Over the Hills and Faraway Book 4: Soldiering On
Chapter 1: Training Team Kilo - July 1992-December 1992
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Drunk/Drugged, Heterosexual, Interracial, Black Female, Oriental Female, Safe Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Public Sex, Violent, Prostitution, Military,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1: Training Team Kilo - July 1992-December 1992 - When you're down the only way is up. Re enlist with Dewey Desmond as he starts his climb back up the ranks. He goes on active service abroad; and actively services broads at home and away. He meets old flames, and fights fire with fire. He says goodbye to an old friend, and displays some cold blooded behaviour. Things are looking good for Dewey until a cataclysmic event diverts him down an unexpected path. The designated codes encompass the entire story; their usage will vary within chapters
It had been a rough, a very rough, crossing of the English Channel from Ostend to Dover. I am not the best of sailors and decided to stay overnight to recuperate at my mother's house in Plaistow, before continuingon to Colchester; it is only about fifty miles from Plaistow to Colchester.
This would be my first visit 'home' since the deaths of Miriam's parents, and I hadn't spoken to Miriam since that terrible row over the 'phone the previous November. I had sent her a present, and we had exchanged cards at Christmas; I also sent a present with her birthday card in January.
All very polite and civilized, but I wondered how we would cope with a face-to-face meeting. As it happened we were spared any unpleasant confrontation as she was on a seminar in Manchester when I arrived home. That was probably just as well because my mother, after learning of my new posting, and my new rank, gave voice to her disapproval at my demotion, which I'm sure Miriam would have echoed.
"I see you've lost yer stripes–because of some tart I expect? You're just like yer Old Man. 'E kept 'is brains in 'is Y fronts, just the same as what you do!"
This was the first time she had ever spoken to me about my father, and it seems that he might have put himself about a bit.
"It's about time you an' Miriam made it up; she's walking round the 'ouse wiv a face like a slapped arse, an' you're getting yourself into trouble with tarts. Time you got back together an' made a proper go of yer marriage, not that I'm best suited to give advice on that subject."
More revelations; maybe my mother had also put herself about a bit, even before my father died?
I hadn't been posted to Colchester before, but it appeared to be much the same as any other British garrison town, with several barracks in the area, and a military prison, known as The Glasshouse. However, Colchester had good reason to call itself the oldest garrison town in Britain as it had been 'host' to Legio XX Valeria Victrix since 43 AD. Over the years many time-expired legionnaires had settled in the town, marrying local girls and producing Romano-British children. Unfortunately for the citizens of Colchester, or Camulodunum as it was known then, the XX Legion was away in the north of Wales, having a ruck with the druids, when in 61 AD Boadicea and her Iceni tribe came rampaging through, destroying the place and slaughtering the inhabitants, before continuing on to London to do the same thing there.
Boadicea would have been proud of what the present council has achieved in continuing her work, destroying what was left of the town centre, and building a frustrating and badly designed one-way traffic system.
From the guardroom of Kirkee Barracks I was directed to a three storied Victorian building, tucked away behind the Motor Transport yard. I assumed that the building had been built in the 1860's, and was a relic of the original barracks. It was an uncompromising, sturdy, red brick edifice, and could have been a school, hospital, prison, asylum or barracks. One Victorian design fits all.
As I stood in the entrance hall, wondering where to report, I heard the sound of a keyboard being used: by an expert judging by the speed of the keystrokes. I knocked at a room off to the side of the entrance hall, and a voice told me to enter. Sitting at a desk, her fingers flying over the keyboard of a computer, was a female corporal. The badges - collar dogs as they are known - on the lapels of her tunic indicated she was in the Intelligence Corps, which gave me food for thought. The Int. Corps was a mysterious unit, whose members were usually employed at the Ministry of Defence (MoD) in Whitehall, or at the Government communications headquarters (GCHQ) in Cheltenham —why would a training team have a 'spook' on strength?
She was a well-built girl. Her bosom swelled her tunic so that the buttons must have been under extreme strain. She glanced up and gave me an open and friendly smile. "Hello," she said, in the local accent, "who are you?"
Her face was round and attractive, with a dimpled chin. Her hair, pulled back into a regulation bun, was dark brown, and her large, limpid eyes were a n attractive shade of hazel.
I put my joining instructions on the desk in front of her and she quickly read them. "Rifleman Desmond. Right, I'll get your paperwork."
