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(Author's Note: This story was originally published in serial format. The "*****" designation shows where the original episodic breaks were located.)

*****

It was not difficult to discern that my drill instructor was peeved at me. Jumping up and down upon one's bunk, and kicking various articles of equipment about, does tend to catch the eye.

The other recruits in my platoon were staring straight ahead, paws flat against sides, as with one mighty punt, my leather helmet went arcing across the barracks.

Breath whistling through his beak from the exertion, the D.I. stomped in front of me and began to caw at the top of his lungs. The fact that I was neither flinching nor blinking seemed to infuriate him even more.

Now, I said it was not difficult to discern that my drill instructor was peeved at me; a little more difficult would have been an attempt to discern why he was peeved at me. I rarely spoke, did my drill in the required fashion, did my fatigues in the required fashion, and unlike a fair segment of my platoon, did not try to sneak out of barracks on a Friday night.

You wouldn't think anything could be heard over the sound of the cawing, which was creating its own echo in the barracks, but something could indeed be heard. To be precise, the sound of a swagger stick being gently tapped against a paw. The D.I. whirled around to meet the puzzled gaze of a lieutenant.

"Something the matter, Sergeant?"

For once, it appeared the D.I. was stymied in an attempt to articulate his thoughts. Granted, these usually express themselves in vigorous four-letter words and genealogical analysis. Which, given the history of elvish family trees, can be quite colourful and lengthy.

"Sergeant, I could hear you clear across the barracks square. I take it something must be seriously amiss?"

"Sah!"

There was a look of vulpine confusion as this response was digested.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sah! No sah!"

The look, as I could see it out of the corner of my eye, deepened to bafflement. The officer pointed at me with his swagger stick.

"Is this fur on a charge?"

"Sah! No sah!"

"Has this fur failed any of his training exercises?"

In point of fact, I had not, and luckily for me, the records would show that, quite clearly. The look on the D.I.'s face indicated that he was aware of that fact as well.

"Sah! No sah!"

For some time, there was renewed tapping of swagger stick against paw as the lieutenant attempted to come to grips with what he was seeing. Eventually, he walked in front of me.

"Name?"

"Recruit Winterbough, sir."

"I see. Recruit Winterbough, will you please gather your kit together and reassemble it?"

I saluted. "Yes, sir."

The officer, the D.I., and the other recruits in the platoon watched as I moved about, picking up my clothes and gear. That didn't take long (even for the helmet - luckily, I had followed its trajectory), and it didn't take much longer to have my area ready for inspection again.

Assisted, of course, by a judicious use of Gramerye. If you speak in a soft enough undertone, it sounds like you are reciting the General Regulations.

The fox tucked his swagger stick under one arm, and fished a copper coin out of a pocket in his tunic. He threw the coin down at the bunk, and the coin rebounded back into his palm. He looked over and counted my equipment, making no comment.

Indeed, he made no comment at all for the rest of his visit, if you discount the fact that he gave a long, puzzled look at the sergeant before leaving.

The D.I. stomped off with a ruffling of feathers. He forgot to glare me good-bye.

The rest of the platoon, for the most part, busied themselves with various activities suitable for the fifteen minutes of free time we had before lights-out. Only one of my colleagues chose to approach me, and dispensed the following item of wisdom:

"No one likes a smart-ass, hat rack."

A motto, indeed, for the Imperial and Royal Army of Faerie.