The History About Charlie Leaves Home

Published Date: 02 Nov 2017

CHAPTER ONE

Charlie Leaves Home

It was supposed to be a glorious day promising winter sun, at least the weather lady on Radio Four had said as much, and yet, as Charlie had finished packing his mother's car, the small village of Old Oxted looked distinctly overcast. Johnny, who was in the same year as Charlie at King's Grammar School, had advised him that Radio Four was all he would be allowed to listen to whilst at – as he referred to it – the Dark Place, so he had better well get used to it now.

Johnny had not joined Charlie on his travelling adventures around Europe and Asia, and had subsequently already spent one term at the Dark Place. He was thus the go-to man any time Charlie felt like he needed advice or reassurance about the endeavour he was about to let himself in for.

However, it wasn't that the Radio Four lady had misinformed her listeners that was troubling him. No, Charlie's main concern was wondering whether or not he had packed sufficient wooden coat and trouser hangers – "oh, and they must be wooden!" he would explain to his mother when she was out shopping for them – sufficient black shoe polish and enough stationary to last him the first five weeks of gated perdition. One final check of the seven-page kit list and he was set to commence his first day in the Army.

The drive along the M25 was particularly non-descript. One thing that did stick in Charlie's mind, however, was the distinct lack of service stations along the motorway between Redhill and Junction Twelve for the M3. He checked the fuel gauge over mater's arm. Three quarters of a tank, he thought to himself, plenty for the return journey and some. "Well in there, Mum," he thought, nodding to himself silently in approval. He could always rely on her to come to the fore in an hour of need, not that this particularly constituted one, but he knew it was the thought that counted.

He remained in pensive thought, wistfully staring at the windscreen wipers as they hypnotically flung side to side. He fixated on the small wave-shaped area at the bottom of the windscreen and wondered if anyone would ever invent a method that would wipe its entirety, without leaving small patches untouched.

Although he was clearly excited about what his military career would bring, he remained cool. If he was nervous, he tried not to show it. In fact, it seemed to him that Mrs. Dangerfield was more nervous than he was.

"Oh just look at my Little Soldier all grown up," she said proudly, trying to hold back the tears, "are you nervous? Don't worry, I'll write to you every day and–,"

"There really is no need for that mother," Charlie interrupted, "I'll be back most weekends!" He thought that was a nice touch, although, he had absolutely every intention of spending his free time on the King's Road with his chums, and not back in Old Oxted, which would undoubtedly be dull and uninteresting.

Old Oxted was a pretty dull place in anyone's books. The exception, of course, was the possibility of a Sunday run-out for Reigate RFC, or to bat a century for Oxted Cricket Club. Charlie was a natural sportsman and, at five feet eleven and a quarter, he made for a very good blindside flanker and a powerful batsman. "Charles could have gone pro in either sport," his father would boast, "had he bothered to get off his backside and train."

Mr. Dangerfield the elder was very proud of Charlie. He too had served – as he put it – for Queen and Country in one of Her Majesty's most respectable Line Cavalry Regiments, but left after a half career for a life in the City. He was very collected and believed in the traditional ways of life. There was to be no speaking for speaking's sake, but when required, he had the swagger and charm of any gentleman and cavalry officer that ever served.

Unlike mater, pater reserved a very stiff upper lip, though knew how to let his hair down with the best of them. In fact, when Charlie had left the house, Mr. Dangerfield had simply folded his copy of The Sunday Telegraph, placed it down on the breakfast table and stood up.

"Good luck, son," he paused, as he extended his hand for a good old-fashioned shake, "you can call yourself a man now." Charlie shook firm, which led to Mr. Dangerfield the elder increasing his grip just to reassert who the man in the house really was.

Like most apples that do not fall far from the tree, Charlie was not nervous. He had spoken to many who had gone through the Dark Place before him and thus had a fair idea of what to expect. He was always able to remain cool when confronted with a challenge and he believed there was never any point worrying over something that was inevitable. The best thing to do would be to buckle down and get on with it like a plucky young fellow.

For a while, the clouds appeared to darken, which always seemed to be the case when driving past Leatherhead, however, by the time they reached Camberley and joined the queue for the main gate, the sun was inching through the clouds and impotently shining on Charlie's face in a somewhat ethereal manner. Half blinded, he put down the sun visor.

As they reached the gate, a smartly dressed guard beckoned them towards the barrier and, anticipating being asked for some form of identification, Charlie pulled out his driver's licence and thrust it proudly towards the open window on his mother's side.

