A Camouflaged Christmas
Romance Story

A Camouflaged Christmas

by Androgynousother 17 min read 4.8 (21,300 views)
christmas romance straight sex masturbation military army
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Another Military story gang, seeing as so many of you ex-squaddies comment so nicely about them.

Another apology though. As I've stated before, I was a quarter brat and have at least lived in the Late Great 'British Army of the Rhine', BUT was never anything to do with the Royal Signals, so no grief from you Bleeps and Scaley Backs about incorrect times, dates, procedures or history. Another thank you to the literary gods for Google and the ARRSE website, where so much of the background comes from.

So put on your DPM, grab your 58's and a yellow handbag, and read on...

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After nearly three years in the army and my first stripe, I figured I was done with being shafted for the shitty Christmas shifts.

That year I'd finally been promoted to Woman Lance Corporal and seriously hoped I might be one of the few that got to go home a few days before Christmas, to drive back in my new British Forces Germany car I'd bought almost tax free and hadn't been driven further west than an old school friend's place in Munster.

I had a feeling I wouldn't get away scot-free over the holiday period, but wasn't best pleased when I read on Part Two orders for the duties over Christmas;

'Communications Centre Watch: W L/Cpl Fry E (WRAC R-SIGS).'

OK, I wasn't stagging on at some miserable gate guard standing in the wind, rain or snow for an hour then warming up for two, or worse, wrapped in every piece of clothing I had and walking the exterior fence line with a rifle and a magazine of ten rounds in whichever horrible weather the Rhineland winter might wish to throw at us.

My Christmas day was going to be sat in a comfortable chair, listening for radio messages or phone calls from units that wouldn't be on exercise for another ten days at least; an entire Division that had switched everything off at half past three the afternoon before.

Not only would me and two other unfortunates be clocking on at twenty-two hundred hours on Christmas eve, we wouldn't clock off until ten hundred on Boxing day.

So, no Christmas eve celebrating with my friends, no Christmas day at all, and Boxing Day would be no late breakfast, a shower then a curry lunch or cold meats and a mash of yesterday's leftovers. Yo-ho-fucking-ho.

I looked and saw that another three-person crew was taking over from us for another 36 hours stint, which would get the Divisional HQ through to the weekend with minimal disruption and only six squaddies messed about rather than the twelve it would have been ordinarily.

But my half-sad-half-pissed face was noticed by the Squadron Quartermaster Sergeant, who we were told had first come up with the idea.

"So, Corp' Fry, you think you should be off for the Christmas while some of the other lads and lasses with families have to work?"

"Would it make a difference Mam?" I said, stomping to attention with as much of a cheery smile as I could manage.

"Not really," she returned the smile with just as little feeling, "You went home last year, didn't you?" as if I was being ungrateful.

"No Mam," I said, "nor the year before. Last year I was in Ireland, and it was the same thing, the people with families had first go."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Well, I wasn't here last year so..." she cleared her throat in some evident discomfort, happy that the previous years hadn't been her fault.

"No Mam," I said quick to agree with her.

"More time off in the summer," she said, with a hopeful smile.

"Yes Mam," I was quick to agree again, but also conscious that if I wanted a few weeks off in the summer to go home, God forbid to go visit my parents and younger brother during the college holidays I'd be bottom of that fucking schedule as well -- 'what about the people with families Lance-corporal Fry'...

I was a very proud member of the Women's Royal Army Corps, badged to the Royal Corps of Signal, and trained in all aspects of radio communications, playing around with various kit that was quite top of the range, or so we were told.

We were a Signals Regiment supporting an armoured division, and while we weren't literally waiting with bated breath, I didn't feel that my absence would leave Western Democracy in dire fear of imminent invasion from the Russians.

"I'm trying something new this year," she said, "there's just going to be three of you, on a 36-hour shift each so it's less disruption all around, would have been double that, but," she took a deep breath, "Doesn't take twelve people to sit in a dark room for three days waiting for nothing to happen, when we can minimalize it," She smiled, a quite genuine one I thought, "and, it won't be forgotten, trust me!"

"Thanks Mam," I said, thinking about the extra portion of cold Christmas pudding, or half-a-day off they'd give me, when it suited them of course.

I stopped fretting.

This was what I signed up for of course. I was in the army, and I had no right to bitch about it.

