Part Ten: Once More Unto the Breach

Feeling less than sprightly, I checked my reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe in my room. Smart enough, as you'd expect an infantry officer to be. The tie might be too much, too formal, which didn't especially worry me – it could be removed if need be, and not having one in London would mean a detour to buy one. Waste of time and money. Struggling slightly, I pulled my jacket on; the muscles in my back protested, and my healing ribs joined in out of sympathy.

A loud rapping sounded from the door.

'Come in, it's not locked.'

Nick Munroe, also in civvies, stuck his head round the door to sneer at my outfit.

'Is that the best you can do? You look like a sack of coal in a suit. Taken you ages, too.'

Was I obliged to take along my pistol? The streets of London hardly teemed with monsters. If I carried it then I'd need my UNIT identification, yet another thing to worry about carrying or losing.

'Some of us are nursing the wounds of recent combat, Lieutenant Munroe, which makes donning a jacket a travail.'

He winced in annoyance, having missed the close combat that resulted in my being the worse for wear.

'Are you taking Bertie along?' I enquired.

'No fear! A pistol might cramp my style with the lady Liz – oh, what now!'

His exasperation stemmed from my taking the jacket off, getting both pistol and shoulder harness from my cabinet and struggling into the fashion accessory. One of us at least had better be armed; the Brig might not appreciate his officers going unarmed because of a pretty face.

Whilst we walked off Nick got the money-look about his countenance.

'What you need, for speed and convenience, is one of those American clip-on holsters. Dirty Harry-style. Clip them on the belt above your bum, nobody's any the wiser. It would save you struggling to get that harness on.'

We clattered down the stairs and signed out at the Guard Room.

'How much would this model of efficiency cost?'

Nick shrugged.

'That I can't say. Need to contact the Americans, see what they say, mark it up five hundred per cent.'

'Chiseller!'

'That's with the best-friend's discount.'

Having drawn the short straw, I drove into London. Not only that, I grossly abused my status as an officer in UNIT with full and proper ID and parked in the underground car park at the London office, in Kensington.

'Free, guaranteed parking at the weekend. Makes it all worthwhile, doesn't it?' quipped Nick.

Back in the open air, strolling along the London streets in occasional sunshine, mixing with the great and blissfully ignorant British public, I felt that being in UNIT actually meant something worthwhile if all this around me remained safe.

There was a worm in the bud, still.

'This mystery woman who's coming with Liz Shaw. How come I'm not being told about her?'

Call me suspicious. You can't let Munroe stray too far out of your sight or he'll get up to jinks. High or low, still jinks.

'I don't know, Liz would't say. No, honestly I don't!' he claimed, laughing at me.

'If it turns out to be her mum, Harry Sullivan will need a street map just to find your body parts.'

'Ooh, there speaks a man afraid. Really, I have no idea who it is. Liz just said she – this mystery gal – is keen to meet you.'

'Oh, good taste then.'

'More like shockingly naive. Come on, let's hail a cab, we'll be late.'

Late is a matter of definition, and if we got there first then we weren't late. Our arrangement was to meet in Leicester Square, by the fountain. At that time of the morning there shouldn't be too many crowds, nor were there. Nick and I strolled in from the north side, and saw two ladies standing with their backs to us, watching the water spraying from the fountain. Liz I could identify in her big white hat, but not the other woman.

Nick gave them a big hello, prompting both to turn around, and the cheery smile on his face stuck fast.

For a couple of seconds I didn't recognise the brunette lady with a bob hairdo, until she smiled and nodded a greeting.

'Madame Valdupont!' said Nick in strained tones. 'What a surprise!'

'What a pleasant surprise,' I managed, with the benefit of a few seconds to gather my wits. This was the severe, frosty and all-round fairly hostile Frenchwoman from Swaffham Prior? Sweeping on with the charm, I continued.

'A time to mention the Marne, perhaps, in memory of La Belle Alliance?'

Nick got me in the ribs for that. Personally I thought it wasn't bad for spur of the moment.

Liz got her introduction in first, acting the diplomat and peace-maker.

'Nick, please go and stand on the other side of the fountain. This is private. Don't worry and don't sulk, I won't be long.'

Puzzled and crestfallen, Nick strolled off to the other side of the playing fountain.

'I'm not going to put words in Marie's mouth, John. She can speak for herself, but what I would like is for both of you to start as if this was your first meeting on civilised terms. No more glowering, Marie, and no more nasty quips, John. Okay?' and she went tap-tapping away on her low heels.