"It's okay," said the guard flippantly, "I can tell by the ironing board and suitcases in the back that you're joining today... you and the three hundred others."

Charlie simply humphed before forcing a charming smile as if to say thank you, Kind Sir, for that exceedingly helpful observation. "I could have been a terrorist for all you know!" he muttered proudly to himself, but only once they were past the barrier and the window had been fully returned.

CHAPTER TWO

Charlie's First Day

Following signs to Old College, both Dangerfields were in awe at the serenity and idyllic nature of the grounds. Even though Charlie had been to the Royal Military Academy several times previously, a guest to the occasional dinner night, he never ceased to be amazed by its imperial and grandiose appearance.

To the left was a peaceful lake; the gentle ripples glistened under the winter sun, yet there was still an eerie mist hanging over it, which was all too typical of a mid-morning in January. As they turned the corner they joined a queue of around fifty other cars. Ushers in luminous coloured vests lined the route every twenty or so yards in order to confirm that the visitors were in fact there for the commencement of the commissioning course and had not just found themselves spectacularly lost in the middle of this military estate.

As they edged closer to Old College, Mrs. Dangerfield gasped at its beauty. She positively puffed and wheezed at the sight of it. It was a magnificent building stretching approximately two hundred meters across its front. At its centre stood the main entrance, which was marked by six large Roman pillars. Stone steps led up from the large parade ground, which, for the purposes of today's welcome, was being used as an exceptionally large car park. Old College was lined by the canons used championly at the Battle of Waterloo, and Charlie felt very smug, as he impressed mater with this historical fact, which he had learned on his previous visit to the Academy.

What he did not tell mater, who was clearly still in awe by the place judging by the amount of times she kept drifting into the kerb, was that actually the entire building was in need of a good lick of paint. "P for plenty," as Charlie would have it, yet as a slight breeze caught the Union Flag on top of Old College, he quickly forgot about his artistic inclinations, and felt pang of proud patriotism rush through his body, as it unfurled and fluttered elegantly.

Mrs. Dangerfield was directed into a parking spot and they both jumped out of the vehicle. Charlie opted to leave his belongings in the car until he knew where his room was. He had seen several others struggle with suitcases, sports bags and ironing boards tucked rather precariously under one arm. They seemed to get themselves into a right stew when a rather smart, crisp gentleman holding a shiny stick greeted them.

As Charlie approached the very same crisp gentleman, he barely noticed how rigidly erect he was standing. His attention was drawn to the long row of medals pinned to his right breast and then to the large – almost over-the-top in Charlie's opinion – badge on the arm that had been thrust towards him.

"Good morning, Young Sir," opened the gentleman, whose black boots reflected the scenery like a soup spoon, "I am the Academy Sar'nt Mayjah."

He stood proudly. His heels were together, not one kink in the creases of his khaki trousers or jacket, which looked sharp enough to slice through soft cheese. His chest was puffed out and was crossed by a highly polished Sam Browne belt. His navy cap had a thick red band around it and a peak laced in gold braid, which covered his eyes to a point of impracticality. His glistening pace-stick was tucked under the left arm and the bristles of his moustache betrayed the insincerity of the smile, which looked somewhat forced, or at least unpractised.

"Good morning! I'm Charlie," replied he, shaking the Academy Sergeant Major's hand. He was pleased with the strength of his own grip. The Academy Sergeant Major squeezed ever so slightly harder and shot him a look that informed him that present circumstances required a touch more formality. "–Err, Charlie Dangerfield, that is." The Academy Sergeant Major presently turned to Mrs. Dangerfield.

"An' you must be Mr. Dangahfield's sistah?" He was still holding Charlie's hand. "No?! 'is muthah?! Well I nevah!" A line he had clearly used several times already.

It was starting to get awkward now. "Why won't he let go of my hand?" Charlie thought, and decided to squeeze harder – a decision he regretted instantly. The Academy Sergeant Major carried on:

"If I could ask you to say your goodbyes now, Mrs. Dangahfield, we will look after your son from 'ere on in." There was a pause as he turned back to Charlie, and with a menacing grin, gave one final squeeze before letting go. Charlie's knuckles clicked but he did not show his pain. Hiding his wince, he smiled back un-phased.

After an embarrassing and tearful goodbye from his mother, full of kisses and hugs and "I'm going to miss my Little Soldier," (all very amusing to the Academy Sergeant Major) Charlie walked up the steps to begin his military career. It was all a bit of an anti-climax as no sooner had he entered Old College he was ushered into another queue. Once he finally gave his name to the clerk, he received his name badges which he was to wear permanently on the grounds from now on, unless in sports kit, and was shown to his room.

