A/N: Here I am, unable to stay away for very long. For those of you waiting for the sequel to 'Cities Apart', I'm afraid this isn't it. I thought I'd take a break from that story arc for a while to refresh my muse, and also so I can develop the ideas for it better. This is instead an idea that's been kicking around in my head for some time now…but that I promised myself I wouldn't start until I finished 'Cities Apart'. I'm quite surprised no one's done this already, but I'm also glad as it means I have an original idea for once (yay!). Also, those of you who know me (pips this means you) may be surprised to find no slash (waits for gasping…and cheers… to stop), but I wanted to concentrate on a wider sphere for the story to encompass, not just the feelings between a couple of characters. Before I start though, I should say that by no stretch of the imagination am I an expert on the First World War. This, coupled with taking the occasional dramatic licence means this story will not always be completely historically accurate. I therefore ask for your leniency! One last thing… I will dedicate the next chapter to any and all people who tell me in their review what the title is referring to. Please, no looking at the other reviews to cheat! Anyway, on to the madness…again…

Warning: If you didn't pick up the hint in my above note, this story is going to be seriously AU. If you want a stroll through Ankh-Morpork, go read my other story (hint hint).

Disclaimer: Well, we all know how famous PTerry is for his war stories, so I must be him…or perhaps not.

In the Wild Purple of the Glowering Sun

Chapter One

Captain Vimes of the 95th Regiment waited in the comparatively comfortable surroundings of the field headquarters. He knew he should treasure any time away from the front, but he couldn't help but worry about his men. The Colonel had seemed more vague than usual in the telegram, but Vimes had a sneaking suspicion that was due to the terrible lines of communication rather than a deliberate desire to keep him in the dark. Just as Vimes was beginning to think the chair was fusing his spine into a solid lump, the Colonel's secretary opened the office door and motioned to him.

"Colonel Vetinari will see you now," the man said, returning to his desk.

Vimes entered the office and closed the door behind him. He took the time to glance at the large, annotated map that covered one wall before turning his gaze to the desk. As Vimes approached and gave a sardonic salute, Colonel Vetinari looked up from the mounds of paperwork.

"At ease Captain," Vetinari said in a tired voice. He picked a piece of paper off a nearby pile and handed it to Vimes.

"What do you make of this Captain?"

Memories of making paper boats to float in the gutters flashed treacherously into Vimes head, but he hurriedly suppressed them.

"It looks like a recruitment form sir," Vimes replied, wondering where the Colonel was heading with this line of enquiry.

"Yes Captain, and a rather unusual form at that. You see, the recruit in question specifically volunteered for the 95th regiment."

"Sir?"

Vimes tried to hide his puzzlement. The 95th had become something of a forgotten part of the army. It had become so depleted over the years, and with not enough recruits being drafted to make it up to full strength, that the remainder was simply attached to the nearest unit. To all intents and purposes, the 95th existed in name only…yet someone had volunteered.

"Well, however unusual the request, it was granted. Doubtless Lord Rust thought it would make a moral boosting tale back in England, or just something to get him noticed by those higher up the chain of command."

Here, Vetinari paused, as if thinking how much to tell Vimes.

"There are also…less savoury rumours Captain, ones that must not leave this room. Rumours that the same man who runs our little army had a son on the wrong side of the sheets. These rumours, of course, have absolutely no connection to our new recruit.I hopeI have made myself clear Captain?"

"Yes sir."

"Whatever the reasons behind this, Private Ironfoundersson will be meeting you in five minutes outside this building."

"Sir."

"Dismissed Captain."

Vimes was seething as he left the office. It wasn't just the fact that he had to deal with a wet-behind-the-ears recruit that would be hopelessly ill prepared for life on the front line, but the insult to the regiment as well. Those in command couldn't send the men for the 95th to be brought back to full strength, but they were happy to involve it in a silly power game if it meant promoting the war and the army that fought it. The fact that royalty was involved was the final straw. As Vimes waited outside, he fought to suppress his rising ire. He then noticed the figure making its way hesitantly towards him. To be honest it was hard not to notice him, even more so when the man reached up one very developed arm to remove his tin helmet, revealing a shock of carrot coloured hair. The man approached Vimes, dropped his pack, and raised a tentative salute.

"Captain Vimes?"

