by Fiona Field
‘I don’t know why you always bitch about this, it’s part of the job description,’ countered Chrissie, as she threw on her tracksuit and stepped into her trainers.
Immi glowered as she hauled on her sports kit. ‘It doesn’t mean I have to like it. Anyway, not all units are like this one – why did I have to be posted to one where the CO is a fitness fanatic?’
Chrissie shook her head and glanced at her watch. ‘Hurry up, Immi. We’re going to be late.’
Reluctantly, and still muttering, Immi followed Chrissie out onto the parade square where the troops were all gathered, lined up in their platoons and by company. Most were jogging on the spot, in an effort to keep warm, as the October morning was distinctly nippy. Just as Chrissie and Immi fell in, the RSM and the CO appeared.
‘Shit, we cut that fine,’ whispered Chrissie. Arriving after either of these two equalled ‘late’ and would result in extra duties being awarded on the spot.
The RSM bawled out the commands to bring the parade to attention before he handed over to the PTIs who were to lead each company on a squadded, three-mile run. HQ Company, Immi and Chrissie’s one, and which also included the CO and the RSM in its number, was the first to lead off.
‘At least we won’t die of hypothermia, now,’ said Chrissie, slapping her arms against her sides as she ran, to get her circulation moving.
‘No, I’m going to die of a combo of stitch and exhaustion,’ gasped Immi.
‘You can’t be tired yet – we’ve only run a few hundred yards.’
But Immi was already panting too hard to answer. By the time they got to the mile point, Immi was stumbling with fatigue and she and Chrissie, who was trying to urge her mate to keep going, had fallen almost to the rear of the squad.
‘Keep up,’ screamed a rasping voice.
Chrissie looked behind her. Sergeant Wilkes was pounding after them. ‘Come on, Immi,’ encouraged Chrissie once again, but she could see it was hopeless. There was no way Immi was going to be able to complete the three miles. Obviously with most of the regiment away on exercise the previous two weeks, there had been no formal PT and Immi had taken advantage of that to bother even less than usual with her fitness levels: fitness levels which had always been borderline and which were now completely below par.
‘I can’t,’ sobbed Immi, as she finally gave up. ‘I’ve got to stop. You carry on.’
Chrissie nodded and ran on while Immi gave up and took the instant bawling out from Sergeant Wilkes. The words ‘extra duties’ floated after Chrissie, as she raced forward to catch up with the rest of the squad. Putting on a spurt she not only caught up with the squad but eased her way to the front, passing the CO and the RSM as she did so.
Maybe the RSM was in a foul mood (and when wasn’t he? It was as if it was in the job description of RSMs always to be in a foul mood) or maybe it was the sight of a woman – a woman – passing him, but he halted the entire squad and made them start performing press-ups. Once they’d all, including Chrissie, given him fifty, he then found a steep side-track, and made everyone run up and down that a few times; naturally he and the CO were observers rather than participants. By the time he’d finished with HQ Company, a number of soldiers were being sick in the gutters and the rest were either red, or ashen with exhaustion. Even Chrissie had her hands on her hips, her legs apart and was bent at the waist as she gulped in lungfuls of air.
While she was doing this, the other soldiers loped past, Lee amongst them. He shot Chrissie a look of sympathy – having the RSM give you a hard time was no fun.
A couple of minutes later the RSM ordered HQ Company to start running again.
‘And if no one beats me back the entire company will be confined to barracks for the next week and you can forget the long weekend,’ he shouted, fresh as a daisy, to the still-gasping troops. ‘Understood?’
‘Sir,’ came a ragged and lacklustre response.
‘Understood?’
‘Sir!’ roared back the sixty or so soldiers.
The RSM, not having performed press-ups or having been beasted up and down the hill, set off at a punishing pace. Soon most of the soldiers were lagging behind. Every now and again, Warrant Officer Class One Jenks would run on the spot and harangue the lagging soldiers ‘to get a grip and put some effort into it’ but most of his troops were too shattered to respond. There were only a few soldiers, Chrissie included, who were able to keep up with him. It wasn’t any sort of spectacular fitness that gave her the impetus, but the certain knowledge that he wanted her to fail – and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. In her limited experience of the army, she had found that there were some male soldiers who still didn’t accept that women might have equal skills and fitness, and she was pretty sure the RSM was one of them. Her determination to prove him wrong was giving her a boost better than steroids or blood doping.
