Soldiers' Wives (2 page)

So here she was, her basic training finished, and now working with a proper army unit; her first real army exercise was behind her and the rest of her life in front of her. And she had every intention of getting as much as she could out of it. Except she had been posted to the medical centre of a UK-based regiment and not out to the field hospital at Camp Bastion, which was what she really wanted. ‘Too young and too inexperienced,' was what she'd been told. So she was being patient – except that the exercise she'd just completed had given her confidence one helluva knock. What good would she be on the battlefield proper if she couldn't control her reaction to extreme trauma? Obviously the army had been right in their assessment of her, so she'd have to continue to be patient a little while longer and carry on training till she was ready.

She drained her drink. ‘Another beer, Phil?'

He glanced at his watch. ‘Best not. Need to get my kit sorted out.'

‘That's a point,' agreed Chrissie. ‘OK, see you Monday.'

‘Indeed you will, but not for much longer after that. I got warned for posting last week – Bastion.'

‘Phil!'

‘It's all right, it's cool. I'm looking forward to it, really. Proper soldiering, not dealing with hangnails and headaches.'

‘Maybe.'

‘It's what I've been trained to do, Chrissie. And it isn't as if I've not been there before. This'll be my second tour.'

‘When are you going?'

‘Soon. A week at work, then pre-ops leave, then…' He made a gesture of a plane taking off with his hand.

‘Good luck then.'

‘Nah – I'm going to rely on skill and training.'

Chrissie leaned forward and gave Phil a quick peck on the cheek before she slid off the bar stool. ‘Even so…'

She walked across the crowded bar, grabbed her Bergen from the pile of identical huge rucksacks in the corner and, staggering under the weight of it, headed out of the bar and took the long route to her barrack block. She could have cut across the parade square and shortened her journey, but she knew if she did, she was bound to get caught by the RSM, and being bawled out by Warrant Officer Class One Jenks was to be avoided at all costs. Regimental sergeant majors across the army were universally feared and hated by soldiers in equal measure. And in her months in the army Chrissie had noticed that most officers didn't mess with them either.

Five minutes later, Chrissie got to the top of the barrack block stairs and crawled into her four-man room, dragging her rucksack behind her. She dumped it at the foot of her bed and flopped onto her duvet.

‘Good time?' asked Immi, her room-mate, who was lying on her bed flicking through a magazine.

‘Grim,' was all Chrissie could say.

‘That bad?'

‘You don't want to know the details, but let's just say it made
The
Texas Chain Saw Massacre
look like a chick flick. Over and above that, it rained most of the time, it was cold and I am so filthy I probably smell.' She glanced at Immi who was wrinkling her nose. ‘Correction, I'm so filthy, I
do
smell and I made a complete prat of myself in front of a bunch of soldiers.'

Immi rolled her eyes. ‘What did you do, babe?'

Chrissie shook her head. ‘I was sick.'

‘Something you ate?'

Chrissie shook her head. ‘The rations were fine.' She told Immi about the pig guts.

Immi's face was a study by the time Chrissie finished. ‘You're joking me,' she whispered.

‘Nope.'

‘Gross.'

Chrissie nodded.

‘I don't know how you cope,' said Immi. ‘I mean, don't get me wrong, I think you're a total heroine, doing what you do, but there's no way I could deal with blood and guts and all that scary shit.'

‘The guts
were
a bit epic.'

Immi shuddered at the thought. ‘Didn't you ever want a nice cushy office job like mine? I mean, why on earth would you want to spend your life up to your arse in bodily fluids?'

Chrissie thought about it. ‘I did some tests and they said I was ideally suited to being a combat medic and I just agreed. And someone has to do it. It's really important.'

She hadn't been able to save her mother's life, that had never been an option, but she could make the difference for others. As far as she was concerned it beat the crap out of being a clerk like Immi. How dull would that be, stuck in an office and shuffling paper?

‘Rather you than me, babes.' Then Immi added, ‘Makes me glad I was left behind with the rest of the rear party. The barracks might have been like a morgue for the past two weeks but I was warm and dry, and had access to a shower.'

‘Is that a hint?' asked Chrissie.