'Gosh. Well. Sorry, I don't know what to say!' I blurted, embarassed. 'You looked so pretty I didn't recognise you at first. Liz didn't tell Nick who she was arriving with, and after our previous meetings – well, you might forgive me for not expecting you. He – er - I didn't even know your name.'

She looked very serious, which instantly made me worry; had I put my Size 12 foot in it again?

'You made me think very hard last time, when you said "big does not equal stupid" to Elizabeth. Remember?'

Vaguely. Nevertheless I nodded.

'Then Elizabeth scolds me, and tells me you were a graduate of politics. I felt ashamed of thinking you were big stupid English soldier.'

She sniffed. Oh Good God Above, I prayed, do not let her start to cry! A crying woman throws me utterly. I'd rather face down the Autons again than a weeping woman. Fortunately she carried on, dry-eyed.

'And then we are told you do battle with the Nestenes and suffer injury. I felt very bad, so Elizabeth says an apology is required, that I have to come with her to meet her admirer.'

There it was. She'd suffered an attack of conscience and came to apologise, with a bit of prompting from Liz. Naturally this made me cringe with shame at having upset her.

'Hey, I ought to be the one apologising here. A gentleman never embarasses a lady. You make me feel very small indeed, making an apology like that.'

With a flick of her head, she brightened immediately.

'Come! We are here for a good time, all four of us. No more sadness, I forbid it.' She linked her arm in mine and walked us round the fountain, where Nick had been taking advantage of the seclusion to romance Liz, the dirty dog.

'O there you are,' he commented. 'We've been getting on simply famously without you.'

'Don't lend him any money,' I warned Liz, who blinked in surprise before realising it was a joke.

'Enough joking,' announced Nick. 'Let's eat. I have worked up a decent appetite, which is not a thing to make fun of. Where do we repair to?'

A quick stroll up and down the square later, we settled for Vecchio's. Marie inspected everything on the menu before giving it a qualified nod, and then did the same for the wine. She sniffed the cork, swirled a mouthful around and gave a grudging nod to the waiter, who seemed both impressed and alarmed at such rigour. Everything arrived piping hot and the staff didn't lurk in hope of a tip.

The wine loosened tongues and manners; not a security issue because both women carried security ratings as high, if not higher, than Nick and I. By accident or intent we sat outside in a corner, against a hedge of potted plants and the outer window, well apart from any potential eavesdroppers. To my mild horror, Nick insisted on a highly-coloured account of the affair in Leek Wootton, accompanied by various ooh's and aah's from Liz and Marie.

'The lab got an outline of what happened there,' explained Liz. 'Including a running battle underground.' Marie shuddered. 'To go under the ground – no, I could not do that.'

'Yes, and I won't volunteer to do it again,' I firmly assured them. Nick frowned hugely in retrospective annoyance; given the chance he'd volunteer for duty underground, overground, anywhere at all, in a flash, that much was obvious. 'Nobody mentioned it much at the time, given that it was damn obvious, but if Nick hadn't shown up with his collection of expensive and noisy toys, I wouldn't be here. None of the section would.'

How do you like the spotlight being upon you! I said to myself. Seeing Lieutenant Munroe visibly brighten under the flattery, I could tell he liked it no end. Show-off.

'Will you get a medal?' asked Liz of me, in all innocence. Nick nearly choked on his coffee, probably not having considered the possibility.

'Oh, no, not the slightest chance of that. The Brigadier told me the whole thing was a comparatively minor affair, not worth making a fuss about, and I also put a civilian at risk. Barney. The chap who guided us in the mine.'

Nick chimed in to take the seriousness out of things.

'I say the chap who supplied all that fancy hardware, including a vehicle-mounted flamethrower with two hundred gallons of napalm, that chap, he's the one who deserves a medal.'

'Who is that?' asked Marie, not seeing the punchline.

'Me!' chortled Nick, nibbling on his Amaretto wafer. Liz punched him on the forearm in retaliation. He got up and excused himself for a call of nature, followed by Marie.

'Sorry. It is the wine and coffee together.'

Liz waited until they were both out of earshot.

'Just be careful with Marie. She's feeling rather vulnerable.'

'You be careful with Nick Munroe,' I warned. 'He's feeling rather frisky.' That made her smile.