She got out of her chair and made her way over to a filing cabinet. Her skirt was stretched tightly across her haunches and over a large, but well rounded, bum, which didn't wobble but oscillated when she walked. For the life of me I couldn't recall who she reminded me of. I must have been staring at her for when she glanced up from the filing cabinet she gave me a hard look.
"What's the matter, haven't you seen a fat girl before?" There was a sharp edge to her voice.
I suddenly remembered who she reminded me of:it was Carole, Pippa's lesbian friend.
"Not fat," I said, "more like Rubenesque."
She laughed, a delightful sound.
"You'll be OK; you've got a silver tongue." She came back to the desk with a sheaf of papers, which she put down before holding out her hand. "I'm Mel, Mel Brookes." She saw the look on my face. "The other, not so famous, Mel Brookes. My maiden name was Gibson, so I'm quite used to people taking the piss."
I shook her hand. "Des Desmond; pleased to meet you."
"You've been posted in as driver, batman and general factotum to the second in command (2i/c). His office is on the next floor up - room six. You had better report to him first, and then come back down here and I'll sort you out."
I went upstairs and knocked on the door of room 6; then heard a voice say 'Come in'. I walked in to find Harry Ledbetter sat behind a desk.
I was gob smacked. "Wha... !"
Harry got up and came around the desk to shake my hand.
"Hello Dave, good to see you." He could see I was astounded to find him in Colchester; the last I heard he was up in London at MoD.
He waved me into a chair and told me what he, and now I, was doing at Training Team Kilo 92.
The team had initially been formed to go out to Kenya – hence Kilo – to mentor the Kenyan army in logistics and support techniques.
"I've been more or less thrust on them, and the Colonel in charge is not best pleased."
"I thought you were in a department at MoD. What's that have to do with training the Kenyan army?"
Harry spoke quietly. "I can't really go into much detail, but basically the Kenyans want some instruction in mortar firing technique and usage. It's not something that our political masters want bruited abroad. Our military help in logistics and support are OK, but anything that might smack of keeping their own people down is soon picked up by the anti-militarists in Opposition, so a mortar training element has been bolted onto the logistic mentoring, and hopefully will slip under the radar."
"Why did you choose me to join the team?"
"If you hadn't been reduced to the ranks you would have been selected in any case. You've done the instructor course, and a mortar course, as well as the combat medic's course."
I looked at him sharply. "Are we going into a combat situation?"
"No, but the Kenyans don't have a too well developed field medical system in place, and a trained medic will be indispensable. Then there's the fact that you're a linguist; we will need to acquire a basic understanding of Swahili before we leave..." He looked at a calendar on the wall, " ... in four weeks' time, so all in all you are a natural shoo- in. When I found out that you had been demoted I called in some favours and had you posted onto the team." He looked at me anxiously. "You don't mind acting as my batman for a while, at least until we get to Kenya?"
I shook my head. " Not at all; as usual, Harry, you've saved my bacon; it would have been very awkward for me, wherever I got posted to in the regiment, but in Kenya no one will know why I got busted, or care."
He smiled his appreciation, and continued. "There are only five mortar instructors on the team, so it's quite likely that you will be co-opted as an extra instructor. I might be able to get you made up to acting sergeant if that happens. We intend to train about twenty Kenyan SNCOs as mortar instructors over a four-week period. They will then go back to their battalions and train up the mortar platoons."
I suddenly realised that Harry was wearing Major's crowns on his epaulettes.
"Congratulations," I said, indicating his new rank badges.
"It's only temporary, but at least it will give me some clout in Kenya. The team is led by a Lieutenant Colonel Jones, from the Royal Logistics Corps (RLC). He is giving a briefing to the whole team the day after tomorrow, but I'm going to tell you something that he doesn't know. I know I can trust you, which is probably the best reason for having you on the team."
He picked up the telephone on his desk. "Mel, no calls for the next ten minutes, OK?"
He started talking, and this is a brief resume of what he said.
Ever since the Shifta War of 1963–67 between Kenya and Somalia – shifta is Swahili for bandit – Kenya has been concerned with its Northern Frontier District (NFD), which not only has a border with Somalia but the majority of the inhabitants of the region are ethnic Somalis, who are closer to Mogadishu than to Nairobi, both geographically, ethnically, and religiously. The current problems in Somalia – the on-going, severe, famine and the internecine warfare between the differing clan warlords – have been exacerbated by the appearance of bands of Islamic militants. These Mujahideen, equipped, funded and trained by Iran, are now controlling land along the border with the NFD.