‘Well…'

Chrissie wearily dragged herself off her bed, grabbed her dressing gown and a towel off the rail and took herself off to the ablutions. When she returned ten minutes later, carrying her damp, dirty clothes in a bundle, she was clean and scented, although still utterly knackered. She flumped down on the edge of her bed and stared blankly at the wall, trying to summon the energy to find clean clothes. After a bit, she said, ‘Is it me or is it still a bit whiffy?'

‘I think it's your combats,' said Immi.

Chrissie sighed. She knew it wasn't just the combats she'd taken off – she had a rucksack full of filthy, wet clothing. What she really wanted to do was crawl into bed, not put a couple of loads through the washing machine.

‘Sorry,' Immi apologised for pointing out the obvious. ‘Tell you what, I'll help you get sorted.'

‘Would you?' Immi's kind offer gave Chrissie the strength to tackle the stinking shit-heap that formed the contents of her Bergen. The two girls carried the kit down to the laundry room, bagged two of the industrial machines and loaded them up.

‘You're being dead kind,' said Chrissie, as she retied her dressing gown belt. ‘Surely you must have got heaps of better things to do?'

‘Nah,' said Immi. ‘With you on exercise, Keelie away on a course and Gillie on leave I've had our room to myself. I've been able to see enough of Baz to last me a very long time.'

‘Lucky you,' said Chrissie. Not that she was envious about what Immi had got up to with her latest – called Baz apparently. Immi bounced from one boyfriend to the next, with barely a pause for breath.

‘It's try before I buy,' she'd told Chrissie. ‘I'm doing my four years in the army then, when I find a keeper, I'm going to marry him.'

Bully for Immi, Chrissie thought, but it wasn't what she herself had planned. After years of always having to put someone else first, the last thing she wanted was to have to think about anyone else. Nope, no husband, no kids, no commitments, just herself to consider, for as long as possible. Maybe a bloke, now and again, but she certainly wasn't looking for a potential husband – no-strings-shags were all she was after.

They climbed the stairs back to their room where Chrissie began to dress in clean civvies.

‘God, you're lucky,' said Immi.

Chrissie paused in pulling a T-shirt over her head. ‘Why?'

‘Because you always look so healthy and tanned. I'd kill to have your skin colour.'

Chrissie finished tugging her T-shirt into place. ‘Really? You wouldn't say that if you'd had the bullying I got at school. Being mixed race isn't just about never having to go to the tanning salon.'

Immi looked sheepish. ‘Me and my mouth. I'm sorry. I never thought.'

‘Don't worry about it,' said Chrissie, tugging on her jeans. ‘And at least I don't glow in the dark!' Immi threw a pillow at her which she caught and chucked back. ‘Let's go to Tommy's Bar.' She grabbed a hairbrush and hauled it through her dark curly hair. ‘I owe you a drink for all the help you've given me with my kit. After a fortnight of drinking nothing but tea, water, or that revolting juice drink you get in the rations, I want something stronger.'

Immi shrugged. ‘I'm surprised you haven't got the shakes. A whole two weeks with no booze? Respect, sister. And honest, babes, you'd have done the same for me. You don't have to buy me a drink.'

Which was true, but Chrissie had made her mind up.

‘Can I be a bit cheeky?' asked Immi.

‘Sure.'

‘There's a girl I've got to know at the hairdresser's – you know, Zoë's?' Chrissie nodded. She'd heard of the place although she'd never set foot in it. ‘She's called Jenna and she's having a tough time of it, 'cos she married this squaddie and they haven't got a quarter yet. Her mum lives locally, but she has to share a bedroom with her sister and he still lives in barracks, so her married life has hardly got off to a flying start.'

‘So why
did
they get married? I mean, if they can't live together it seems pretty pointless.'

‘But if they're
not
married they won't ever qualify for a quarter. It's mad. Anyway, her bloke has been away on some months-long course or other, then he gets back, only to be sent straight off on that exercise. She's been totally pissed off by it all and is really in the dumps. How about we invite her along too? She's nice,' added Immi. ‘You'll like her.'

‘Won't she want to meet up with her hubby, though? Shouldn't he be back by now?'

‘Some of the battalion aren't due back till late tonight, or so I've heard. If he's one of them…'

Chrissie shrugged. ‘Why not? The more the merrier. Although I'm not going to make it a late one; a couple of bevvies then I'm going to hit the hay. I'm knackered.'