'I'm a grown woman, thank you, and quite capable of looking after myself.'

'So is Marie, I take it.' Her expression turned serious again.

'Yes, but she's just gone through a nasty divorce. Knocked her sense of self-confidence pretty badly.'

For a second I got an insight into Marie Valdupont – hiding away from the world, burying herself in her work, avoiding any commitment. Liz finished talking.

'I'm trying to get her to open up a bit, stop hiding away. She's lonely and won't admit it. So, please treat her with consideration.'

A silent nod indicated my thoughtful approval. The solemn moment was shattered by Nick strolling back to us, announcing that he'd paid the bill himself, that he wouldn't tell us how much it came to and yah booh to you too. I took the wind out of his sails by threatening to use his first name.

'Your real first name. The one you were christened with,' I explained, his face falling like a souffle.

'There are rules in the Geneva Convention about that, you know,' he muttered.

When Marie returned we all went for a stroll, ending up in Trafalgar Square. I flinched a little at the statue of Nelson, recalling the one-eyed bugger's finest moment.

'Sorry,' I apologised to Marie. 'Bringing you here.' She looked slightly puzzled, as did Liz.

'Navy,' explained Nick, quicker off the mark at lying that me. 'Those denim-clad rascals. You know – rum, sodomy and the lash.'

'No. You are meaning Napoleon and Trafalgar,' declared Marie, rolling her "r's" with relish.

Pretty sharp. Still, she wouldn't be a visting professor if she wasn't clever.

'Allow me,' I said. 'I shall pour oil upon the troubled waters. Actually ice cream, but with same effect.'

Off I toddled to the ice cream van on the opposite side of the column. The elderly chap with a moustache who served looked over my shoulder several times.

'Is that your bird? I think you ought to get back to her, mate. She's having a pretty hard time of it.'

Nick and Liz had vanished whilst I walked to the ice-cream van. During my absence several skinheaded morons took it upon themselves to harrass Marie. I don't know where they came from, but they danced around a worried-looking Marie, hurling insults in Cockney patois that even I found hard to follow, even daring to push and grope her.

'Are we finished?' I called, loudly, whilst still distant. One or two of the skinheads paused to look at me. They didn't seem worried. A man carrying ice-cream can't be a threat to anyone.

' 'scuse me,' I said, pushing between those who blocked Marie from me. They gave way only reluctantly. Marie grasped my arm immediately.

'Let us go,' she said. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Unfortunately one of the folically-desolate morons circling us took offence at this.

'You what? Leaving so soon?' he leered. 'Ah come on dahling give you a fag for a bl- ' and he laid a hand on Marie's arm.

You can't sigh on paper, can you? If it were possible, at this point I would sigh. My Temper Gets The Better Of Me, Part #126. I delivered a right uppercut that laid Mr Folically-Challenged cold at our feet two seconds after he put his hand on Marie. Grasping my right fist with my left palm, I hit the man behind with my right elbow, creating a nasty cracking sound as his nose broke. He fell to the floor yelping, yelping and bleeding.

The three other skinheads piled in. More fool they. I'm not a technically skilled boxer, I don't have the lightness of foot, the grace or the manouvrability required. However to compensate I do have the ability to soak up a lot of punishment, a howitzer of a right hand and a punch that leaves opponents dead on the floor.

The last crop-headed swine still standing grimaced furiously at me, then howled in anguish as a stout boot impacted upon his private collection of family architecture from behind. He fell to the floor clutching his unmentionables as Nick Munroe loomed over him, looking left and right.

'Bugger me!' he said, sounding impressed. 'Five to one and you got four of them!' He carefully trod on the collapsed skinhead's throat. 'And you can stop whining, Kojak.'

Liz looked on the scene with shock and alarm. She was instrumental in moving us away, to Regent Square Station, where we got the Tube and travelled further out.

'I can't believe you were so stupid as to attack those men!' she scolded me. I hung my head in shame. 'What if they'd had knives?'

'Then they'd be dead,' said Nick, deadpan. 'John is carrying Bertie Browning, as per standing orders.'

That stopped Liz for a few seconds. Being a woman, however, she simply had to start up again.

'And why did you start punching them!'

'mumble push mumble Marie mutter mutter arm grumble whitter insult,' I replied, grievously embarassed.

'It is true!' added Marie. 'They were saying horrible things and touching me.' To my profound surprise, she threaded her arms around my right bicep and hugged me. 'But my brave Eenglish soldier came to the rescue.'

