Sharpe: "Breaking"
Fandom: Sharpe
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Title: "Breaking"
Rating: PG
Characters: Sharpe, Wellington
Summary: When Sharpe was broken down from corporal.
Author's Notes: Reference to a line in Sharpe's Battle. For the look_sharpe prompts table, Prompt #16: “Parade”. Been thinking about writing this for ages, but this prompt seemed the perfect excuse.
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CALCUTTA ~ MAY, 1798
Colonel Arthur Wesley rode his horse along the lines of men formed up on the parade ground at Fort William. The 33rd were shaping up nicely as a regiment since their losses in Flanders; their drill becoming sharper and their rate of fire such that they could manage three rounds a minute, and all seemed to be in a relatively sound state of health. Each man’s hair was floured for the occasion and drawn back into the regulation queue, and new, lighter jackets than the traditional broadcloth had been issued to them to make some concession to the subcontinental heat. There was, however, no concession to this parade, as Wesley had decreed that once a month each battalion under his command should form for a church parade - and today the 33rd’s turn had come round. Tedious it might be, but a tediousness that may have potential benefit to the soul. Besides, in such a strange, exotic country it was good to remind the men a little of home, and most would appreciate the familiar words of the Liturgy mumbled in the heathen country. They may be far from England’s shores, but that was no excuse for things not to be done properly.
The service had drawn to a close (a decent service for once, as Wesley had ordered the chaplain be sober this morning on pain of death) and the Colonel was making a last review of the men before they were dismissed. However, as he was passing in front of the battalion’s Light Company there came the sound of a huge, rumbling fart which in an instant shattered the peace of the parade ground.
“Easy, girl,” Wesley chided, frowning as he patted his horse’s neck, but then he realised that the culprit was not in fact his mare. He turned to the ranks, momentarily stunned as his eyes rested on a tall, skinny young man with the stripe of a corporal on his sleeve in the front rank - far too tall to officially be a Light - his powdered hair and green eyes standing out strangely from his scarlet face which had gone about the same colour as his jacket. The men around him all had slightly more fixed expressions than usual, and several looked as if they had a nasty smell under their noses. Wesley gaped.
“Good heavens, lad!” he exclaimed, startled out of his usual taciturn attitude with the rank and file, unable to believe that a human being could possibly break wind on that scale. “What have they been feeding you?”
The young man flushed from a deeper shade of red to crimson.
“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled. The Colonel noticed that he was not looking directly at him as first supposed, but at some point just past his left ear. It was a trick used by seasoned soldiers in uneasy situations with officers, and Wesley was starting to get tired of it.
“No, don’t apologise,” said Wesley, somewhat bemused. “I thought it was the horse.” He patted the mare’s neck again. “I’d get yourself to a doctor if I were you, that can’t be healthy!”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal looked as if he wished he could crawl inside his jacket and hide like a tortoise, for all he kept his gaze fixed front. Wesley decided to take pity on him and touched his heels back to make his horse walk on. Poor lad... A few minutes after he’d departed the parade ground it occurred to Wesley that the corporal might suffer from his taking notice of the indiscretion. Had he ignored it the battalion’s officers might themselves feel inclined to ignore it… Surely not though; you couldn’t hold a fart against a man! You might as well admonish a bird for flying.
Back in the ranks, Sergeant Green sidled up to the corporal.
“You’ve certainly done it, Dick Sharpe, mi’lad. I doubt you’ll still have that stripe by sundown.”
“Weren’t my fault, sarge!” Sharpe hissed back.
“I know, lad, but farting that loud on church parade’s bad enough.” Green’s eyes flickered over to where the officers of the Light Company were standing, their gaze directed at the hapless corporal, a mixture of amused and infuriated expressions on their faces. “Farting that loud on church parade in the presence of the bleedin’ Colonel… you’ll be lucky to get away with only your stripes removed.”
“Thanks a bundle, sarge.”
“My pleasure. And next time your arse is feelin’ musical, do us all a favour and make sure you wait until it’s Morris that's in front of you. Kill ‘im stone dead, you would.”
“Were it really that bad?”
“Trust me, Dick,” Tom Garrard, Sharpe’s neighbour in the next file, whispered viciously. “If they’d been short of a trumpet at Jericho, they could’ve used you instead!”
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A/N: And I quote;
“He [Garrard] drew on a cigar, then shook his head in wonder. ‘Who’d ever believe it, Dick? You and me captains? And I can remember when you were broken down from corporal for farting on church parade.’
‘They were good days, Tom,’ Sharpe said.
