Chapter 17: None but the Brave

I was informed in late November 2002 I would be awarded the Military Cross in the New Year's Honours list of January 2003, for 'gallant and meritorious service in Afghanistan'. The blurb went on about 'coolly fighting off an attack when outnumbered, and saving the life of a comrade', and all that bollocks.

In fact I was unconscious when I fell on top of Ergash Vakil, thus saving him from being spattered by shrapnel. Billy Turner, who had saved both Ergash's and my life by arriving in time to drive off the Taliban, and then by his prompt action in getting us back to a hospital, was also awarded the Military Cross (MC).

Until 1993 the MC was awarded only to commissioned officers; other ranks being given the Military Medal in lieu, as I was in 1982.

The investiture was to be held at Buckingham Palace on February 16th, 2003, and I was expected to be accompanied to the ceremony by my nearest and dearest, then stay overnight at the Hilton.

Stephanie Bowley would have been the ideal choice as my companion, as she belonged to a military family having generations of service to the Crown, and was a female with who I would certainly enjoy spending a night in the London Hilton after the investiture. Unfortunately, I knew she would be away on the 16th February, in Saint Moritz with her latest lancer toy boy.

I had stayed at her apartment during the Christmas holiday and enjoyed a hectic, dissolute, energetic, wild and abandoned, festive shag-fest, besides fighting the battle of Leipzig on her war games table. We also spent time in an unusually introspective mood.

She had rung me a week before Christmas asking what my plans were for the forthcoming holiday. Do you know I had no idea what to do with myself?

I'd never had to face a Christmas on my own since joining the army.

The previous Christmas had been spent between the thighs of Ying Tong at the Uzbek Hilton; Christmases past had found me either in barracks surrounded by mates, or in the arms and twats of females, several of whose names I don't recall.

The prospect of spending time in my own company was daunting, and when Stephanie kindly invited me over for the festive season I gratefully accepted.

Christmas 2002. Datchet; England.

We had completed another bout of frantic shagging on the carpet and lay gasping; gulping air into our oxygen, but not sex, starved lungs. Steph rolled off me — she always insisted on being on top.

"You know, Dewey, I'll be forty seven in May next year, and I'm shagging a boy of twenty two. I'm old enough to be his mother for God's sake."

I raised myself on an elbow and gazed down at her lying alongside me. Her well-shaped and firm breasts rose and fell as she continued taking deep breaths.

"He's a very lucky boy to have a mother like you." I said, and licked her belly button. She was as naked, and sheened with sweat and secretions, as I.

She stood up and wiped herself with a towel, then started dressing. I realised she was concerned about something, and used her towel, sweet with her scent, to wipe myself dry then pulled on my clothes.

We sat together on the sofa with a drink each, and she began to speak in a serious a tone of voice.

"Look at my life, Dewey: always ready for a shag with young men and boys, who then move on and get married to girls of their own age, and always alone at Christmas."

She took a long pull at her drink before continuing.

"Piers, my current toy boy, is getting bored. I know the signs, and after spending two weeks in Saint Moritz he'll drop me, being too ashamed to be seen in public with an old crone like me."

She started crying, which really surprised me as she was usually such a confident and self-assured person.

"Rubbish, Steph. You are a sexy, extremely attractive, and eminently shaggable woman. There will be a mega long queue of young men eager to take the place of the tosser, if he's fool enough to leave you."

She gave me a hug and a sweet kiss. "I'm serious, Dewey. In a few years' time I will be sitting here alone, without any one in the world to give a fuck if I live or die."

She sniffed back a tear, and then spoke in a firm and determined voice.

"After the skiing trip, when I've screwed the brains out of Piers, and hopefully he will have done the same for me, I'm going to get hold of an old man with pots of money, marry him, and then bonk the old bugger into an early grave."

She gave a sardonic grin. "Who am I trying to kid? Men like that are shagged into an early grave by blonde, teenage, bimbos, not ageing sluts like me."

