're so outnumbered.

[There's a point where organization dies. And it's just war.

Except it's not war. Not, at least, the way Clove has experience. Or it's not called war.

It's not the same thing. She knows that. The Games prevent war, or did. So it shouldn't be compared. Not to a man who knows what real war is.]

What do you do then?

[If she's honest with herself, she knows the answer: survive or fight hard to try.]

You draw your sword. You fix your bayonet. And you brawl like a proper bastard.

You all must be pretty brave. To volunteer for that.

[Or in desperate need of money. Near starvation. Or... Well. Every volunteer tribute had a story. She can bet every soldier does, too. A reason for why they chose that life.

But she won't ask. Better to call it courage and leave it at that.]

[ no matter what the reason -- money, meals, or magistrates -- sharpe likes to think that a man in the british army has the great capacity to become brave. perhaps not every man and perhaps not right away, but eventually a soldier may find his path has brought him a-knocking on bravery's door and it's up to each bastard to decide for himself whether he's ready to take up that mantle.

for sharpe, it had been a quiet moment in seringapatam when he decided that desertion wasn't what he wanted for himself. the moment hadn't found him in the heat of battle nor in the clash of ideologies but in a dank cell under the sultan's palace. it had come to him in the form of a page ripped from revelations. but it wasn't bible study what saved his immortal soul; it was reading. or, more accurately, the drive to learn how to read. because learning to read bettered his chances of becoming a sergeant and -- all at once -- sharpe had a goal. and he had a springboard for bravery.

years later, though his reading is still barely up to scratch, he carries that courage with him. it isn't the courage to throw himself at every enemy, for behaviour such as that is foolish and suicidal. no -- it's the courage to damn well be the best soldier he can be. and it's the courage to be patient with the men he commands and help them do the same. for as he'd already intimated, his battles are won on the strength of thousands of men manoeuvring together. sharpe doesn't like taking men into battle unless there's more than an even chance of getting them out alive. it's a promise he makes to those who follow him. it's the way in which he defines victory and bravery. throwing mens' lives away could never be brave. ]

Some of'em are, lass. [ his voiced answer is much simpler. ] And some of them merely never knew what they was getting themselves into. The recruiting sergeants paint a prettier picture of the army than they've any right to.

[ but can sharpe blame them? ]

[Paints a prettier picture...]

All honor and glory and noble sacrifice if you do die.

[The virtues extolled of the tributes. Those chosen or who volunteered themselves to fight for their lives. There was no glory, she'd learned that. There was no nobility. There was only cold and hunger and loss and grief and anger and fear.

And hopelessness.

In the end, that was the feeling that hit her deepest. There was not and had never been any hope. Not for any of them. Win or lose, live or die. They were all lost from the moment they were announced.

It gave them more credit than they deserved, she felt, comparing them to the men Sharpe spoke of. But as long as that was quiet and private, it was safe to think. She wouldn't insult him by saying it out loud.]

[ he remembers the day he was recruited with such utter disdain, but not because of where it had led him. he enjoys soldiering. no, he resents only the man who had done the recruiting. obidiah hakeswill. sharpe believes so fervently that even the devil himself would spit on hakeswill's corpse. ]

For King and Country. Though I reckon the rum rations don't hurt much, either.

Rum rations?

[One thing Clove hasn't sampled in Luceti: alcohol.]

A soldier's daily allowance of spirits. You're promised it at the beginning, though it don't always come.

Spirits? [He can't mean ghosts, she's sure of that. But she's trying to work out exactly what else there is.]

Alcohol, lass.

Oh.

So they get alcohol to join the army? Where I'm from, the Athletics aren't allowed to touch the stuff, not while they attend the Academy.

It's just about the only way to recruit and keep some men. [ although he... ] I've rules, though. For my men. They ain't allowed to get drunk without permission.

That sounds like a good rule. [She doesn't have experience drinking, but she knows what alcohol can do.] Do they follow it?

Most do. Those that don't quickly learn to once I've caught'em and drag'em behind a wall for a bit of discipline.

[She chuckles a little, unable to help it. Just because... in that moment? He sounds so much like one of her instructors.]

Bet they learn from that fast.

Aye. A good thumping and a few nights of extra piquets? They learn.

[ better than flogging. ] Bloody hell, if it didn't put the rest of the lads in danger? I'd learn'em quick enough just by letting them fight drunk. See how bloody long they last when they can't stand up straight.

Sounds like something our instructors would do. [And it's not an insult or a concern.

In fact, she almost sounds ready to laugh as she says it. Completely light. Enough to actually almost sound like a kid.]

...Spent years as a sergeant before I got my commission, Clove. Sergeants might as well be the drillmasters of the army.

[ christ. even after his promotion, wellington liked to use him as a drillmaster. sharpe got saddled with all the green and raw troops; it's often left to him to drill them into shape. ]

It's always good, having a good instructor.

Did you have a favourite one, lass? Mayhaps?

Petra.

She was pretty young, but she was a Victor. They don't have to work -- winning the Games gives you enough money that you never have to work. But she still chose to teach at the Academy.

She taught basic math and spear and staff work.

'S good of her, I suppose. Choosing not to rest on her laurels. I can understand a person not wanting to do nothing.

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