In those days, a minimum of 85% of any operational unit had to be on station constantly, and an 'Active Edge' called at 'any time' would have us out of our beds at stupid o'clock in the morning to pull on our uniforms and equipment, draw weapons and clamber into our vehicles and head out to areas we trained and exercised on.

Sometimes it would be for hours, sometimes longer. I remember the feeling of dread for the first couple as it did all seem extremely real. The old sweats just bitched and grumbled about messed up family lives, and surely, they'd have given us real bullets and we'd have heard the bangs by now.

I'd learned to drive a car before joining up, but with that useful piece of paper in hand, I'd been put forward for my HGV licence to drive the Big Bedford MK radio relay trucks and it was completely brilliant. As a lance corporal I was normally responsible for making sure mine was working, fuelled up and ready to roll at a moment's notice. I was next on the list for learning to drive a FV439, the Royal Signals tracked armoured vehicle that carried Ptarmigan, and lots of other cool battlefield computer kit. We were an armoured regiment, but it was decided I need a heavy goods vehicle licence first, this was of course the British Army and it didn't surprise me.

And of course, an HGV licence was something I could take out into Civvy Street with me, as the regimental driving examiner told me after I passed the test.

So, with a small daysack loaded with a toothbrush, deodorant and some other girly essentials, at twenty-one forty-five on a cold Wednesday Christmas eve I reported to the communication centre -- the Comcen - and met with Lieutenant Swan the orderly officer, on duty until eight the next morning.

Once there we were greeted by six of my colleagues, wearing Christmas party hats, carrying what looked like gifts and having a real smell of booze around them.

Lt Swan pursed her lips, but said nothing, it was Christmas after all.

"There you go Babe," said the departing sergeant with whiskey breath and a sideways leer at me, despite the officer, "ComCen is all yours; radio checks are all done, you'll need to do them at first light tomorrow, then shift change."

"No shift changes sarge," I said, "I'm here until Boxing Day, with another guy, Lance-jack from 14 Troop. Sergeant Martin was supposed to be here but there was some confusion, and he wasn't warned and is already on his way to Dover in his car."

"Oh yeah," said the sergeant with a giggle, "I heard. Poor bastard will have messages waiting for him everywhere, including at his girlfriend's parents' place; if he keeps his head screwed on and keeps it down, we won't see that twa..." he remembered the officer, "fella again much before New Years!" He giggled, "sorry 'bout the language Mam!"

So, it was just me, trying to work out where the other Lance Corporal was. I'd been told that Lance Corporal Tyler was going to be spending this long 36-hour shift with me, and as far as I was concerned, he was late!

I'd checked and I was senior to him by three weeks, and unless they found another sergeant to stand in for the one that hadn't been warned, I was going to be in charge!

The five signallers coming off duty stepped back to allow the officer and I in, snickering quietly to themselves like they had some guilty secret, while the sergeant handed me the appropriate books and signed over everything, following the inspection I'd only observed before, the officer signing next to me.

I stepped into the main signals room and checked everything was switched on, charged, plugged in, glowing or not glowing, depending on what I was looking at. From behind a bank of monitors and equipment came a tall guy, short dark hair and striking green eyes and carrying two mugs of tea.

"Mam!" he said trying to come to attention without spilling his tea, "Can I get you a brew Mam?"

"Not for me, thanks Corp' Tyler," she smiled back at him. For some reason I felt a pang of jealousy! "Right," she continued, "I'll be back for the checks at 0600!"

"We'll see you then Mam," I said, closing the big duty books, and seeing her out of the ComCen.

When I got back, the good-looking, green-eyed man was there, still holding two mugs.

"Corp' Fry?" He said chirpily.

I nodded; hmmmm, nice.

"Ellie, please." I said smiling back. Suddenly any concerns I had about who was in charge disappeared.

"Steve Tyler," he handed me a mug and I took it by the cooler top, reaching out to shake his extended hand, "Pleasure."

"Yeah," I said, "seems you and me both got shafted for the most boring shift in Military history."

"Surely did," said Steve with a sigh, "I reeeeeally upset Major Snow's wife a couple of weeks back, what about you."

"What?" I all but screeched.

"JHQ chess championship, I beat her in the quarter-final."

Major Snow was an old sweat, a savage Squadron Sergeant Major promoted from the ranks, but popular and well-liked. His wife was infamous. Having lost the power and status over an entire battalion of wives and children via the Sergeants Mess, the former SSM's wife had to moulder in the obscurity of the Officers Mess and posher and more remote married quarters, but she still had friends.

