Charles stood a few feet back from the counter as he pushed the handle of his Nespresso machine down, feeling the familiar resistance as it met the coffee pod before closing completely. He pressed the start button and placed both hands on the edge of the worktop to lean against it, the aroma of the Rosabya espresso filling the air as it formed a chocolate coloured pool in his cup. He sighed loudly and briefly closed his eyes as he listened to the coffee hit the bottom of his cup, willing the morning to drag on a bit longer before he had to get going to the office.
When the coffee was ready he crossed the kitchen, went through the sitting room exited out the back door to his favourite spot of the flat, the tiny garden that required no maintenance, yet gave him a modicum of privacy and access to fresh air. The wooden deck was big enough for two matching club chairs and a small table between them, which his mummy had bought for him when he moved in. She wanted a place to sit outside when she visited so had to make sure it was up to her standard.
The white mug with his regimental crest on it was hot in his hand still as Charles dropped into the chair he preferred. It was in shade at this time of morning and he could hear the birds in the trees surrounding his small green space, just slightly removed from the busy London street. He sighed again reliving the latest argument in the back of his mind, saying almost out loud but to himself what he would say if he could go back in time. He always thought of something better to say after the fact. At the front of his mind he was trying to plan his day, yet he kept getting sucked back into the. Such petty nonsense she would start a fight over, he thought.
As the Captain he was leader of all of 3 Platoon but running 2 Section personally alongside his 2ic, the very able Cpl Kinders. 1 and 3 Sections had a Sergeant each who reported to him that he needed to meet with this afternoon. The platoon was preparing to deploy to Afghanistan and their departure date was fast approaching. Less than two months left of their work up training to go before he could half a world away from his problems. And her.
This morning a 15km run was on the books. He enjoyed running. He loved the challenge and the breathless feeling of pushing himself to breathless was as comforting to him as a Roysabya in the morning. He had high expectations for his Platoons fitness and always leading by example, he often led PT especially if it was a run. Sgt Martin could lead PT tomorrow and do something a bit easier, a weight circuit or a short ruck march, Charles mused to himself.
But fuck her! God she made him mad. What had he ever, ever seen in her? He wanted to pull his hair out as his mind once again, drifted back to the disagreement over this tour. They were already living apart, having formally separated while on his last tour. Neither could petition for a divorce until they had lived apart for a year and their one-year separation anniversary was any day now. Finally, as he lifted the mug to his lips to drain the last precious dregs of espresso he got up and padded back into the flat, clad only in soft grey jogging pants that were beyond comfortable and hung tantalizing low on his hips, according to the last girl he had brought home.
Dressing in his PT kit of shorts and a t-shirt with the regimental cap badge from Sandhurst on the back, he packed a pair of fresh combats for today, a t-shirt, his into his black backpack before heading for the door. His boots were at the office and needed a quick going over to take the dust off but that could be done later. With quick stop in the kitchen to fill his water bottle and grab a power bar, Charles pulled his good running shoes on, grabbed his car keys and stepped out of his quiet bachelor haven. The quiet daily life bustle of the London street was comforting as he gave the front door of the flat a tug as he turned the key. Someone was walking their dog across the street and he could hear traffic noises in the distance. Even though he lived in central London his street was quiet and old, Georgian row houses turned into flats or offices was a quiet reprieve from the barracks life and a far cry from the far-flung locales of his operational tours.
The black BMW snaked its way to the barracks, exactly 10.5 km away. He knew it was 10.5km as he occasionally ran to or from the office. Charles parked in his designated parking spot and found his way into the warren that is the battalion orderly room complex via the side door. The familiar smell, a combination of sweat, gun oil and old building mustiness greeted him.
"Good morning, Sarah", he greeted the company clerk, as he passed through the gap of the counter just inside the front of office The counter separated the designated classified area from the public space where the average troop could stand to seek administrative assistance. A big red and white sign with the HM Government logo on it announced the area behind the counter was for qualified staff only.
"Mornin' Sir," Sarah replied, glancing away from her computer screen while she continued to type. The handsome Captain coming into the office was always a highlight of her day, especially when he came in wearing civvies or PT gear. Sarah was one of the lads, having been a clerk in the forces for over 12 years now and the uniform they all wore was no longer anything special. But seeing them in jeans or shorts felt like a slight invasion of their privacy, a glimpse into their lifestyle outside of the uniform.
The battalion orderly room Sarah ran as the Sergeant consisted of a main office, 3 desks on each wall facing the front counter with a gap down the middle for foot traffic. 4 offices were off the main room, smaller officers for each platoon commander, and a larger, more imposing office off the corner furthest from the door for the Adjutant, Maj. Armstrong. Two of Sarah's other clerks were on leave and the third had just rung to say she was stopping for coffee for the office and would be along shortly. Sarah had the Captain's attention all to herself for now.