With about half a mile to go, and with the several hundred soldiers who had just been allowed to get on with their training run without any intervention from the RSM in sight, Chrissie kicked for home, in a move Jess Ennis or Paula Radcliffe would have been proud of. The RSM responded and managed to catch up with Chrissie, shooting her a look of smug triumph as he passed her. Chrissie kicked again and drew level with him. By now they were starting to pass the other soldiers, the ones still running in something resembling squads.
‘Go, Chrissie,’ cheered a voice from the ranks. Lee.
The RSM gritted his teeth and made another effort to beat Chrissie, but she was spurred on by her lone supporter.
Other soldiers picked up on Lee’s support and began to cheer Chrissie on. It wasn’t that they wanted Chrissie herself to win, they wanted the RSM to lose. Even if he’d been racing Osama bin Laden, Stalin and Hitler, they still wouldn’t have cheered Mr Jenks. The cheering reached the ears of the soldiers who had already completed their three-mile run and were starting to drift to their barrack blocks or homes for a shower, and they stopped to watch the spectacle of Chrissie and the RSM, pounding, neck and neck, along the road to the regimental guardroom.
The cheers, coupled with the knowledge that, if she lost, HQ Company would forfeit their long weekend, gave Chrissie the impetus she needed, and with a final, superlative effort she made it back, through the barrack gate and onto the parade square twenty yards ahead of Mr Jenks. The soldiers erupted.
She wanted to lie down she was so knackered, but pride kept her on her feet while she gulped air.
‘You may have beaten me this time,’ gasped the RSM, as he stopped beside her and shot a vitriolic look at the cheering troops. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Chrissie wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a promise, but she didn’t care; she was too exhausted to care about anything, except not throwing up or passing out.
Lee, who had seen her cream past, was lost in admiration, as were most of the soldiers from Chrissie’s company who pounded onto the parade square over the next few minutes, amongst them the CO, who was stunned to discover that the RSM had met his match.
Colonel Notley came to a halt next to his RSM. ‘Don’t tell me you were beaten, Mr Jenks.’
‘I was, sir.’ A lesser man than the CO might have quailed at the tone of the RSM’s voice.
‘And by a slip of a girl.’
The RSM glowered.
The CO turned to Chrissie whose chest was still heaving. ‘Well done… er…’
‘Summers, sir.’
‘Yes, well done, Summers. Good effort.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I think your efforts inspired the troops. HQ Company came home in a cracking time.’
Chrissie wondered if they had just chased after her and Mr Jenks out of curiosity. She didn’t feel inspirational. But she did feel quite proud that she’d rescued the company’s long weekend. It was a good feeling.
The CO drifted off to talk to some of the other NCOs and an admiring group formed around Chrissie.
‘Well done,’ said Lee, ‘you were amazing.’
/> And Chrissie felt ridiculously happy to have his approval and her good feeling got even better.
‘So how many did you get?’ asked Chrissie. She was still puffed even though she had recovered sufficiently to climb the stairs, albeit very slowly, to her barrack room where Immi was already showered and now dressed in combats rather than PE kit.
‘Five and extra PT for four weeks,’ she replied glumly. ‘And then I have to pass my BFT or it’ll be more of the same. Honestly, Chrissie, I’m a clerk, I bash keyboards all day. Why do I have to be super-fit to open a filing cabinet?’
Chrissie grabbed her towel. ‘Tell you what, suppose I have a word with Sergeant Wilkes and see if she’ll let me take you for extra PT? I mean, I know I’m not a PTI but she’s knows I’m fit.’ She didn’t add that the whole regiment knew that now. ‘And you and I could have a bit of fun together as we work out. How about it?’
‘You’d do that for me?’ Immi was genuinely astounded.
Chrissie nodded. ‘But you’ve got to promise me you’ll make a proper effort. Just ’cos I’m not some hairy-arsed PTI doesn’t mean you can take advantage. I’ll expect you to graft – and pass your fitness test. First time.’
