Sharpe

Sharpe What are you smiling at, Sergeant?

Rossner:
[stops smiling] Nothing, sir. Sorry, sir.

Sharpe:
A good soldier should have a reason before he suffers himself to smile. Name!

Rossner:
Rossner, sir!

Sharpe:
Do you know what makes a good soldier, Rossner?

Rossner:
Yes, sir! The ability to fire off three rounds a minute in any weather, sir!

[Sharpe walks back over to Frederickson, smiling a little.]

Sharpe:
What are you smiling at, Fredrickson?

Frederickson:
I'm not smiling, sir. A musket ball broke my jaw. I have false teeth. The sawbones stuck on the smile for free, sir. He also stuck on my hair. Hair belongs to a horse, sir.

Sharpe:
Do you know what makes a good soldier, Frederickson?

Frederickson:
Yes, sir. Keeping his mouth shut when he's asked damn-fool questions by a superior officer, sir.

Sharpe:
[smiling] You don't give a damn, do you Frederickson?

Frederickson:
No, sir. I just do my duty.

Sharpe:
You'll do fine.