One thing Steph said struck a resonating chord in me. Who would give a fuck if I lived or died? Miriam? She has a new life in Manchester, and I doubt if she'll ever think of me. Pippa Goddard? Likewise, but her new life is in Durham. Debbie Carter? We were just fuck partners, nothing more, and she would have had plenty others since me. Annalise? She made her life with Herr Danzig, he with the metre sized peter. Ffion Probert? She chose to spend her life with her homosexual husband rather than me. Karen Walker? She is probably sharing her nymphomania with any bloke who can keep up with her voracious sexual demands. Greta, Francine, Rita, Dilys the Dogger, Hannah, Leilah, Ying Tong, Angela from the Lemon Tree and Maggie from the Crown, Kylie from Mombasa and all the other females whom I had fucked and/or loved, will have no regard for me, and had probably forgotten me days after I left them.

All bar one — Dawn on Still Waters. I knew she would think about me, but only when she wasn't too busy trying to save the world from starvation.

A sudden thought wrenched me from my self-pitying period of melancholia.

"What about me, Steph?" I said, surprised at myself. "Marry me, and fuck me into an early grave."

Stephanie stared at me in amazement. "I wasn't touting for business, Dewey."

She wrapped her arms around my neck. "You're a lovely person. One of the best, and I'm extremely fond of you, but we both know it wouldn't work. We are both romantics, and marrying for anything other than love is not really for us."

"Hang on, Steph. Only a minute ago you was on about marrying a bloke for his money. Where does love and romance come into that?" I was a bit pissed off; this was the second time in my life to have a marriage proposal refused.

Steph laid her cheek against mine. "Dewey, Dewey, Dewey; my sweet Dewey. We have great respect, and sexual attraction, for each other, but we don't love each other. I might be willing to stifle my romantic feelings in a marriage of convenience, but you are a born romantic. One day you'll find someone who will love you as much as you love her. Unfortunately, that isn't me. It would be so much easier for us both if it were." There was sadness in her voice, but once again I knew the woman who had turned my offer of marriage down was right to do so. First Phillipa Goddard, and now Stephanie Bowley.

She went over to the table and poured a drink.

"As a matter of fact I do have a 'follower', Raymond Coleville. He has been sweet on me since I was a teenager. He joined the Light Infantry, eventually becoming a Lieutenant Colonel, and I went into nursing. I treated him shabbily – I was a selfish, unfeeling, bitch as a young woman – and the poor man finally gave up on me and married someone else." She wore a wistful expression on her face. "I believe he married his wife because she looked a bit like me. The poor woman died five years ago. I do see him from time to time," she paused, smiling. "Not being seen to; Raymond is too much of a gentleman to ever try it on, and I'm too ashamed to bed him when I'm being poked by half the subalterns in the Lancers." She sat down next to me, and I saw tears in her eyes. "Do you think I'm a slag, Dewey?"

"Not at all" I said, and gave her a friendly kiss, which soon developed into a passionate snogging session, and we ended up in another al fresco sexual bout on the carpet, but this time I was on top.

After rearranging our clothing, and then having a slash – not together, we are quite private people – she continued talking about her 'follower'.

"Raymond is about fifteen years older than me, and is actually quite a dish, being still in good shape. I'm sure in time I could love him, and I know I could make him happy. After the skiing trip with Piers I will hook up with him and give it my best shot. Meantime, you can take me to bed and shag me senseless."

Which I did.

February 2003: West Drayton. England

So, who could I invite to accompany me to the investiture?

Shona Lewis was an obvious choice. Although she was still seeing Alan Guthrie, when his PA wasn't available, I sensed she was in some degree attracted to me. Anyway, what girl could resist a visit to Buckingham Palace, followed by a night at the London Hilton being shagged insensible by a decorated war hero?