Immi grabbed her phone and called her friend, while Chrissie lay on her bed and let her mind drift back to the exercise.

Had she enjoyed it? Had real soldiering come up to the mark? She contemplated the previous two weeks. Sure it had been grim, just as she had told Immi. The latrines had been vile, the food had mostly been compo rations, eaten cold out of tins, the weather had been dreary and sleep had been almost non-existent, but that wasn't the whole truth. It had been amazing to be part of something so massive, so organised. There had been a buzz of excitement, a sense of purpose, teamwork and camaraderie, all those things she'd yearned for when she was growing up. All those things that had been so horribly lacking, while her heavy responsibilities made her increasingly isolated from her peers. But all anyone now cared about was how she performed and how she fitted in. And she did. She absolutely did. It wasn't a bit like school when she'd been the only one who could never have a sleepover, the only one who couldn't accept birthday party invites, because she could never reciprocate. Now she was exactly like everyone else – OK, she was still in a minority because of her ethnicity but no one gave a fuck about that. She had the same kit, the same training, the same ethos, the same everything and she loved it. Yes, she'd even loved that exercise, she thought. Maybe it was time to start hoping that the army might consider moving her on to the next stage – putting her training to a real test, not just playing at being a medic on exercise. It was a good thought.

‘What are you grinning about?' asked Immi.

‘Nothing,' said Chrissie, straightening her face quickly. She didn't think Immi would understand.

‘Didn't look like nothing to me.'

‘Just pleased to be back and in the warm and dry,' she fibbed.

‘Who wouldn't be?' said Immi with a shudder. Her idea of privation was being made to do without straightening irons. ‘You all set, babes? And Jenna's coming over to meet us. She sent her old man a text but he hasn't replied. She sounded well pissed off.'

Chrissie rolled off her bed. ‘So – we're meeting her there? Ace. There's a Bacardi and Coke with my name on it and I'm going to claim it.'

The soldiers' bar was packed when they got there, as it always was on a Friday night. Soldiers tended to save Friday and Saturday for getting shit-faced – and stayed comparatively sober for the rest of the week. Smelling of stale booze or swaying with a hangover didn't go down well with the sergeant major at the morning muster parade.

Chrissie sent Immi off to bag a seat, while she squeezed her way to the bar, catching snippets of conversations as the soldiers swung the lamp, with exaggerated tales of their performance on the manoeuvres.

‘… so I said to this SAS guy, you're not hard, you're a twat, and he legged it. The big girl's blouse.'

‘… then the sergeant major came up to me and he only fucking said I'd pulled Captain Wiggins' chestnuts out of the fire for him. Without me the whole platoon would have been up shit creek.'

‘… and this bird was about to drop her trousers for a piss and I thought I was going to get a really good look at her snatch and some stupid fucker goes and lends her his poncho. Where's the fun in that?'

Chrissie grinned as she eavesdropped: soldiers, what
are
they like, she thought. She finally got served with drinks for them both and took them over to where Immi sat in a corner away from the TV and the fruit machines where relative peace reigned. She'd just sat down, when Immi glanced over her shoulder.

‘Ooh look, there's Jenna now,' said Immi. ‘
Jenna
,' she hollered in a voice a sergeant major would be proud of. ‘Over here.' She stood up and waved. There was an exchange of sign language. ‘She just getting herself a drink,' said Immi.

‘Fair enough.' Chrissie looked at the slender back view of Immi's friend as she waved a ten pound note and tried to catch the eye of the barman. She might not be catching his but she turned the heads of every other bloke present with a silver river of hair that streamed down her back and endless legs clad in skin-tight jeans. If the front view was half as good as the back, thought Chrissie, her husband was a lucky man.

Jenna got served, gathered up her drink and her change and tottered over to join Immi and Chrissie. Wow, thought Chrissie when she saw Jenna's face, although it was obviously a high maintenance look. For a start the eyelashes just had to be false. Instantly, Chrissie wished she'd made a bit more of an effort. A lick of mascara and a quick brush of her hair was no contest for this vision of personal grooming now sitting opposite. But although Jenna might look like a million dollars, from the set of her face, it wasn't making her happy.