As usual, the RAF C130 flight back from Africa was as boring as fuck and very uncomfortable. Anyone complaining about airline seats should be forced to spend nine hours sat on webbing straps. Finally, at just gone midnight, we touched down at RAF Brize Norton to the west of London. There were no TV cameras or flag-waving wives and girlfriends to greet us, just bored looking RAF movements staff and a line of buses - my unit hadn't officially been in Sierra Leone.
By 0500 on that July Friday morning, we were de-bussing at our barracks and dragging kit off Army trucks. "Listen in!" screamed the RSM, "Weapons to the armoury, make sure they're well oiled, sort your shit then get some scran down your necks. Parade at 1400 in the gym for the CO's address."
We were well aware of the routine but RSMs like to shout and bluster. The CO rambled on for half an hour - great work, credit to the regiment, no discussing our deployment, blah, blah. I only perked up when he said, "Three weeks leave." Very fucking generous. After a five-month deployment where we worked 7 days a week, that's the equivalent of a civvy working seven days a week and getting two hours off on a Sunday afternoon. Still, better than fuck all.
Most of the lads were heading off to parents, wives or girlfriends. I had none of those. My parents were dead and my girlfriend dumped me two months into the deployment. I phoned my sister, Steph, who lived near Norwich in deepest Norfolk. We'd never really got on but she was all I had. As kids, we lived with our parents on a farm just outside of Cambridge. We didn't own the farm, our father was a basic farm labourer and we lived in a small cottage that came with the job. He was proud of our working-class roots and wouldn't hear of us going to university. Steph planned her escape. One warm evening in June, not long after she turned eighteen, she got permission for a sleepover at her friend's house. She and Emma raided the wardrobe of Emma's older sister, put on make-up and hit the town. By midnight they were in the apartment of two wealthy students being fucked stupid. One of them, Charles, did the right thing and married Steph two days after her nineteenth birthday and a few weeks before baby Eloise was born.
Charles was a twat but a rich twat. His father was President of a merchant bank and owned a dozen sugar beet farms that fed the vast sugar factory outside Norwich.
"Hello, sis," I said when she answered.
"I thought you were fucking dead," she said by way of greeting.
"They'd have told you," I said, "You're listed as my next of kin."
"Hmmph," she grunted, "Not even a fucking postcard?"
"Weren't allowed, you know the score."
"Oh yeah, superman in his secret regiment. Why couldn't you have joined the Catering Corps like a normal bloke?"
"Guess I'm not normal."
"And you missed Eloise's 18th last month, same as usual."
"Shit, I'll pick something up on the way."
"S'pose that means you're looking for somewhere to crash then?"
"Just for a few days, until I sort myself out."
"Where are you? Or is it still a PO box number?"
"About six hours away. It'll be well past midnight when I get to you."
There was a pause before she said, "You'll be in the main guest bedroom. Top of the stairs, first door on the right. There's a key safe to the right of the front door. The code is 7312. Inside the door on the left is an alarm panel. You have thirty seconds to enter the same code on the keypad. I'll see you in the morning." The line went dead.
The afternoon was spent washing kit, squaring everything away and the drag of a post-deployment medical. "Any problems or issues, Corporal Dennison?" asked the MO.
"No sir," I replied.
"Let me check the wounds you received early on, left leg and arm it says here."
"It was just grenade shrapnel," I said, "Mostly stitches."
"You weren't casevacced?"
"No sir, two weeks light duties."
As he checked them he said, "You kept up to speed on the anti-malarial tablets?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Any unprotected sex?"
"Not with the locals, Sir."
"Ah yes...," he said, "I heard your squadron spent some time billeted alongside some French nurses."
I just grinned. At the Regimental HQ, I joined a line of others at a series of desks. At the first, I picked up a leave application that had been pre-completed with the dates and pre-authorised. I scribbled down Steph's address and signed it.
"You need a rail warrant, Dennison?" asked the Chief Clerk.
"No, I'm driving, Chief."
"Off you fuck then," said the RSM from behind me.
Mid-evening I dropped Dave Higgins at his house in Bristol where he was greeted by his sexy wife. That diversion and the jackknifed truck on the M25 meant it was just before two in the morning when my tyres crunched to a halt on the curved gravel driveway. Although Charles was pretty gormless, I admired the way he'd stood up to his parents who had wanted to pay Steph off. Actually, they seemed to have a good marriage, Eloise and this big country house. Hauling my bag off the back seat of my diesel Ford Focus, the security lights on the house lit up a Range Rover, a BMW M5 and a very new looking Mini Cooper.
Inside the quiet house, I dumped my bags in the huge marble entrance hall and went for a wander. In the kitchen, I made a smoked salmon sandwich before pouring myself a large Macallan Rare Cask malt in the library. Some soldiers can sleep standing up but I'm one of those who has to wind down first. Geordie Bartlet was the master. After a massive firefight, he could lay down, close his eyes and be asleep in two minutes. It would take me six hours. I'd only been here once before, about eight years ago.