Charles didn't need to open his office door as he made his way cross the orderly room to the second door on the right; he believed in an open door policy and anyone who knew him understood he was available any time for a chat, but if the door was closed, there was a reason. "Anything for me today? How was your weekend?" he asked, dropping his backpack onto the chair behind his desk and retrieving his power bar before returning to the main office. He sat on the edge of the desk opposite Sarah's while he ate, eager for a catch up on gossip from the weekend.
"Two transfers in for you to review their files. One is a patch over the Blues and Royals, he's got one tour and shouldn't need any babysitting other than a new trade and taking his tank away," she chuckled, "and one from a reserve infantry unit to fill your platoon. I'm just finishing up creating their local files and I'll give you what I got from Brigade to go over. First aid refresh is booked for Friday. Nice way to finish the week I think," she offered, reviewing her steno pad of things she wanted to update the boss on.
"Two? I was expecting one. Well, aren't we spoiled? Almost full capacity, what an idea!" Charles crowed, dripping with sarcasm. "Do you know them?"
The army was an awfully small world and Sarah had held several clerk positions across the country as well as having two tours under her belt, so her database of soldiers was solid, and Charles trusted her opinion. She was a hard worker and never one to shy away from going above and beyond. He called her his magician; if he asked for something, she got it done.
The last exercises the entire battalion had been on had been a month after returning from an extremely emotional tour, four members of the battalion had been killed in one day and even after decompression and home-leave, morale had been at an all-time low. Charles had asked for a BBQ as a surprise to the squaddies and he wasn't shocked at all when the quartermaster unloaded a BBQ off the truck. Sarah had even organized a cooler full to the top of hot dogs and burgers the guys could fire up after their training was done for the day. Army food was nothing but calories and adding some home comforts was always a morale booter. Keep the troops paid and fed and you'll have happy soldiers he believed.
"Neither sounds familiar, sorry boss. But I can ask around," she offered, glancing back to see his reaction.
"Naw, you're alright. I'll look at their files after inspection," he offered, standing up. "Thanks Sarah."
Sarah went back to typing and Charles left the orderly room for the parade square where his Sergeants and Cpl Kidners were hovering just outside their shared platoon office and the three sections of squaddies were in various stages of warming up.
"Steady up!" Sgt Martin called, as Charles made his way across the corner of the parade square to the group. Everyone stopped and came to attention, arms at their sides, hands in fists, backs straight and eyes forward.
"As you were," Charles quickly offered. Unlike the Americans, none of Her Majesty's forces salute when not wearing a head dress. It's one of the very first lessons learned on basic training. When someone of higher rank enters a room or joins a group where no one had a hat on, someone calls out Group, or Room or steady up, as it may be, to acknowledge the ranking person, a shift in command, without a salute. They didn't always get a cheerful "As you were," sometimes they remained at attention for a bollocking but not today.
"Bring it in," Charles called, as everyone gathered closer around him. "I don't bite…hard", he joked, which got a ripple of chuckles. "Today we have 15k on the calendar. 15 starts at the flagpole just outside the gates at 0800 sharp," he glanced at his watch, that was just less than 15 minutes from now "It's a nice out and back route, not too hilly. I want a good pace, ok? We have a reputation of fitness to keep up, we have to beat 1 and 2 Platoon again this week on run miles. I want us to set the pace for this week. We're getting close to deployment and we'll have two new bodies joining us, so let's push hard on Monday and the rest of the week will sail by. I want to be back here no later than 0910h, understood?"
A chorus of "Sirs" as acknowledgement sounded back to him. "Take the next ten to hydrate, do some dynamic stretching or whatever you need." He stepped back from the group in an informal dismissal and turned to the section leaders. "Ready?"
"Sir," they answered.
"I'll follow up in the rear for any stragglers," Miller offered. "I think you should run with Calhoun, he struggled last run and that was a shorter distance," he suggested, looking at Sgt Morrison.
"Put him at the front," Charles decided. "He'll to keep up to me but won't fall back from the platoon." This was a common tactic in group runs, to put the slower runners at the front so the platoon didn't separate and become an accordion as people tried to catch up and slowed down again creating unsightly gaps in the two by two formation. The one leading the run would be several paces in front then the slower ones, followed by faster runners, or ones who struggled less at the very back, always followed up by one of the fittest ones who could talk and run at the same time, to encourage the ones struggling that eventually fell out of formation altogether. Everyone was fit, just some were fitter than others.
Charles gave a final nod and quickly strode back to the office to follow his own advice to hydrate one last time. "We'll be back no later than 0910h, Sarah," he called from his office.
"Roger that, Sir," Sarah replied, still clicking away on her keyboard.
"If we're not back by then, better come with a van," he offered, as he passed by her desk on his way out.