'Oh,' said Liz, equally surprised and silenced. Nick looked at the crimson blush upon my cheeks and snickered.

'Got any muffins? We could toast them on his face!'

'You leave him alone! He is une gentil parfait knight!' scolded Marie.

Nick and I got back to Aylesbury by twenty hundred hours. My knuckles were skinned and my already protesting back and ribs let me know that a punch-up was not conducive to healing.

'So you've got a return date?' asked an unusually thoughtful Nick when we signed in at the Guard Room.

'When I get another forty-eight hour pass. I think she likes me.'

'I think you like her. She is a curvy little number out of her lab coat.'

'What about Liz?' I asked as we climbed up the stairs to the officer's quarters. Nick frowned and harrumphed.

'Not really interested in me. No, all she could ask about was that wierdo Doctor Smith. Embarassing. My charm must be wearing out.' He stopped at the door to his room and pointed at me.

'Liz said Marie really does like you, matey. Funny how opinions change, hey? And I'll ask about a bum-holster tomorrow.'

Okay, I'm a man. Knowing that an attractive and intelligent woman liked me put a spring in my step. This on-top-of-the-world feeling lasted all of five minutes until I got a phone call from the Duty Officer, put through to my room.

'Lieutenant Walmsley? I need you in the Guard Room immediately.'

I went back downstairs to the Guard Room where Captain Crichton and a Military Police officer were chatting. Private Bradpiece sat at the desk, carefully not paying attention.

'Ah, there you are, Walmsley. Take a chair, please. This is Captain Foster of the Provosts. He has a few questions to ask you. It seems there was an incident in London today.'

Genuine bewilderment gave my initial reaction a convincing air.

'Bloody hell sir! I was there all day with Nick – ah, with Lieutenant Munroe, sir. We didn't witness anything.'

Captain Foster, a sandy-haired man of middle-age with an air of introspection, looked hard at me, decided I wasn't taking the mickey and carried on.

'Not a UNIT kind of "incident", Lieutenant. We got word from the civil police that five members of the public had been taken to hospital after enduring an assault by - and I quote - "twenty or thirty off-duty soldiers in civilian clothing". Happened in Trafalgar Square.'

Whoopsy-daisy. The five skinheads punched into sweet oblivion. Captain Crichton looked at me with extremely keen eyes while Captain Foster carried on.

'Now, I know these characters are talking complete nonsense because there haven't been more than five off-duty squaddies in the whole of London today. Besides, a witness to the event stated that there were only two people doing the assaulting, not thirty, or even twenty.'

That would be the ice-cream salesman.

Captain Crichton put a fatherly arm around my shoulder.

'Captain Foster, I think I'd better inform the lieutenant of the legal implications of what happened here.' He pulled me over to a corner as the provost nodded sagely and turned to face the lobby.

'John, what the hell happened!' asked Crichton. I explained, and he whistled in appreciation. 'Five to one, eh. No wonder they lied through their teeth – mostly missing now, I understand – about getting a good hiding. Okay, leave this to me.'

We returned to face Captain Foster.

'Cover your knuckles,' mouthed Private Bradpiece to me, pointing at the bruises and bloodstains. Lieutenant Walmsley promptly adopted a respectful hands-behind-back-at-ease stance.

'Well, it seems that the Lieutenant can't possibly have been involved. He was dining in Leicester Square at the time of the incident,' said Crichton. Captain Foster nodded. 'And the incident appeared to involve harrassment of a foreign national.' Captain Foster frowned and tutted. 'A foreign national in the service of HM Government, moreover.' Captain Foster shook his head in disbelief. 'And a woman, to boot.' Captain Foster looked very angry.

'Well,' he replied. 'About what I reckoned to be the case. It seems that the mysterious assailants did UNIT and the UK a good turn – this time. Were such an event to happen again, I feel sure that the RMP would have to pursue it relentlessly.'

'Absolutely, sir,' I chimed in. The matter didn't end there, of course. No, the Brig got involved. According to his lights, anyone able to punch out four opponents simultaneously had to go on the Close Protection Course for bodyguards.

'I understand that the honour of a lady and UNIT was involved,' he mentioned, off-handedly whilst making out travel orders. 'I trust both were defended.' And then I got sent to the CQBH in Wales.

I think matters would have been less complicated if I'd just shot the skinheaded swine.