This has led to Kenya fearing that a more radical form of Islam could be stirring in Somalia, leading to their annexation of the Northern Frontier District, which historically was part of Somalia.
The Kenyans have a well-trained army, and are currently upgrading their supply and transport assets, which is why Training Team Kilo 92 was formed. Until recently the Kenyan Army had been mainly concerned with rural internal security. However, the threat of a large scale incursion, of well-armed, well trained insurgents, including the possibility of units of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, from across the border, has galvanised the Kenyans in improving the effectiveness of their infantry battalions, notably the mortar platoons. The Kenyan Army has recently re-equipped with the L16 81mm mortar, and, as a member of the Commonwealth, has requested that a training team be dispatched from the UK to instruct the SNCOs who will command the mortar platoons. Given the sensitivity of the region, and the fact that the UK is not willing to be seen helping governments with weapons that could be used against their own people, it was decided that the mortar training team would be 'infiltrated' into Training Team Kilo 92. The mortar team will spend four months training the Kenyan Army, simultaneously with, but separate from, the logistics training team.
Harry paused after his briefing. "Now this is the section of the briefing that only you and I, and Mel, know about." He smiled at my look of surprise that Mel should also share this secret stuff.
"After Training Team Kilo 92 returns to the UK, at the end of November, you and I will monitor the mortar platoons in action, and assess how effective they, and our training, have been."
"So we will be going into a combat situation? You said we will monitor the mortars in action. I don't suppose you meant watching them on a firing range?"
Harry rubbed his chin and looked reflectively at me. "There are people at GCHQ monitoring the build-up of the Mujahideen and Shifta groups, and the estimate as to when the incursions will start is mid-December. Consequently our training schedule is rigged to get as many SNCO's as possible trained up, ready to lead their mortar platoons, by late November. If the situation alters we may have to increase the training rate. MoD gets reports from GCHQ, and then passes them on to me, which is why Mel and I will have to report to MoD quite often. When the balloon goes up you and I will accompany the force sent in to deal with the incursion."
Harry gazed at me with a serious and earnest look on his face. "I must stress this fact, Dave. We are only to act as observers; we mustn't get involved in any fighting. Officially we won't be there, and there will be hell to play if we make waves." He gave a slight smile. "And getting killed could put quite a damper on our careers!"
After Harry had finished the briefing I went back down stairs to Mel.
"You're a bit of a problem, Des. All the other team members are sergeants and are billeted in the Sergeants' Mess. You don't want to bed down in the transit billet: it's like a barn, and right next to the RSM's office, and he's always popping in. The place gets polished more often than a Household Cavalry saddle."
She handed me a set of keys. "These are the keys to room twenty, on the top floor; it used to be the Barrack Warden's quarters when this building was a storage facility. You can use the room as your billet. It's got all the fixtures and fittings you need, with a bathroom and all the trimmings across the corridor. Matter of fact you'll be doing me a favour by living here. I'm supposed to open up the building each morning, but I'm in a quarter on the other side of Colchester, near The Glasshouse, where my husband is a screw – although he prefers being referred to as a Detention Officer. It's a bit of a struggle for me to get here before the Colonel. I have trouble getting out of my pit of a morning, but he is an early riser and is often in his office by eight am."
She pointed to a door across the hall. "That's his office; he spends the first two hours of the day in there and the rest of the time he's out and about."
For the next four weeks I acted as Harry's driver /batman; not that it entailed a great deal of effort. He had his kit; shoes, Sam Browne belt, etc. cleaned by a Mess Steward, all I had to do was to go over to his room occasionally to give his uniform a press, and make sure I was outside the Officers' Mess with the Land Rover when required. I would drive Harry and Mel to the MoD complex in London at least once a week to get the latest information from Somalia, and to give a report on the Training Team -- well, just the mortar training element. These reports were classified as Top Secret, which is why they had to be transported by a secure army vehicle and not by someone just taking the train. I thought this was a bit over the top, but what the hell, I liked bombing up and down the A12 to London and back in a Land Rover, although driving through the centre of the city to Whitehall was a bloody nightmare. Fortunately an army Land Rover had a certain aura about it, and most vehicles gave way when in a 50–50 situation. Those that didn't, more often than not it would be a white van driven by a shaven headed thug, got dinged.