"Will do, Sir!" she called, letter her gaze linger on his bum in those short as he disappeared out of sight. She knew she wouldn't have to collect anyone unless they got run over by a car, 3 Platoon was fast and Capt James had high fitness standards, no one would be getting hurt or not making it back.
Charles stood at the flagpole at five minutes to 8. "If you're not five minutes early, you're five minutes late!" he bellowed, looking at his watch as the platoon straggled over casually. He waited, arms crossed across his chest and hands tucked under, staring at the last one to show up through his dark black sunglasses. "Mansfield Mike, that's 25 pushups when we get back for being last. Let's go!" He turned on his watch and started running without another word.
At 0909h Charles ran past the flagpole back at the barracks. He was dripping with sweat but felt accomplished. That was a solid run and he was happy to know that no one fell out or wasn't able to keep up.
"Well done lads!" he cheered, looking at his watch as Sgt Millar came to a stop beside him. "Keep walking, don't just stop. Mansfield, you owe me 25 pushups!"
Mansfield groaned but dropped to the ground and started pumping out pushups. "Everyone get down!" Charles yelled, always one to lead by example, he too dropped to the ground and started from one, counting out loud to 25.
"Sir, respectfully, how the fuck do you have that much energy? I'm dying!" Smurf crowed, slowly getting up.
"Well Smurf, I don't go for Indian takeaway every other day, do I?" Charles sharp comeback made the platoon snicker as the Captain ribbed Smurf about his weekend exploit that the entire battalion knew about by now. "Lads, that was a good run. Pretty near 4 minutes per kilometer. Remember when we get to the sandbox it will be 40 degrees out there, not the nice 18 we just ran in. Form up for inspection in 25 minutes please. Gents, they're all yours." He nodded at Sgts Miller and Morrison and Cpl Kinders and headed toward the side door nearest his office where the commissioned offers had their own locker room.
"Good time sir," Sarah said, looking at her watch as the sweaty Captain her office to get to his. She couldn't help but notice he also smelled amazing. How did he do that? Run 15km in just over a hour, look and smell so good?
"It was good, wasn't it? I was impressed, I was concerned about a few of them," Charles offered as he held onto the door frame with one hand and holding his right ankle behind him to stretch his quads.
"Oh, some registered mail came for you while you were gone," Sarah added, trying to look at him out of the corner of her eye without making it obvious. She swiveled around in her chair to get out of her pit to go to the photocopier as she spoke. "It's on your desk, Sir." She didn't really need to photocopy anything, but she wanted to see what his reaction was.
Charles dropped his foot and didn't pick up the other one. Instead he quickly ducked into his office and crossed the room in 3 large, Charles sized steps to his desk and saw the legal sized envelope. This was it. He recognized the law firms name as the return address. Dropping down in his leather desk chair he opened it with the regimental letter opener that he took from the stationary draw in his immaculate desk.
Petition for divorce by Rebecca James. Respondent Charles James.
Finally. He dropped his head back against the head rest and pictured Sam's little face, soon to be a statistic as a child of divorced parents. He missed his son and living daily life with him, but his mother had made it impossible to stay with her. He tried to be civil to Rebecca for Sam's sake, and they had done well enough for putting on a show until halfway through their year of separation. For some reason Rebecca had taken this upcoming tour personally, as if living across the country from him wasn't enough. Charles had moved out of the family home in effort to keep the peace and rented the flat he lived in now while Rebecca and Sam stayed in the Wimbledon mid century detached that they had bought together just before getting married. It was the only home Sam had known and it wasn't fair to move him out of it, Rebecca argued when the need for separate living arrangements became glaringly apparent. During his last tour Rebecca had moved back to Yorkshire and moved into her parents' home. She had gone ahead and rented out the marital property while Charles was dodging bullets in Afghan and there was nothing he could do about it.
He felt numb as he held the thick stack of papers in his hands. He should be elated; he couldn't wait to be officially free of her. The sweat was starting to dry and leave a chalky feeling on his skin. Inspection was in fifteen minutes and he couldn't be late. Tucking the envelope into the desk drawer he grabbed his backpack and practically ran though the orderly room to the officer's locker room.
"Sarah, I hate to be a pain…"
"Anything for you sir," she smiled sweetly.
"You are a doll. One in a million. Could you give my boots a quick polish and drop them off outside the Officer's locker room? I'm going to be late for my own inspection," he offered sheepishly, removing the black combat boots from behind his back, a handing her a frayed pencil case with a few patches sewn on that served as his polishing kit sticking out of the left boot.
"Like I said," Sarah said with a sigh, taking the boots and polishing kit, "anything for you sir."
Charles winked at her and jogged off in the direction of the locker room. He knew Sarah looked at his bum but he didn't mind. He looked at hers too and they had a great working relationship.