Author's Note: The title of this chapter was inspired by the World War II song, "This is the Army, Mr Jones".
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Three days after being sworn in to the army, Richard Sharpe and the other recruits were marching to the 33rd Regiment's training camp. Sergeant Hakeswill and the rest of the recruiting party accompanied them, as it was the end of this recruiting cycle, and they would remain in camp for a week or so before heading out on another recruiting drive.
As the group slowly made its way to the training camp, some of the men grumbled under their breath about being tricked into enlisting. Hakeswill mostly turned a deaf ear to this, as it was expected and he didn't want to spend any more time on the road than necessary, because the chances of men running away increased the longer they took.
After the group of recruits slowly marched out of one little hamlet, they dragged their feet and did not keep up a proper pace in Sgt Hakeswill's opinion. Narrowing his eyes, Obadiah decided it was time to get their attention and show this motley mob of miscreants who was boss.
Walking up and down the line of men, glaring at each man in turn, Hakeswill bellowed, "Pick up your bloody feet and step smartly, you bloody sods. This ain't no damned afternoon stroll to a ladies' tea party."
"Bloody bastard, I'm sick of all this bleeding marching," the sergeant heard one man mutter under his breath as he passed by. It was Charlie Jenkins, a malcontent who had been stirring up the other men ever since they'd left Sowerby Bridge, mostly complaining about how he'd been tricked into joining. It was time to put this rotten apple in his place before he spoiled the bunch. Singling out the large, clumsy man, who was slower in both mind and body than the canny sergeant, Hakeswill spun suddenly on his heel to get up in Jenkins' face.
Glancing quickly at the other men to make sure he had their attention, Hakeswill cackled, then sneered, "Look at him! He thinks he's too good to march like the rest of us. Lord of the manor, he thinks he is."
Without warning, Hakeswill punched Jenkins in the face, sending him staggering. Punching him again, he dropped the big man to the ground, where he kicked him several times in the shins.
As Jenkins slowly gathered himself up to get back on his feet, the sergeant glanced back at the other recruits, who had been mumbling among themselves as he'd given Jenkins a good kicking. "Any of the rest of you malcontents don't like it none, speak up now and I'll sort you out right quick, I will."
Wisely, no one made a sound, so Hakeswill turned his attention back to the unfortunate Jenkins, who stood miserably, with blood running down his face out of his nose.
"Shut your gob, you snivelling baby," the sergeant roared, glaring at him only inches from his face, twitching briefly. "You got any more complaints, you filthy bastard?"
After a long silent moment, Hakeswill growled, "I didn't think so." Kicking Jenkins one last time, he added, "Move along, you big dumb ox! I don't want to hear no more nattering out of the likes of you."
The group moved on with no further incident with Hakeswill having thoroughly made his point.
Richard Sharpe was glad he'd not been on the receiving end of the sergeant's ire, but he knew it had been Jenkins' own fault for constantly complaining and attracting Hakeswill's attention. He figured he could get along and avoid such treatment by not getting in Hakeswill's way and by not openly complaining. It seemed quite straightforward to him.
Sharpe was not concerned about what Jenkins had been complaining about. True, it had been an underhanded thing to put shillings in the bottom of the beer mugs, but Sharpe had gone into the tavern with the express purpose of joining, in any instance, so the method did not bother him overmuch. His purpose had been clear before ever meeting Obadiah Hakeswill, so it was of no concern to him. He'd cheated the hangman by joining the army and that's all that mattered to Richard Sharpe now.
Obadiah Hakeswill was satisfied and content as the group continued to make its way to the training camp. He'd shown this group of maladjusted miscreants just who was boss and he'd not heard a peep out of them since he'd made an example of Charlie Jenkins. Jenkins hadn't been the only malcontent, but he'd been the most persistent and, more importantly, the largest man in the group. In Hakeswill's experience, if you took on the biggest man and cut him down to size, then the others would fall into line right quick. Obadiah wasn't a large man, but he was quick and agile, and this wasn't the first time he'd beaten a man taller and heavier than himself. Nor would it be the last time.
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Several days later, Richard Sharpe found plenty of reasons of his own to regret his hasty enlistment in the army.
After the recruits had arrived at the 33rd's training camp, Sergeant Hakeswill turned them over to the training sergeants, after which they didn't see him any more. After being told where they would sleep, the men had been issued uniforms and other equipment. He quickly learned that he'd been charged for everything that had been issued to him and would be charged for his meals and for having his laundry done, among other things.
As he and his friend, Sam Carter, sat down to their first meal at the training camp, now penniless once more, Sharpe groused, "Seven pound signing bonus, all gone. I should have known better that it was too good to be true." Shaking his head, he continued, "Charging us for everything, they are. We're soldiers, not bloody customers!"
"That's true; we ain't going to get rich, but by my way of thinking, we're still better off than we were before," the other man said reasonably.
"How do you figure that?"
"Look at it this way, mate," Sam began calmly. "The most important thing to consider is that you're safe from the hangman. And you've got new clothes to wear, food in your belly, and somewhere safe to sleep. So far as that goes, you've come out ahead."
"I suppose so," Sharpe said slowly, still feeling uncertain and glum. "But I can't help but feel cheated, anyway."
"Remember what Hakeswill told us about looting and plundering after battles," Sam reminded him. "That's where the real money can be made, I'm thinking."
"I hope you're right," Sharpe said dubiously. "Hakeswill could be lying about that, too. He's a right bastard, he is."
"I don't think he's lying about that," Sam said. "It just makes too much sense to be a lie. I had me a cousin who'd been in the army and he'd told stories that match up with what Hakeswill said." Chuckling contentedly, he added, "But you're right; Hakeswill IS a bastard. Good thing he'll be leaving to go back to recruiting and we won't have to deal with him no more."
"Not as if any of these other sergeants are any better," Sharpe groused, glad that none of them could hear their conversation. "But you've got a point. It's not as if I have any better prospects, do I?"
"That's the spirit!" Sam replied. "Give it a chance."
"I might as well," Sharpe agreed, still feeling half-hearted. "I'll stick it out for awhile and see if things start looking up a bit."
Over the next few months, as Obadiah Hakeswill continued with recruitment duty, Richard Sharpe and the rest of his fellow recruits remained in camp and learned the fine art of musketry, along with the use of a bayonet. Extensive training was also given in the tedious routines involved in caring for his uniform and equipment.
Endless hours were spending doing drill, along with constant inspections and parades. Nearly as much time was spent preparing for these inspections, washing and repairing uniforms, along with the cleaning and polishing of equipment.
Just when Dick Sharpe thought he could stand no more of this and was about to desert, basic training was over and the recruits were sent to join the 33rd's battalion company in Cork.
Sharpe hadn't been in Ireland for very long when they finally shipped out for active duty. The 33rd was sent to Flanders in June of 1794, a little over a year after he'd enlisted. He looked forward to going, eager to get a chance to try his hand at looting at last.
Obadiah Hakeswill, to his own great satisfaction, remained in England, still attached to recruitment duty, where he continued to make money in recruitment bonuses. If it was up to him and luck stayed with him, he'd be happy to remain a recruiting sergeant for the rest of his army career. Life was good.