A Trooper Named Soap
It was late summer, six and a half months since the British Special Air Service held their seasonal selection course. There were only two a year and about twenty men were expected to pass. Only nine rode on the white school bus that snaked its way to the 22nd Regiment's base in Credenhill, Herefordshire.
These men were troopers, the FNGs, but only one stood out: John MacTavish. The silent young Scot had come into training as Sergeant; he did not lose his rank. Straight after college he joined the British Army and soon after his three and a half years of serving, he joined the SAS.
It seemed that John was destined to be in the military life. He had no emotions, just anger and aggressiveness. The others, he decided, couldn't get him very far in life. Love and happiness were of little importance. Trust was always followed by betrayal.
So thus, he disliked overhearing the others. All were talking about their loved ones and most especially, the girls they had left behind. The eight troopers were disappointed. You see, in the SAS you are sworn to secrecy as soon as you join. Only close relatives could be aware of your membership in it. Girlfriends were no exceptions. It didn't matter to John.
The girls he had dated were either too much or too little. His roommate would play matchmaker, setting up blind dates every Friday for John without knowing the types of girls he liked (then again, he didn't like any in the first place). The blind dates were usually not too bad. Same plan, different girl. John would bring her to a restaurant, talk, and it would end there. There was one girl who never talked but only stared at him as he ate. Another would blabber on about her newest clothes. Cripes, one girl was desperate enough that she clinged to him as he walked to his car.
John was one slick guy. Always slipping past the girls, never giving them a chance. Eventually his roommate called him Soap. It fit him perfectly