Author's Note: A short story about Sergeant Benton taking a break from his UNIT work. It's just a bit of fun and not to be taken at all seriously.

I don't own the character of Benton or that of any of the other UNIT personnel. Please read and review.

The Soldier and the Farmer

Benton cursed the calf under his breath as the plastic bucket sloshed against his leg and yet more of the warm milk soaked uncomfortably into the fabric of his trousers. Clearly there was more to this farming lark than he'd realised. A quick glance into the bucket told him that there was little more than half a pint left and the form guide for the evening suggested that more of that would end up showering him than being consumed by the calf. Benton removed his fingers from the animal's mouth, noting without surprise that they were red raw where the calf had chewed at him. Why must it chew so? Why wouldn't it just suck? Deciding to cut his losses and quit while behind, Benton poured the remainder of the milk back into the bottle and shoved the teat into the calf's mouth.

"Just don't tell the farmer, hey?" He stoked the calf playfully behind her ears as she contentedly suckled at the bottle.

The Brigadier and Captain Yates had both teased him mercilessly when he'd revealed that he was going to spend his leave playing at farming up in the Yorkshire Dales. Neither of them could imagine a townie like Benton blending seamlessly into rural life, or even getting much pleasure from the experience. Benton wasn't really sure that he was going to enjoy it much either but it was something different and, not being able to reply in kind to the jibes of his superior officers, the only way to show them was to succeed. Besides, Benton had never been the kind of man to turn his back on a challenge.

That's how all of this had come about - a challenge. At the close of a night of heavy drinking in the local pub with Joseph, one of his old pals from their regular army days, the challenge had been thrown down. After hearing various half tales of Benton's recent adventures (even when drunk, Benton knew not to tell the whole truth about his UNIT work) the other bloke, a country boy, had bet Benton fifty quid that he'd not last two weeks doing a bit of hard work out in the real world. Rather unwisely, Benton had shaken his friend's hand on the bet before even bothering to find out what the other had in mind. It turned out that his friend had an uncle, a dairy farmer, who farmed two hundred acres up north. Benton was to take a working holiday up there whenever his next period of leave was due.

Benton removed the bottle from the mouth of the calf as she downed the last few drops. He clambered out of the pen and squelched his way back through the mud towards the milking parlour where the farmer, Mr Bogsroyd, was swilling down the stalls with a power hose. He turned, hose in hand, as Benton entered and the unfortunate soldier copped another soaking before Bogsroyd thought to lower his aim to the floor and switch the water off.

Bogsroyd was a breed apart, reflected Benton. In all his time in UNIT, Benton had never met any species quite so alien as the traditional Yorkshire farmer. He smiled to himself at the memory of their first meeting.

When Benton had come knocking at the farmhouse door, one evening a week ago, Bogsroyd had greeted him looking every inch the stereotypical northern farmer of a certain age. He was aged around fifty and dressed in a fairilse jumper and a tweed jacket with a flat cap perched upon his head. He'd looked Benton up and down disapprovingly for a second or two. He meant no offence, this was just his way with everyone according to Bogsroyd's daughter, Emily. After those eternal two seconds had passed the farmer had invited Benton into the house and then the real interrogation had begun.

"So you're with the army then are you lad?" Bogsroyd could make even the most innocent of conversation openers sound like an accusation.

"Yes sir," replied Benton. "I'm a sergeant with the UN." That was as much as he felt able to tell anyone about his work.

"Oh yeah? Proper British army not good enough for you young 'uns then? I don't hold with all that foreign lot…Can't trust any of 'em you know, an' that's a fact. I'll tell you this much lad; it were them foreigners as started the last war an' it'll be them foreigners as start the next 'un too."

With his piece said, Bogsroyd had sat silently chewing on his pipe for the rest of the evening and left much of the conversation to Emily. Benton had taken an instant liking to Emily, a beautiful dark haired girl of about twenty five who, thankfully, had inherited none of her father's blinkered attitudes to the world. She was warm and friendly and Benton had grown very fond of her over the past week.

His relationship with Bogsroyd was far from a total disaster either. Once he'd become accustomed to the farmer's ways he'd found him reasonably easy to get on with. Bogsroyd's bark was far worse than his bite - the man simply thrived on confrontation and argument. Benton soon realised that the main part of the challenge that he'd accepted that night in the pub was Bogsroyd himself - not the actual farm work. Then there was Emily too… Had Joseph been deliberately matchmaking?

Benton bit his lip thoughtfully as he looked down at his soaking wet trousers and contemplated how to broach the subject of Emily. Bogsroyd was clearly the type who would prefer the old fashioned approach where matters of the heart were concerned.

"Mr. Bogsroyd, would you have any objection to me asking your Emily out for a drink tonight?"

Bogsroyd eyed Benton silently for a full three minutes, the soldier could almost see the cogs slowly turning in his mind as he weighed up the implications of the question.

"I might well have many an objection lad." Bogsroyd began eventually with his customary belligerence. "I might, but these modern girls today have their own minds - an' more's the pity too. If she's fool enough then so be it."

The farmer turned his back on Benton, to hide his smile, and switched the water back on. Benton left the parlour grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He knew that he had the closest thing to Bogsroyd's approval that any man could ever get.

THE END