At Vimes' curt nod he continued.

"Private Ironfoundersson reporting sir, as per instructions."

The private radiated an earnest enthusiasm that Vimes had thought only appeared on recruiting posters back home. He sighed, and tried not to think of what became of such enthusiasm when exposed to the harsh reality of trench warfare.

"Why are you here Private?"

"To fight for my country sir."

"No, I mean here in the 95th. Why did you volunteer for this regiment in particular?"

"In my home village there was a miner who used to serve in the 95th sir. He used to tell us stories about the battles he fought with them, and life with the regiment. When I joined up, I knew it was the 95th I wanted to go to."

"What was this man's name?"

"Gaskin sir"

Old Gaskin…the name came almost as a blow to Vimes, entangled as it was with so many of his memories. It had been Captain Gaskin then, back when Vimes was only a Sergeant, back when the 95th had been a proper regiment, rather than the joke it was now. Vimes was almost glad Gaskin was back in England, and could not see what had become of a once proud group of men.

"How is he?" Vimes asked softly.

"Well, considering…"

Considering. That was a set of memories Vimes definitely didn't want to pull into the light of day. Just another reason why he didn't sleep so well at night anymore. With a gesture to Private Ironfoundersson, Vimes began to lead the way back towards the front.

As Carrot walked along behind his new Captain, he wished he knew more about the man that was to be his commanding officer. Carrot had so many questions to ask about life in the regiment, and the army in general, but after the way Vimes' expression had closed off when Gaskin was mentioned Carrot thought it best to keep quiet. In a way, Carrot was glad of the way Captain Vimes seemed happy to ignore him. It allowed him to hide the unease the trenches provoked in him. They weren't deep enough to be a mine, or shallow enough so he could easily see about him, either of which he would have been more comfortable with than this. At least, Carrot thought, being used to working in the convoluted tunnels of a mine meant that he did not loose his sense of direction in the twisting trenches he was lead through.

Carrot guessed they were nearly at the front, based on the ear-splitting booms of the artillery as they kept up their near constant barrage of the enemy lines. From the field headquarters the guns had sounded more like distant thunder, but here the volume made him wince with every fresh shot. One of these times, Carrot looked up to find Vimes looking back at him, a half smile on the Captain's face.

"Don't worry, in time you'll get used to it. Soon you'll only flinch when the guns stop."

Before Carrot could ask what Vimes had meant, the Captain had turned and resumed his effortless pace. Carrot followed, trying to ignore the stench that was growing ever more pervasive. The smells of mud and damp would almost have been comforting, as reminiscent of home as they were, but even the dampest parts of the mine did not have the overlying taint of sewage and putrefaction that was now so strong. The duck-boards they were walking over were swollen and rotted, and Carrot knew they would be underwater if there was heavy rain. Indeed, some sections were already submerged - either from being in a dip, or simply as the boards had sunk into the mud they were meant to provide purchase over.

Carrot realised they must have reached the front line of trenches now. The fire-step along the front edge now had anxious men perched on it, who would occasionally sneak a look out across the no-mans land before quickly ducking back. Other men called out cheerful greetings to Vimes, and seemed happier to receive the distracted wave or preoccupied 'hmm' than they would have been with a more exuberant response. Finally Vimes stopped. Two men, both indicated as Sergeants by their uniform, stood gazing with nonchalant interest at Carrot. Carrot gazed right back at them, fascinated by these officers that seemed to be contradictions of the other. The first was a large, round man, whose size hinted that it could be muscle…but also hinted that it probably wasn't. The other was as short as the first sergeant was wide. Not much of the man's features could be made out, so covered was he with the thick trench mud.

"Private Ironfoundersson, these are Sergeants Colon and Nobbs," Vimes began, indicating the round man as the former and the shorter one as the latter. "I leave you in their capable hands."

With that, Vimes turned and ducked into the rough dugout that served as his office and quarters, not waiting to see Carrot's overly crisp salute.

"Private Ironfoundersson eh?"

Carrot turned to see that Sergeant Nobbs had been the one who spoke.

"Yes Sir!" he replied, snapping his hand up in another salute. A look passed between the two Sergeants, so laden with subtext it was amazing it didn't require its own carrier pigeon. Needless to say, Carrot failed to notice this.