I would park up in the huge underground car park below the Ministry of Defence building, and then hang around, talking to the very tasty females - civvies and service - employed there, while Harry and Mel reported to their boss, whoever that was. My security clearance wouldn't get me past the Other Ranks' canteen. It transpired that Mel had worked in the same section as Harry at MoD, and he had asked for her to be seconded to Training Team Kilo 92.
"She's not just a pretty face, is Mel," Harry had told me the first time she came with us. "She has got as high a security rating as I have. Mel was the Top Secret and Confidential files clerk in the section, among her other duties, and she knows more secrets, and is more intelligent, than most members of the Cabinet."
I thought that she was probably much more intelligent than that; 90% of the population would be more intelligent than a Cabinet Minister.
But Harry was right about one thing–she was certainly a pretty face, and I wouldn't have minded rummaging about in her secret drawers. However, she was married to a fellow squaddie, and I didn't want to go down that path again.
Quite often I would return to Colchester alone from these London trips. The meetings between Harry and his boss, which must have been top secret, went on into the evening, and Harry would stay in London overnight. He would meet his older brother, Thomas, who was something big in the Bank of England, and they would go out for a meal, after which Harry would spend the night at The Rag, the Army and Navy Club. Once the secret report had been delivered it was OK for Harry to return by train. Mel was given permission to stay overnight with her sister in Shepherds Bush, and then catch an early morning train back to Colchester. If I had been in a closer relationship with Miriam I could have stayed the night in Plaistow, and then driven the Land Rover back to Colchester early next morning. But I wasn't, so I would wait until after the London rush hour was over to drive back to barracks, and then go out on the piss with some of the lads.
Occasionally there would be a meeting at MoD on a Friday, and if the meeting ran on Harry would authorise me and Mel to stay in London until Sunday night. I half hoped that Mel might fancy a dirty weekend with me up in The Smoke, and then a moon light drive back to Colchester, but she laughed and said that she and her sister would be 'hitting the stores Up West on Saturday, and that took precedent over any rumpty pumpty, even with a tasty fella like you'. She had a lovely way of putting a bloke down.
I once asked her how her husband managed when she was staying in London with her sister. "Oh, he manages well enough. He works shifts, and it usually works out that he's on duty when I'm away." She gave a slight smile. "Besides I know he's shagging the arse off one of the female screws at the Glasshouse!"
As far as the Training Team went I was left pretty much to my own devices, except for the daily Swahili lesson of two hours. Swahili is a simple language, spoken by most of the coastal tribes in East Africa, and I picked it up quite easily. I also had a refresher course on the L16 mortar; it would be helpful to have another trained instructor on the team, in case of sickness etc.
Although I had completed an instructors' course I needed to get back into the routine of actually preparing lessons and delivering them, so I sat in, and assisted on, all of the lectures and demonstrations given by the mortar training team. The mortar training element, including me, practised their demonstration and lesson techniques on 1 Para, the battalion occupying Kirkee barracks. There were five instructors and myself, and three of us were Para trained, so we had no problem with the Para boys, who tended to look down on those who had not done the parachute course.
The building where I was accommodated also housed the conference/lecture rooms and storerooms, besides several other single rooms like my billet. One evening at about 6pm, on my return from a visit to Plaistow, I was just about to unlock the front door of the building when it opened, and Mel came out of the block dressed in civvies. We were both taken by surprise.
"I thought you were away for the weekend." Mel said. I had intended spending the weekend getting closer to Miriam. My mother had a new bloke to run in, and had taken him off to Clacton for the weekend to road test him, so we had the house to ourselves. Unfortunately, things hadn't improved between Miriam and me, and after an unpleasant hour listening to her enumerating my faults I had walked out and caught the next train back to Colchester.
I gave Mel the bare facts for my unexpected return, and she explained her presence at the block.
"When my husband is working nights I sometimes stay overnight in one of the other rooms in the block, where I keep a change of clothes, uniform and civvies. I'm off out with the girls this evening and haven't had time to go home to change."
I leered at her. "Let me know when you next stay overnight, and I'll come round and keep you company." I was only half joking.
"If I stayed overnight, with you in the building, I'd need to put a double lock on my door – you randy sod."
"With you dressed like that I'd climb up the three stories by the drain pipe, and come through the window to get at you."
Mel laughed. "I don't doubt it." She looked a real treat in a summer dress which emphasised her breasts, as good a pair I'd seen. Her hips swelled the fabric of the dress, and her well-shaped legs, shod in high heels, made her look exceptionally desirable and sexy.