"I can see that would make you ideal to work Christmas shifts."

"Probably for the next few years, you?"

"Unmarried, no children," I said simply, holding up my ring-free left hand, "and not sleeping with any of the sergeants!" I added.

"Yep, that'll do it too," he sipped his tea and taking the chair next to mine, "still, I hear Dougie Martin got away free and clear."

"So I've heard too, although they're leaving messages for him between here and Rachel Rowan's place."

I knew Doug's girlfriend Rachel who was in the UK and on an eight-week promotion course, and Doug had managed to book a week staying with her and her family in the UK, before someone realised that 'Sergeant MartEn', the person DUE to work the Christmas shift for some as yet undisclosed fuck-up had left the unit, had left BAOR, posted for six months to the Falkland Islands the week before -- must have been one hell of a fuck-up for that kind of posting.

Someone had blundered; and the typo wasn't noticed until the orderly room started to shut down at four that afternoon.

Only Sergeant Doug MartIn had gotten signed over and out, and had left at three.

Senior non-com's, desperate to shift the blame from them, their offices, clerks and typewriters decided that Doug should be contacted and brought back. People were chased and a home phone number for Rachel's Mum was found in a diary somewhere. There was no such thing as a right to privacy or the concepts of human rights back then of course.

From the post-Christmas girlie chat I had with Rachel, I found out that she was out getting some last-minute groceries and her mum had taken the call and sensing the danger refused to take a message, even when her daughter's Battalion Orderly Sergeant started to talk about Rachel's commitment...

"Yeah," she'd apparently said, "RACHEL'S Commitment-NOT MINE!"

"Corporal Rowan is waiting on her promo..."

"Yeah-yeah-fuckin'-yeah! What's your name honey?"

"Staff Sergeant Chalmers," he'd said proudly.

"Well Staff Sergeant Chalmers, why don't YOU contact my daughter and tell her? You're the Royal Bloody Signals for heaven's sake, haven't you got her boyfriend on satellite? Not tracking his car through the Rhineland?

Rachel and Doug are both soldiers, I'm not, so PLEASE don't try and scare me!" the reason for her 'fuck-you' anger became evident, "I was married to bloody squaddie for thirteen years and as far as I'm concerned you could be a fucking general and I STILL won't do what you tell me; I won't tell Rachel, nor will I tell her lovely boyfriend that you fine Tommies still can't organise a Christmas piss-up in your own brewery, despite living in the country that gave us fucking lager."

The staff sergeant tried to interrupt,

"Now just you liste..."

"No, YOU listen!" snapped Rachel's Mum, "If I find you've taken YOUR fuck-up out on MY daughter or her boyfriend, I'll tear your particular military shit-show a second arsehole!! I happen to be EXTREMELY good mates with my member of parliament, and I'm secretary of his constituency office. By the way, he's vice-chairman of the Defence Select Committee and he will bring so much crap down on that fairy story of an army you bloody kid yourselves you've got going over there, you won't know what fucking hit you Staff Sergeant Chalmers." She paused, "Now you brave boys have a good Christmas, I'm going to disconnect my phone so you can't ring again, goodbye!"

And, apparently, she did.

I heard later that the staff sergeant wanted to ring the local police station and send a copper round to see Woman Corporal Rowan and search for Sergeant Martin, but there was some initial, then much heightened discussion about her Mum's political connections. A way out was decided on.

Rach had officially given her dad as her next of kin and her parents were divorced and lived some distance apart; Mum's phone number was 'put back where it had been found' and nothing more was said. An easy way out.

In those days we didn't have email, and mobile phones were for the Filofax wielding Yuppies, and the instant communication we all take for granted now wasn't even dreamed of.

Dougie managed to avoid any messages at passport control and spent a lovely Christmas at Rachel's Mum's house as planned, the smiling parent never telling either of them until just before Rach was due back at Blandford.

In late January, Staff Sergeant Chalmers did take newly promoted Sergeant Rachel Rowan to one side in the mess and drunkenly told her in no uncertain terms that her Mum had a really bad attitude.

She just smiled and nodded, seeing from reflections from the corner of her eye, that several sergeant majors stood behind her were secretly waving at Chalmers and making throat-cutting gestures.