"Please tell me you have a shorter nickname than that," Nobbs began in slightly weary tone, "Otherwise poor Sergeant Colon and I are going to dislocate something any time we try to give you an order."

"Well, back home people always called me Carrot sir."

"Welcome to the Night Watch then Carrot. What do you make of Old Stoneface?"

Carrot didn't reply, acutely aware he was talking to senior officers about an even more senior officer. None of the tales Mr Gaskin had told him had ever involved anyone quite like his new Sergeant.

"Don't bother with what Nobby says lad," Sergeant Colon spoke up in a tone he always imagined was quite jovial. "What's left of the 95th is too small to bother with much formality…off duty at least."

"He seems…" Carrot started, trying to be tactful, "curt?"

Nobby laughed.

"He's like that with anyone fresh to the front. Doesn't like to know you till after your first fight."

"Why's that?"

" 'Cause if you live through that you might just live long enough to be worth getting to know."

"Enough of that," Colon broke in, trying to dispel the morbid turn the conversation had taken. "You must have some questions you want to ask before we take you to meet the rest."

"I did have one sir. Why did Sergeant Nobbs call this 'The Night Watch' before?"

" 'Cause we always get stuck with the worst bloody duties like the Night Watch," said Nobby, before Colon could speak. "Seeing as how we're always tacked onto another unit, they reckon they can use us to do their dirty work."

Before the conversation could continue, a shout began to echo down the line, indistinct at first but growing louder as it was taken up by more voices.

"Gas!"

Vimes was out of the dugout like a shot and up on the fire-step. He cautiously raised his head above the lip of the trench and swore. A dense, yellow-green cloud was drifting towards the line, moving deceptively slow. Vimes ducked down again and turned to the Sergeants.

"It's chlorine gas, and they've got the bloody wind with them. Tell the men to get their box respirators on quickly."

As Nobby and Colon hurried away to see to the men and themselves, Vimes turned to Carrot.

"Well, what are you waiting for? This isn't a training exercise."

"I haven't got a respirator sir." At Vimes' incredulous look he continued, "They said I would be issued one when I was with my regiment."

"Damn!"

With that Vimes turned and entered his dugout once more. When he returned he thrust a bulky hood and box into Carrot's hands.

"Here, take mine…that's an order Private."

The latter part of the sentence was said sharply at Carrot opened his mouth to protest. As Carrot began to fit the clumsy helmet, Vimes turned and went to a bucket that stood tucked away against the trench wall. With a look of distaste, he reached in and plucked out a rag that dripped the same amber liquid that filled the bucket. Vimes looked up to catch Carrot's questioning glance.

"You don't want to know," he said, before slapping the cloth over his mouth and nose.

Then, there could be no more talking as the gas was upon them. It rolled down into the trench and swirled in the confined space. Its thickness reminded Carrot of the dense fogs that would shroud the valleys below his home, but they did not have the disquieting tint of this unnatural miasma. The greeny-yellow hue made the mist seem sickly, and its billows and eddies distorted Carrot's surroundings, adding to his feeling of disorientation. Through the tinted panes of the respirator's mask Carrot could still make out the Captain, who was holding the cloth tight to his face as he leaned against the trench wall. Carrot moved to be next to him, needing the anchoring sight of another person…especially one as outwardly calm as Vimes.

As the two men stood side by side, the gas gradually began to thin. The wind, which before had been their enemy, was now their ally as it gradually blew the clouds out of and beyond the trench. Carrot waited until Vimes removed the cloth from his face, then he pulled off the mask. Carrot waited until the Captain had finished wiping off his face with a clean handkerchief before handing the respirator back.

"You need to get one of these immediately, and that means not waiting for some damn quartermaster to remember you exist. Ask Sergeant Nobbs, he can get you want you need."

With that, Vimes strode off in the direction the two sergeants had taken, doubtless to check on the rest of his command. Carrot once again followed along behind, eager to meet the men that would be his comrades through this war.

TBC…

Well, there's the first chapter. Love it or hate it, please review and tell me so I know what you think. If anyone wants to know what was soaked into the cloth Vimes used to survive the gas, soldiers were advised that holding a urine drenched cloth over their face would serve in an emergency to protect against the effects of chlorine. Poor Vimes, the things I do to him! This is only the first of many adventures I have planned for our boys…so I hope you want me to continue.