Immi nodded eagerly. ‘I will, promise.’
‘I’ll make sure you do, if you make the effort too. So, to make sure, we’re going to start with a session in the gym this evening.’
‘This evening!’ squeaked Immi. ‘But we did a run this morning.’
‘I did a run this morning,’ countered Chrissie. ‘You did a bit of a jog and then gave up.’
Immi gave in. ‘Five thirty, at the gym?’
‘See you then,’ acknowledged Chrissie, as she went off for a shower, leaving Immi looking both apprehensive and miserable. Chrissie decided, as she showered, that she wouldn’t be too hard on Immi for the first session – that would come later.
Chrissie and Lee’s paths crossed again the following Wednesday.
‘Look,’ said Immi, nodding towards the serving counter in the cookhouse. ‘It’s Jenna’s bloke.’ She waved. ‘Coo-ee. Lee.’ He turned and saw them. ‘Budge up, Chrissie, make a space for him.’
They watched Lee grab a plate of spaghetti bolognese and head their way. He had a broad grin on his face.
‘Hello, girls,’ he said as he sat down.
Immi simpered at him. ‘Hi, Lee.’
Lee pushed his plate off his tray, sorted out his drink and cutlery and began to tuck into his meal. After a couple of forkfuls he paused and looked at Chrissie. ‘I was hoping to run into you. What are your plans for this afternoon?’ On Wednesday afternoons, all soldiers who didn’t have specific tasks or duties to carry out were expected to take part in some sort of physical activity for an hour or so at the very least.
Immi shrugged. ‘Thought I’d go into town and get some new jeans.’
Lee laughed. ‘I don’t think the army rates shopping as a sport.’
‘It is if you do it right,’ said Immi, unabashed. ‘Besides, I’ll be doing a session in the gym with Chrissie this evening, because she’s on a mission to get me fit so she’s cutting me some slack now.’
‘And,’ interrupted Chrissie, ‘I want to go on a proper run and if Immi tags along I’ll only get as far as the barrack gate.’
‘Harsh but fair,’ admitted Immi. ‘So I’m going to do some extreme shopping.’
‘Trust me,’ said Chrissie, ‘if it was an Olympic sport, Immi would medal.’
Lee smiled at her. ‘So you’re going running?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Want company?’
Immi’s eyebrows rocketed skywards. She glanced from Lee to Chrissie. She narrowed her eyes. Was there something going on there? Nah, there couldn’t be, not when Lee had Jenna.
‘Yeah, why not,’ said Chrissie. ‘How far do you want to go? Five miles? Ten?’
‘Ten miles?’ squeaked Immi. ‘But that’s… miles,’ she finished, lamely.
Chrissie laughed. ‘It’s not so far. We should be back in an hour and a half.’
Immi fanned herself. Jeez – ten miles, that was just showing off. So maybe this pair just got a kick out of running. Weird. She picked up her empty plate. ‘Right, I’m going to change and catch the bus. As it’s sports afternoon and because I’m on extra PT, I’ll go upstairs and sit on the top deck. How’s that for exercise?’
She waggled her fingers in farewell, leaving Lee and Chrissie discussing a possible route.
The two were about halfway around their planned route, loping along at an easy pace, their strides matching. They were both puffing slightly, but weren’t out of breath. Their trainers slapped the tarmac of the pavement rhythmically, as the cars on the road beside them swished past. A fine drizzle was falling: enough to make the ground greasy and their hair and clothes damp, without it being so wet as to be completely miserable.
‘This feels easier than last time,’ said Chrissie. ‘I must be getting back on form. My self-imposed mission to get Immi fit is having an unexpected advantage for me. Mind you, I spend more time trying to make her do an extra ten reps here and there than I do on the fitness machines myself.’
‘I’ve been down the gym in the evenings, too,’ said Lee. ‘I’ve got to work on my stamina and endurance.’
‘So you’re determined to have another go at SAS selection?’
‘Got to be done.’
‘What about Jenna? I mean, those guys are never home; they’re always getting sent off to some dodgy place or other. Won’t she mind about being left on her own for half the year?’
‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as that. And she knows it’s my ambition. She’ll be cool about it.’
Chrissie shrugged. What did she really know either about Jenna or the SAS? ‘If we go along here,’ she said, pointing to a sign indicating a bridle path, ‘we can avoid running along the dual carriageway. It’s a shade longer but quieter.’
They turned off and began to run along the new route – a disused railway line which had the advantage of being straight and pretty level, but sadly the surface was mostly hardcore and sand, and because of the recent rain it was far from smooth. Push bikes had chopped deep grooves into it, horses’ hooves had gouged out dents, and just sheer wear and tear had left big potholes. And the wet conditions made the whole path slippery and treacherous. They jogged along it for a couple of miles, both trying to ignore how rubbish the surface was, but both knowing there had to be an easier way back to the barracks – one which didn’t involve trip hazards and endless puddles.
‘This is such a bad idea,’ said Chrissie as she jumped another puddle and slipped on landing. Her arms flailed as she just managed to keep her balance.
‘It’s crap,’ agreed Lee. ‘Let’s get off it at the next opportunity.’
‘Well, that can’t be too soon,’ said Chrissie as her foot slithered again.
They continued to jog along, past the dripping, sloe-laden branches of the blackthorns, and the brambles and the nettles which hemmed them in like barbed wire and made any prospect of leaving the path almost impossible.
‘There’s a bridge up ahead,’ said Chrissie after a few more minutes. ‘If it crosses a road, maybe there’s a chance we can find a path down the embankment to join it.’
‘Good call.’
They puffed their way up the slight gradient which had raised the old railway up to the bridge. There the pair paused and looked over the parapet.
‘I know where we are,’ said Chrissie. ‘Isn’t that the Swan?’ She pointed to a pub garden just visible behind a tall hedge a couple of hundred yards away.
Lee nodded. ‘And look, steps,’ he said. To their left, where the brickwork of the bridge stopped, there were some rough and uneven steps made out of old sleepers which led down the almost vertical embankment to the lane below.
‘Come on,’ he said. He tramped through a gap in the dense, soggy undergrowth and began to pick his way down the treads. Gingerly, Chrissie followed. Each step was either a different wi
dth or a different height from its predecessor, and that, coupled with the slippery conditions and the steep gradient, made the descent truly treacherous. Ahead of her she saw Lee make it to the safety of the road below and because she was watching him, she missed her step and caught her foot in the wooden riser which stood proud of the tread. With a cry of fear, she felt herself plunge towards the wet tarmac. Lee whipped round and just managed to catch her.
The shock of the fall left Chrissie feeling wobbly and she clung to him to steady herself for a second, while the trembling in her legs stopped and her heart rate returned to something like normal as the jolt of adrenalin left her system. She looked up into his face, inches from her own.
‘Thank you, Lee,’ she panted.
‘No worries, lass,’ he replied, looking into her eyes. ‘You gave us a bit of a shock, there.’
Chrissie felt her heart do an odd little flick-flack and somewhere deep inside, muscles she hardly knew she had squeezed tight and sent a shiver of pleasure right through her. Swiftly, she pulled herself out of his arms. Whatever she was feeling was wrong on every level: wrong because she didn’t want a boyfriend; wrong because he was Jenna’s husband; and wrong because no bloke ought to be able to make a girl feel like that just by holding her.
She bent down to retie a shoelace while she got herself under control, then, that done, she stood up and said, ‘Right, race you back to the barracks,’ and shot off before Lee could respond. He caught up with her after about a couple of hundred yards, but Chrissie pushed the pace to an extent where they had no breath left for talking. By the time they got to the guardroom, they were both shattered.
Chrissie collapsed onto the steps by the barrier, her head between her knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her shoulders heaving.
‘That,’ said Lee, also gasping, ‘was one well hard run. Thanks, Chrissie.’ He hauled in a juddering lungful of air. ‘We must do it again.’
But Chrissie had already made her mind up; she was going to avoid Lee at all costs. Footloose and fancy free, that was what she wanted her life to be for the foreseeable future, and she wasn’t going to tempt herself, or providence. And anyway, he was a married man and completely off limits.