"Tell me about it; don't worry though, I'll talk to her about it next time I phone, PROMISE!" she hissed.

Staff Sergeant Chalmers mouth flapped temporarily, and he did look slightly worried.

That was still to happen of course, so back to the ComCen.

Rachel and Doug's Merry Christmas meant one thing; because her Mum worked for a junior cabinet minister, what should have been a three person shift over 36 hours, was now a two-person shift.

This would make SQMS Daubigny's reasonable day less comfortable. The design was based on the two of us heading for our Christmas Other Ranks lunch in the cookhouse while Doug waited, then him leaving for his later lunch in the mess was now totally out of the question, Steve would go, come back and then I'd go.

It wasn't the first time either of us had pulled this duty and it was normally pretty dull. It wasn't always sitting around in the ComCen in case the shit hit the fan. Normally it would be exercise radio traffic, tests of kit, training and all that.

This was the army though, and we had to be ready in case it went live. If it did, it would get really busy, really quickly of course.

But it never did.

Ever.

This Christmas was going to be slooooooooow.

Other than the walkie talkies the gate guard and guardroom used, there would be no radios in use unless there was a problem with a phone line from one of the outstations or secure areas. That too was a real faint possibility, but it had happened once when a fallen tree brought down a phone line in the early sixties.

It had happened once, so it could happen again, even though most of them were underground and even armoured these days. Three people would sit in a darkened, windowless room, seventeen or eighteen feet underground for a day and a half, breathing piped air.

One was missing though, and while it had seemed like a good idea at the time, it was decided that two lance-jacks would be enough, and a replacement sergeant was never decided on. If there was problem we could shout, and they'd send someone.

So Steve and I, in the finest spirit of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, 'got on with it'.

We'd be taking turns to go to the jolly cookhouse for our meals, sleeping for two or three hours on and off in shifts, reading books, magazines, the occasional newspaper and trying not to get so hopelessly bored that we'd want to buy ourselves out in January.

Sat in the 'big chair', I sipped my tea, it was just how I liked it. I was one of the few squaddies I knew that didn't drink tea and coffee 'NATO'. That is, milk, two sugars. I could and often did, but I liked the taste of tea and good coffee, not ruined by enough sugar to turn the bottom centimetre into a treacly goo.

"No sugar, did you know?" I said smiling up at those big green dark eyes I'd first noticed.

"No, lucky guess," he said with a big smile, pointing to the spoon and sugar jar across the room from us just in case I'd wanted some, "I actually like to taste my tea and coffee, since I was a kid I suppose."

"Me too!" I was most surprised by that. Most other squaddies I knew wanted milk with two, whereas I would make tea, add sugar to theirs, stir, then rinse the spoon as I was sure I would detect a hint of sweetness in mine if I didn't.

"Biscuit?" he said reaching into his small rucksack.

"No, I'm..." I looked at the familiar purple packet that appeared, "waaaaait-wait-wait... is that McVitie's fruit shortcake?"

"Of course," he said tearing the end of the packet open, "You mean, there are OTHER biscuits?" He smiled, taking the first two then handing the pack to me.

"Thank you!" I said trying not to beam at him.

"Remind me to offer you biscuits again!" he said reaching out to take the packet back from me.

"Got to be the right biscuits though Steve," I dunked my biscuit in my tea, devoured it in one, moaning quietly, not quite to myself but my pleasure was obvious.

He laughed, smiled very sweetly and handed the pack back to me.

"You're reasonably new here, Steve?"

"Yeah," he said, spinning his chair to face me, "I've just come back from 633 Troop over in Belize."

"So nice to come back to Germany in December, after six months in the heat of Central America!"

I'd really fancied a trip to the small troop of signallers stationed across the Atlantic in the tiny Commonwealth country nestling on the Caribbean Sea between Mexico and Guatemala. It was a six-month posting to one of four camps across the tiny country, including an RAF Station with harriers and some Puma 'Junglie' helicopters, and Army Air Corps Gazelles.

While I'd fancied the trip, the Royal Signals, the British Army actually, really didn't want to send a few young WRAC's there. Quite simply, the Caribbean third world paradise was home to something like two thousand young British airmen and Soldier Boys including an entire infantry battalion.

Yes, I could have gone, but wouldn't have had a free moment without being chatted up or romanced by a thousand of them. But Steve had been there, and his rather pleasant, good looks were improved by his still noticeable tan.

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