"Enjoy yourself tonight, Mel; but looking like that you're wasted on a bunch of girls."
She waved, and I watched her walk away. She swayed her hips in a parody of a Hollywood star, and I applauded.
On Monday morning I asked how the night out with the girls had gone.
"Very enjoyable, but very exhausting." Her eyes were still dark rimmed, and I guessed that she and the girls had partied late.
"Des, I'd be grateful if you kept the knowledge of me using one of the rooms to yourself. I haven't cleared it with the Colonel."
I shrugged. "It's none of my business, or his. I'll keep schtum." She smiled me her thanks, and I never gave it another thought.
The four weeks went by swiftly, and the day before we flew out to Kenya we had a farewell drink with the lads of 1 Para who had been acting as our 'students'.
This was just the mortar team, as the logistics side of Training Team Kilo 92 had already had their piss-up. Harry, me, and the five instructors, met the Paras in the 'Flying Horse' pub, which was obviously the Parachute Regiment's drinking place. Harry couldn't stay long as there was a 'do' in the Officers' Mess, but before leaving he put £50 behind the bar for us, which we got through in swift order.
One of the sergeants in 1 Para, Benny Flint, had been one of the young lads with me on the journey down to the Falklands. He was a couple of months older than me, and had celebrated his 18th birthday during the voyage to the Islands. The other young soldier who we knocked around with is still down there – Kevin Porter. He was even younger than I was, just 17 — when the ship sailed from Portsmouth.
Benny and I sat in a corner getting drunk, and maudlin, as we remembered our times in the Falklands, and Kevin, who didn't make it back.
"He was a lovely bloke, was young Kev." Benny let out a great sigh. "I was alongside him going up Mount Longdon;I was only a few feet behind him in the extended line. That bloody RPG could have just as well hit me." I knew what he was getting at; I was on the other side of Kev, and if the RPG hadn't hit him it probably would have hit me.
Benny and I both carried the guilt that it struck poor old Kev and not us. In fact Benny got so bad, sobbing and weeping, that I took him out of the pub and walked him back to barracks. It wouldn't do for his lads to see him in a 'girly' state.
I wasn't far behind him in the girly stakes myself, as I also carried the guilt for that poor bloody Argie I had killed, or butchered, as my darling wife had put it. I saw Benny back OK to his room in the Sergeants' Mess and then made my way over to my billet.
The door to the building was unlocked, which was strange as I knew I had locked it on my way out. I didn't think too much about it – maybe Mel was sleeping over. The thought transmitted itself to my groin. I needed a warm, comforting, woman to snuggle up to after the guilt trip I'd been on, and Mel was well equipped to do the comforting. I made my way up to her room, which was across the landing from mine. I hadn't put on the block lights and saw a band of light under her door. Bloody good show, she was at home. I wasn't expecting rumpty pumpty with her, although naturally I wouldn't turn it down if it was offered, but I genuinely wanted comforting. As I made my way towards her door I heard her cry out.
"Oh God yes! Do it now. Now!" She was approaching a climax, and I didn't think it was self-induced.
She reached her orgasm with a loud shriek, and I heard her companion bellow 'YES!!'
It was a voice I knew as well as my own – Harry Ledbetter!
I tiptoed away, not that I think they would have heard me if I had been playing the Ride of The Valkyries on a euphonium. They were in that post coital state of murmuring, and kissing and caressing, and I felt like a Peeping Tom, or rather a Listening Tom.
I quickly and silently ran downstairs, switched on the lights then made my way back upstairs singing, slightly off key. I noticed that the band of light under her door was extinguished when I reached the landing.
In my room I sat on my bed amazed. Who would have thought it – Harry and Mel? I knew Harry was a bit of lad with the girls, but had thought his tastes lay with the Sloane Ranger type. His ex-wife, Cynthia, was a prime example of the breed, and any girl I had seen Harry with followed the same type. Mel was a completely different sort of woman, and I wondered when they had started shagging each other. Probably not long after Harry had arrived at MoD; no wonder he had her attached to Training Team Kilo 92. All those nights Harry had supposedly been in his club in London had been spent, in all the meanings of the word, between Mel's gorgeous, welcoming, thighs, and I felt a huge pang of envy.
Oh well, that's something else I would need to keep to myself – but what a turn up!