I was woken by the sound of curtains being drawn and a young voice saying, "Morning, Uncle Bob."
Pushing myself up onto my right elbow, I blinked at the bright sunlight. Squinting, I said, "Eloise?"
As she put two mugs on the antique bedside table she said, "I'm surprised you recognised me."
"Don't you start," I groaned, "I had enough grief off your mother on the phone yesterday!"
"Yeah, well, I'm not her thankfully," she grinned. Fuck me, she was gorgeous. The last time I saw her, years ago, she was gawky with spots and braces on her teeth. Now, she was a graceful swan with long chocolate brown hair, big round brown eyes and high cheekbones. She was wearing pyjama shorts with a top that was at least one size too small that accentuated her B-cup tits. I forced myself not to stare too long at the bumps caused by her nipples.
Sitting on the bed she said, "I didn't know if you wanted tea or coffee so I made both. I'll drink whichever you don't want. How long are you staying?"
"Just a couple of days. I've got three weeks leave, maybe I'll go hiking in Scotland."
"No wife or girlfriend?"
"Not any more."
Eloise looked as if she was thinking then got up saying, "Back in a mo."
While she was gone I pondered how Steph, who was fairly plain and Charles, who was a typical Hooray Henry and probably inbred, had managed to produce such a beautiful creature. After a piss in the en-suite bathroom, I pulled on a pair of shorts. Through the open bedroom door, I could hear raised voices downstairs. Back on the bed, I checked for emails on my phone. "Have you got your passport with you?" asked Eloise as she walked back and resumed her seat on the bed.
"Always. Even on leave, we can be told to head for the nearest airport. Happened to me once in Athens. I got a message saying 'get your ass to Cyprus'. Why?"
"Sunday, we fly to grandpa's villa in Tuscany for two weeks. Mum says you can come."
"Really?" I laughed.
"Oh, she took some persuading. I told her that she's always complaining that we never see you and that you deserve a good break after defending Queen and country. There are plenty of flights into Florence." Touching my arm she said, "Please say you'll come?"
Just that touch made my cock stir. "Okay," I said, "And I'll try not to wind your mother up too much."
"Don't worry, it's a fucking huge villa," she laughed. Then she went serious and said, "You've got a lot of scars. This one on your leg looks recent. Does it hurt?"
"Not now, it's just part of the job."
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
"Wow! Yes, but never out of spite or rage. They all deserved to die. I don't lose any sleep over it."
"Eloise!" Steph called from somewhere, "Horses!"
Eloise rolled her eyes and said, "Catch you later then."
"Wait," I said grabbing her arm, "I'm sorry about all the birthdays I missed. I was going to get you something last night but there's not much to choose from in motorway service stations."
"That's okay," she said, kissing my cheek, "You can take me to Pisa. There are some lovely and very expensive boutiques there."
I watched her tight ass go out the door and tried to imagine it in a bikini.
Luckily, I managed to get a seat on an Easyjet flight that landed in Florence only fifteen minutes after everyone else's BA flight. We were met by an executive mini-bus that took us on the hour-long journey to the impressive villa on a hillside east of Pisa overlooking a large lake. It was everything you'd expect an expensive Tuscan villa to be - masses of terracotta, courtyards, flowers and fountains. Plus tennis courts, two swimming pools, a hot tub, stables and a very well-stocked wine cellar.
As we pulled up, we were met by the staff - a butler, a houseboy, a housemaid, two chefs and a housekeeper. The sixth member of staff was Vittorio, our driver who was also the gardener. Eloise whispered, "Daddy and grandpa use this place a lot to reward staff, business contacts and politicians. For tax reasons, it's actually owned by the bank."
The English butler, Victor, nodded his head deferentially to Charles and said, "Your parents are on the south terrace, Sir. I shall have your bags taken up immediately."
For some reason, I was expecting his parents to be a pair of cunts but they turned out to be both considerate and welcoming. After being served drinks by Victor, Charles's father, Arthur, took me to one side and said, "I know from conversations with your sister over the years that you're a military chap. How is Hereford these days?" I looked at him sharply. "Don't worry," he smiled, "She didn't let slip anything, I just put two and two together. In fact, I don't think she even knows, which is probably for the best. I was a subaltern in the 17th/21st Lancers."
"A donkey walloper then," I said.
Arthur roared with laughter before saying, "I've always said that a good soldier should have a healthy disrespect for authority."
"I respect authority," I said, "But believe that leaders should be selected based on their natural ability, not their class or wealth. Rank in itself doesn't always reflect ability, in fact, the reverse is often true. In my regiment officers plan and co-ordinate, they rarely take part in operations."
"I know," nodded Arthur, "And for your regiment, it works because you only select the best from the rest of the Army. Regular line regiments have to do with what the recruiters send them."
"Why did you leave?" I asked.
