The Frail Soldier (3)
Damn... is she really a woman? It's not like there are no female soldiers...
"Sergeant, why don't we move to another seat? There's a table set aside for officers."
"Ah... no, that's okay. I'll eat with the troops."
The sergeant turned down my suggestion. But even if she joined them for a meal, I doubted her subordinates would react positively. They were already ignoring her, laughing and chatting among themselves...
"I thought officers and enlisted eat separately—it's army protocol, right?"
"Well, for a squad leader, sharing everything with the men is..."
"If even a squad can't follow basic discipline, the whole unit falls apart."
Her eyes wavered at the mention of discipline crumbling.
"A commander's authority comes from upholding the rules. Please, come this way."
After my repeated urging, she reluctantly grabbed her helmet and stood.
"Huh? Where you going?"
One of the soldiers asked, and embarrassment flushed the sergeant's face. I answered for her.
"The sergeant will be dining at the officers' table."
They surely knew officers and enlisted ate apart. The officers' table was near the bar, partitioned off with a wooden frame and cloth screen. A round table draped in a white cloth glowed under silver candelabras, forks, knives, and spoons neatly arranged. Chilled red wine from the cellar sat beside the candles in bottle and glasses. The chairs had armrests and cushions—fit for nobility.
The sergeant hesitated, clearly intimidated by the formality.
"You don't have to go this far..."
"No colonel's here, and you're the highest rank. You deserve the treatment."
I practically shoved her into the seat. She carefully unfolded a napkin and laid it on her lap. I pulled the cork from the wine bottle by hand and poured her a glass. She picked it up awkwardly and took a sip.
I grabbed the stew pot from the kitchen and hauled it out alone.
"Whoa, that smells killer!"
The soldiers, drunk on the aroma, rushed forward with bowls in hand. I ladled generous scoops of stew, adding steamed potatoes and a hunk of bread to each. The guards, used to beggar rations, returned to their seats grinning ear to ear.
"Fuck! This is goddamn good!"
Cheers and satisfied curses erupted everywhere.
Now for the officer's meal. I heated the pre-made onion soup and served it in white porcelain bowls.
"Sergeant, this is soup flavored with sautéed onions."
She'd been eyeing the candelabras and straightened up in surprise.
"Itadakimasu..."
She took a spoonful.
"Mmm...! This is delicious!"
"I put in extra effort for such esteemed guests."
She devoured the soup with relish.
"It's too good..."
I left her dipping bread into it and prepped the main course. Steak, naturally. Meat's the universal answer, especially for soldiers.
I pulled out a thick slab of marinated beef. Cooked it the same way as last night's—done in a flash. Mashed steamed potatoes with butter into a salad, shaping it into rounds beside the steak.
"Beef steak, and butter-mashed potatoes."
Her eyes widened at the steak's size.
"It's... huge."
"More than enough, I assure you."
She sliced a corner with her knife; juices oozed with each cut. She took a big bite, closed her eyes, let out a moan, and chewed blissfully.
I watched contentedly until a voice called from beyond the screen. Stepping out, one soldier—mid-feast, table a mess—asked,
"Got any beer? This stew's making me crave a drink!"
"We have beer, but I can't just hand it out..."
Behind the screen, the sergeant shot me a troubled look—she'd heard everything.
"Well... uh... it would go well, but..."
She hemmed and hawed, unable to decide.
"What if they get drunk...?"
No experience with this; tough call for an officer.
"How about one two-pint mug per man? Enough to loosen up without ruining tomorrow's op."
"Ah, good idea."
Her face brightened. Back with the troops, I announced,
"The sergeant approves."
They whooped and clapped. I filled nine large wooden mugs at the bar and balanced them in both hands to distribute.
Into the kitchen for dessert. I halved two ripe grapefruits, divided the flesh into twelve segments. Slit the tips with a knife tip, pried slightly, and drizzled in honey. Let it marinate briefly. Sour and bitter finish, but honey makes it divine.
Peeking out, the sergeant was rubbing the last steak bite in sauce regretfully. As she finished, I arranged four grapefruit halves in a long wooden bowl and carried it over.
"Honey-marinated grapefruit. Eat with the fork."
"Oh... looks tasty!"
She pressed the spot where jaw met ear, salivating.
She speared a segment with the small dessert fork, chewed with a smile.
"So... sweet... I've never had anything like this..."
"Most folks make grapefruit jam; not like this."
She inhaled half in seconds, slurping the pooled honey and juice.
"Haa... bliss..."
She murmured in a trance.
"How are you this good at cooking? Were you a royal or noble chef?"
"Haha, no. Just picked up tricks wandering inns and taverns."
No lie. During adventures, I'd ask for recipes of standout dishes and jot them down. Some guarded secrets, but flattered cooks often shared freely. I'd stock ingredients in nearby towns, practice on campfires, force-feeding taste tests to comrades. Nearly ten years of that—skills had to improve.
Wonder where those guys are now...
The hall's stew and potatoes were gone; stuffed soldiers sipped beer and sang. The sergeant finished, dabbing her lips demurely with the napkin. So ladylike—how'd she even join the guard?
Bue's guards faced hardcore criminals daily; it took real grit. Especially in a big city like Bue.
"Sergeant, meal's done. Shall I assign rooms and prep baths?"
"Ah... baths?? Uh... yes..."
"Baths" made her stammer, eyes darting.
"Troops get soap and towels for the riverbank. Your room has a private tub."
"R-really? Good..."
What the hell...?
I showed her to a single room. She glanced around with a soft gasp. In the army, only captains or higher got solos; luxury for a sergeant. Assigned rooms by rank to the troops, handed out towels and soap.
"Whoa! Beds! Damn, soft as Brilda's tits from that crossbow dive bar!"
"Hey, asshole, what do you know about Brilda's rack?!"
Armor off, shirts shed, they whooped toward the river.
The inn quieted. I gathered dishes, dumped them in the back sink, wiped tables. These roughnecks trashed floors too with food and beer spills. Still, glad they enjoyed it.
Dishes done, scraps to the barn chickens. Troops returned from baths. Fed the cows and horses hay and grain. Chatter drifted from upstairs windows.
"Ate till I burst today."
"Ugh... don't wanna go back. When'll we eat like this again...?"
Damn satisfying. Must be how those head chefs felt.
"Yo, tomorrow's search—sergeant gonna fuck up navigation again?"
"Who knows, shit. Hope she finds the path. Don't wanna climb that damn mountain twice."
Hm... yeah.
I petted Kali, who'd trailed me, and headed inside.
Warmed milk, poured a mug, took it to the sergeant's room. Post-bath, it'd knock her out cold. Knocked—no answer. Asleep already? Light leaked under the door, though.
Cracked it open: empty bed.
Where'd she go?
"Sergeant? You there?"
Silence. Uneasy, I stepped in. She was nowhere.