It turned out Shona Lewis could, although to be fair she was quite up front about it.I had popped into the mail room and asked if she would like to accompany me to Buck House, and stay overnight in a five star hotel, thinking she would jump at the offer.

"It would be a great honour, and privilege to attend your investiture," she said, "but I would have to return to West Drayton after the ceremony; no staying at the Hilton for the night."

Well, half the loaf is better than no bread at all, so I said OK.

We were whisked up to the Hilton, by a limousine paid for by MilSys, where we both changed, in separate rooms, into our clothes for the investiture.

I wore the No 1 Home Dress uniform of the Wessex Regiment, wearing a Staff Sergeant's chevrons and crowns and all my medals, including the Order of The Republic of Kenya. Say it myself, as shouldn't, I was the dog's bollocks.

Shona had a new outfit, which MilSys had paid for, and she looked gorgeous.

I wished like hell we would be sharing a bed at the Hilton later that Friday evening instead of merely the limousine ride back to West Drayton.

HRH the Prince of Wales conducted the Investiture as HM the Queen was on an overseas visit. He knew all about my previous service in the Falklands, and asked about my Kenyan medal. It was surprising how easy it was to talk to him.

I know he went down in the public's estimation because of the Princess Di affair, but for my money he's a bloody good bloke.

Shona and I met up with Billy Turner and his wife in the Hilton after the investiture. I had changed back into civvies – my uniform would be picked up the next day and returned to the Quartermasters Stores in Knightsbridge Barracks – but Shona continued wearing her new dress, and folded the dress she wore earlier into a Harrods bag to carry home.

I could see Billy was well impressed with Shona, and she did look exceptionally tempting. After a couple of hours, and a few drinks, the Turners headed for home, which was married quarters in Wellington Barracks, where the Sergeants Mess was throwing a huge party for him. As they said their goodbyes Billy said quietly, "Nice one, Dewey," thinking I was going to be stuck into Shona all night. I just smiled, ruefully.

Shona snuggled up to me as the limo carried us back to West Drayton.

She had been drinking vodka and tonics, and was a little bit pissed, and a lot less inhibited than earlier.

"I liked your friends, Des," she said. Her breath fanned my ear, and her hand slid over my thigh and caressed my prick through the material of my trousers.

We kissed, and her mouth sucked in my tongue. For several minutes our tongues played hide and seek, slipping and slithering over inner lips, then she unzipped my fly and sent her hand ferreting through my underwear before encompassing my semi erect shaft. As the limo glided smoothly through the late evening traffic on the M4 her hand glided equally smoothly up and down a suprised, but pleased, John Thomas.

Shona withdrew her hand from my groin when we took the off ramp at Junction 4 into West Drayton, and gave directions to the driver.

"Take the third left, Reg." I was surprised she knew the driver's name until she whispered in my ear. "Reg is Alan Guthrie's driver."

Shona had probably been well shagged in the back of this car, or at least had given Alan a wank while bound for some overnight shagging session at a luxury hotel, all at MilSys expense.

Reg coasted to a stop outside Shona's house and got out of the vehicle to open the car door for her.

"Mister Desmond won't be requiring the car Reg. You can get off home now."

I glanced at her in surprise as I thought rumpty pumpty wasn't on the menu for tonight, and wondered what had changed her mind. I joined her on the pavement as Reg drew away.

"Alan will know first thing on Monday morning we spent the night together." Shona smirked, as she let us in through the front door of her semi-detached house.

So that was it; I was merely a tit for tat fuck. Alan Guthrie was away screwing his PA all weekend, and Shona was getting her own back by screwing me. Not that I was bothered about her reasons for allowing me to stay the night; a fuck is a fuck, and I'd been looking forward to sampling her honey pot from our first meeting.

"My son is staying with his father all weekend, so you can stay over until Sunday afternoon." She said, before kissing me open mouthed and swallowing my tongue. We spent a few minutes rubbing each other's genitals before going up the stairs into the front bedroom.