‘Only because they’re a long way back. Nothing like distant memory for putting green leaves on a bare life, Dick.’” - Sharpe’s Battle, p. 153
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Title: "Breaking"
Rating: PG
Characters: Sharpe, Wellington
Summary: When Sharpe was broken down from corporal.
Author's Notes: Reference to a line in Sharpe's Battle. For the look_sharpe prompts table, Prompt #16: “Parade”. Been thinking about writing this for ages, but this prompt seemed the perfect excuse.
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CALCUTTA ~ MAY, 1798
Colonel Arthur Wesley rode his horse along the lines of men formed up on the parade ground at Fort William. The 33rd were shaping up nicely as a regiment since their losses in Flanders; their drill becoming sharper and their rate of fire such that they could manage three rounds a minute, and all seemed to be in a relatively sound state of health. Each man’s hair was floured for the occasion and drawn back into the regulation queue, and new, lighter jackets than the traditional broadcloth had been issued to them to make some concession to the subcontinental heat. There was, however, no concession to this parade, as Wesley had decreed that once a month each battalion under his command should form for a church parade - and today the 33rd’s turn had come round. Tedious it might be, but a tediousness that may have potential benefit to the soul. Besides, in such a strange, exotic country it was good to remind the men a little of home, and most would appreciate the familiar words of the Liturgy mumbled in the heathen country. They may be far from England’s shores, but that was no excuse for things not to be done properly.
The service had drawn to a close (a decent service for once, as Wesley had ordered the chaplain be sober this morning on pain of death) and the Colonel was making a last review of the men before they were dismissed. However, as he was passing in front of the battalion’s Light Company there came the sound of a huge, rumbling fart which in an instant shattered the peace of the parade ground.
“Easy, girl,” Wesley chided, frowning as he patted his horse’s neck, but then he realised that the culprit was not in fact his mare. He turned to the ranks, momentarily stunned as his eyes rested on a tall, skinny young man with the stripe of a corporal on his sleeve in the front rank - far too tall to officially be a Light - his powdered hair and green eyes standing out strangely from his scarlet face which had gone about the same colour as his jacket. The men around him all had slightly more fixed expressions than usual, and several looked as if they had a nasty smell under their noses. Wesley gaped.
“Good heavens, lad!” he exclaimed, startled out of his usual taciturn attitude with the rank and file, unable to believe that a human being could possibly break wind on that scale. “What have they been feeding you?”
The young man flushed from a deeper shade of red to crimson.
“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled. The Colonel noticed that he was not looking directly at him as first supposed, but at some point just past his left ear. It was a trick used by seasoned soldiers in uneasy situations with officers, and Wesley was starting to get tired of it.
“No, don’t apologise,” said Wesley, somewhat bemused. “I thought it was the horse.” He patted the mare’s neck again. “I’d get yourself to a doctor if I were you, that can’t be healthy!”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal looked as if he wished he could crawl inside his jacket and hide like a tortoise, for all he kept his gaze fixed front. Wesley decided to take pity on him and touched his heels back to make his horse walk on. Poor lad... A few minutes after he’d departed the parade ground it occurred to Wesley that the corporal might suffer from his taking notice of the indiscretion. Had he ignored it the battalion’s officers might themselves feel inclined to ignore it… Surely not though; you couldn’t hold a fart against a man! You might as well admonish a bird for flying.
Back in the ranks, Sergeant Green sidled up to the corporal.
“You’ve certainly done it, Dick Sharpe, mi’lad. I doubt you’ll still have that stripe by sundown.”
“Weren’t my fault, sarge!” Sharpe hissed back.
“I know, lad, but farting that loud on church parade’s bad enough.” Green’s eyes flickered over to where the officers of the Light Company were standing, their gaze directed at the hapless corporal, a mixture of amused and infuriated expressions on their faces. “Farting that loud on church parade in the presence of the bleedin’ Colonel… you’ll be lucky to get away with only your stripes removed.”
“Thanks a bundle, sarge.”
“My pleasure. And next time your arse is feelin’ musical, do us all a favour and make sure you wait until it’s Morris that's in front of you. Kill ‘im stone dead, you would.”
“Were it really that bad?”
“Trust me, Dick,” Tom Garrard, Sharpe’s neighbour in the next file, whispered viciously. “If they’d been short of a trumpet at Jericho, they could’ve used you instead!”
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A/N: And I quote;
“He [Garrard] drew on a cigar, then shook his head in wonder. ‘Who’d ever believe it, Dick? You and me captains? And I can remember when you were broken down from corporal for farting on church parade.’
‘They were good days, Tom,’ Sharpe said.
‘Only because they’re a long way back. Nothing like distant memory for putting green leaves on a bare life, Dick.’” - Sharpe’s Battle, p. 153