From the the famous DISCWORLD collection

A section from the novel by Terry Prattchet

The moon hung over the desert of Klatch like a ball of rock.
It wasn't much of a desert to be graced by so impressive a moon.
It was just part of the belt of deserts, growing progressively hotter and drier, that surrounded the Great Nef and the Dehydrated Ocean. And no-one would have thought much about it if people very like Mr Clete of the Musicians' Guild hadn't come along and made maps and put across this part of the desert an innocent little dotted line that marked a border between Klatch and Hersheba.
Up until that time the D'regs, a collection of cheerfully warlike nomadic tribes, had roamed the desert quite freely. Now there was a line, they were sometimes Klatchian D'regs and sometimes Hershebian D'regs, with all the rights due to citizens of both states, particularly the right to pay just as much tax as could be squeezed out of them and be drafted in to fight wars against people they'd never heard of. So as a result of the dotted line Klatch was now incipiently at war with Hersheba and the D'regs, Hersheba was at war with the D'regs and Klatch, and the D'regs were at war with everyone, including one another, and having considerable fun because the D'reg word for 'stranger' was the same as for ' target'.
The fort was one of the legacies of the dotted line.
Now it was a dark rectangle on the hot silver sands. From it came what could very accurately be called the strains of an accordion, since someone seemed to want to play a tune but kept on running into difficulties after a few bars, and starting again.

Someone knocked on the door.

After a while there was a scraping on the other side and a small hatch opened.
'Yes, effendi?'
IS THIS THE KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION?
The face of the little man on the other side of the door went blank.
'Ah,' he said, 'you've got me there. Hang on a moment.' The hatch shut. There was a whispered discussion on the other side of the door. The hatch opened.
'Yes, it appears we are the . . . the . . . what was that again? Right, got it . . . the Klatchian Foreign Legion. Yes. What was it you were wanting?'
I WISH TO JOIN.
'Join? Join what?'
THE KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION.
'Where's that?'
There was some more whispering.
'Oh. Right. Sorry. Yes. That's us.'
The doors swung open. The visitor strode in. A legionary with corporal's stripes on his arm walked up to him.
'You'll have to report to . . .' his eyes glazed a little,' . . . you know . . . big man, three stripes . . . on the tip of my tongue a moment ago . . .'
SERGEANT?
'Right' said the corporal with relief , 'What's your name, soldier?'
ER . . .
'You don't have to say actually. That's what the . . . the. . .'
KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION?
'. . . what it's all about. People join to . . . to . . . with your mind, you know, when you can't . . . things that happened . . .'
FORGET?
'Right. I'm . . .' The mans face went blank. 'Wait a minute would you?'
He looked down at his sleeve. 'Corporal...' he said. He hesitated, looking worried.
Then an idea struck him and he pulled his west and he twisted his neck until he could squint with considerable difficulty at the label thus revealed.
'Corporal . . . Medium? Does that sound right?'
I DoN'T THINK So.
'Corporal . . . Hand Wash Only?'
PROBABLY NOT.
'Corporal . . . Cotton?'
IT'S A POSSIBILITY.
'Right. Well welcome to the . . . er . . .'
KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION . . .
Right. The pay is three dollars a week and all the sand you can eat. I hope you like sand.
I SEE YOU CAN REMEMBER ABOUT SAND.
Believe me you won't ever forget sand,' said corporal bitterly.
I never do.
'What did you say your name was?'
The stranger remained silent.
'Not that it matters,' said Corporal Cotton. 'In the . . .'
KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION?
'. . . right . . . we give you a new name. You start out afresh.'
He beckoned to another man.
'Legionary . . . ?'
'Legionary. . . er. . .ugh . . . er . . . Size 15, sir.'
'Right. Take this . . . man away and get him a . . .' he snapped his fingers irritably, '. . . you know . . . thing . . . clothes, everyone wears them. . . sand-coloured--'
UNIFORM?
The corporal blinked. For some inexplicable reason the word 'bone' kept elbowing its way into the melting, flowing mess that was his consciousness.
'Right,' he said. 'Er. . It's a twenty-year tour, legionary. I hope you're man enough for it.'
I LIKE IT ALREADY, said Death.