Disclaimer: Reginald Jeeves belongs to P.G. Wodehouse, has since 1915.

Kobarid, Austro-Italian border, November 18, 1917
"Well, Jeeves," Mr. Thistleton ground out as he paced before the seated man, "That was a hair's breadth from a complete disaster."

"Indeed, sir," the man replied, watching his employer with a bland eye. His German officer's uniform was spotless, a feat that never ceased to astound and mystify Mr. Thistleton.

"It was a good job you did- giving the Italians time enough to get themselves back together and form that defensive line at the Paive saved us all in the end. Poor sods. More than half of their numbers peasant-folk, never lifted a weapon in their lives. How'd you do that, by the way?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Stall the Austrians. Must have been a spot of genius, that."

"Thank you, sir. As you are aware, there were several German storm trooper factions sent to reinforce the Austro-Hungarian ranks. The latter was rather in awe of the former, a fact that I used to my advantage while in pursuit of the Allied forces, sir, by disguising myself as one of the German officers and suggesting a route that was far more arduous than that which was previously chosen. I relied on the Italian army's superior knowledge of the landscape to allow them to reach a safer distance before meeting our enemy in battle again."

Jeeves delivered this speech with all the personal pride and pleasure of a report on the current forecast. Thistleton felt compelled to get excited for the both of them, "By Jove, that's bloody brilliant, Reginald! Another spot on victory for the Shadow Man!"

Jeeves's gaze drifted to his lap, "I am gratified by your praise, and always endeavor to give satisfaction, but I would prefer to remain as anonymous as possible, in favor of a spectacular moniker."

"I'll bet you do," Thistleton replied solemnly, eyeing Jeeves, "As would I, had I a record like yours. How long do you reckon it's been now?"

"It has been six years since I began performing... this service."

Thistleton allowed himself a grim chuckle, "'This service' he calls it. A dirty little job is what it is, Jeeves, and no mistake, but someone must do it. Otherwise..." Both Thistleton and Jeeves gazed into the middle distance, feeling the heavy weight of duty settle a little more onto their shoulders.

"Mr. Thistleton," Jeeves eventually intoned, "I believe my latest success may have been less 'spot on' than you have described."

Thistleton emitted a small sigh, "I know, Jeeves, I know. Cadorna's fellows weren't the only ones that barely made it out with their lives. You were found out just after the battle's end. You've got the Lord to thank for them not catching on to you until you'd nipped off, my lad." Jeeves gave a sober nod. "But, in any case, the terrestrial powers that be have decided to take you out of the action. It's all well and good for our boys to know you're on their side, as long as they keep quiet about it, but not so for the opposition."

Jeeves bore the news without a hint of emotion, as usual, "Where am I to be placed, sir?"

Thistleton fixed a steady stare on Jeeves, waiting a moment before saying, "You're to be my valet."

Jeeves's eyebrow rose an eighth of an inch in puzzlement, "But, sir, I have performed a valet's duties for you between my missions from the first. I'm afraid I fail to see how this will remove me from the action, as you say."

"Yes, that's right, but for real now. No more missions, just valeting. And after a few weeks, you shall be transferred to another gentlemen, and then another, until you're soundly tucked in among the idle rich of England. How's that sound?"

Jeeves was silent for some time before meeting Thistleton's stare with his own cool, dark one, "I believe my opinion is immaterial, sir. If my superiors feel this course of action is the one that must be implemented, I will follow it. As Simonides had it in Plato's Dialogues, not even the gods fight against necessity."

Thistleton's gaze fell to the floor as he chuckled quietly again, "I'll miss you, Reginald, when you're gone."

"And I you, sir." The only smile Thistleton ever received from Jeeves arrived and departed on the younger man's face in a matter of moments.

"All right, enough of this soppiness," Thistleton made a show of straightening his jacket and posture. Jeeves stood up from the chair and Thistleton took a hold of his arm, leading him out of his makeshift office in Korbarid's lone Allied military base. As soon as the pair exited, Jeeves spotted a well-dressed elderly man seated on the wooden bench in the hallway. He wondered momentarily how he hadn't noticed the man arrive, due to the bench's tendency to deliver an agonized squeak at the slightest pressure. The man unfolded himself from his seat and stood before Thistleton and Jeeves. Although shorter than both men, he still somehow managed to look down his nose at them.

"Now I know you can't fix a plate of eggs and bacon fit to feed a starving mongrel, my lad, but after a little time with this fellow, you will. Reginald Jeeves, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Wilmot Harpsamont, come all the way from the Junior Ganymede Club- that's a valet and butler agency in London. He's going to show you every trick to valeting that time will allow. Mr. Harpsamont, this is Reginald Jeeves, our finest operative."

Harpsamont's small, sharp eyes dissected Jeeves for a moment. "Good day, young sir," he stated in a voice that sounded much like the old bench's abused wood in a gale.

"Good day, Mr. Harpsamont," Jeeves replied with a courtly nod.

Harpsamont made a quiet "humph" sound before saying, "Come along, then. We've a great deal of work to do and, according to Mr. Thistleton, little time to do it." He turned away after a quick bow to Thistleton and started walking down the hall. Jeeves nearly had to jog to catch up, leaving his former employer to wander back into his office. By that time, Harpsamont was speaking again, "You can't just become a valet overnight, I'll have you know. And it is more than obvious that you've had no prior training. Oh, yes," he spoke over Jeeves's half-started correction, "You've laid out clothes for our Mr. Thistleton, but that most certainly does not make you a valet. No, indeed."

"I was also employed as a page-boy at a girls' school when I was eleven, sir."

Harpsamont stopped and looked at Jeeves. His thin-lipped mouth twisted into something Jeeves had to squint to recognize as a smile. Then the man started laughing; wheezy little laughs like the sneezes of an elderly lap dog. "Page-boy?" he managed in between his acidic chortles, "Page-boy at a girls' school? Young sir, if you are entertaining any ideas that the duties of 'page-boy at a girls' school' are at all similar to those of a valet, I might as well direct you straight back to Mr. Thistleton and stop wasting my time." His laughter had ceased, but his eyes still glittered with scornful amusement.

Jeeves very suddenly found himself thinking fondly on the sleek German pistol he had left in Thistleton's office. He coughed very gently into his hand. "Where shall we begin my lessons, sir?" he asked.

"In the kitchen," Harpsamont answered, "If you can't cook, you must learn. I have brought along with me a man who will teach you, a Monsieur Anatole. He is quite good." Jeeves and Harpsamont pushed open the double doors leading to mess hall and began their first lesson.