It was a modest room, but sufficient for his needs. It had a fair-sized wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a single bed and a sink with a mirror. His duvet and sheets were folded and placed with precision at the foot of his bed. He began to unpack and carefully placed his shirts and trousers on the wooden coat hangers and into the wardrobe.

There was a knock on the door. Charlie opened it to find another man in uniform, equally rigid, but this time wearing three stripes topped by a crown.

"And you are?" asked the mystery man.

"I'm Charlie Da..." he started.

"Who the hell is Charlie?!" declaimed he. "We don't use first names in the Army! Stand to attention when you're talking to me, Mr...." He was searching for a surname.

"Mr. Dangerfield," he said with confidence.

"Mr. Dangerfield, Colour Sergeant," he corrected.

"Yes, Colour Sergeant. Mr. Dangerfield, Colour Sergeant."

"Welcome to Five Platoon, Mr. Dangerfield. I am your colour sergeant, Colour Sar'nt Lefortier of the First Battalion – the First –" he emphasized, "Battalion, the Welsh Gahhds." Charlie had thought there was something familiar about his accent.

"Ah!" Charlie exclaimed cheerily in the knowledge he had found some common ground, "I went to Cardiff University. 'Lefortier,' is that French?"

"Arrgghhh!" Colour Sergeant Lefortier wailed, half in horror at the suggestion and half out of boredom, "No! I am a proud Welshman, from Cardiff myself I am, and I love my rugby, Mr. Dangerfield. You look like a rugby player, Mr. Dangerfield. What are you? Second row, number eight?"

"I'm a flanker, Colour Sergeant." Colour Sergeant Lefortier eyed him up and down approvingly. He could see that Charlie was naturally handsome and had defined facial features, which were not overly masculine. He had a physique typical of a flanker, well-defined arms, chest and shoulders. But that is where the definitions ended, as he enjoyed far too many evenings on the sauce to be fully sculpted. He was often mistaken for Italian due to his natural tan, dark hair and features. However, his Home-Counties accent betrayed his true English heritage, though there was a strain of French somewhere down his mother's line. His hazel eyes had a glint in them, which, but for Charlie's present demeanour, suggested he was somewhat troublesome.

Charlie was bright, intelligent and on the odd occasion witty, but above all, he could bluff his way out of almost anything. He could act under the pretence of being a gentleman; he wished he was a gentleman; and often led everyone to believe that he was a gentleman; but in reality, he was more rascal than anything else. Oh, he could play the part when needed, but deep down he was a scoundrel, a scallywag, a loveable rogue. And it was precisely this trait that was so often mistaken for charm.

Whenever meeting the parents, he was the type that would inevitably get on better with Mother of Potential Girlfriend than with Potential Girlfriend herself. This was in no small part due to an insatiably cheeky smile, whiter than white teeth and an uncontrollable ability to flirt, which were some of his redeeming features. As a result, confidence came quite naturally to him.

Although he would never admit it, Colour Sergeant Lefortier liked Charlie on first impressions and offered a reassuring, yet authoritative, smile. He smiled back revealing his teeth for the first time.

"I bet you're quite the ladies' man aren't you, Mr. Dangerfoot," Lefortier said mockingly.

"It's Dangerfield, Colour Sergeant."

"Do not correct me, Mr. Dangerfoot. I am never wrong! Enough chit-chat for now!" upon which, Colour Sergeant Lefortier turned rigidly to his about, paused for two seconds, drove his foot into the ground and began marching down the corridor. Rather eccentric and possibly insane, but Charlie could see he would get on with his new colour sergeant.

"I've got my eye on you, Mr. Dangerfield," called Colour Sergeant Lefortier down the corridor, still facing away from him, "do not let me down!" Charlie, who was still stood to attention, took in a deep breath before collapsing on his bed. Day one, he thought to himself, only another three hundred and thirty-five to go.

CHAPTER THREE

God Save the Queen

There was a knock on the door. Although it was not a knock on Charlie's door, it still woke him. He strained to look through the gap in the curtains. It was still dark. Charlie mustered up just enough strength to roll over and, squinting with one eye shut to minimise the blur, stared at the clock in disbelief. Four fifty-seven the clock read. He knew the Army preferred early starts, but this was highly antisocial and terribly inconvenient.

The knocks became louder as they grew closer to Charlie's door. He buried his head under his duvet hoping it was all a terrible dream and that they might forget to knock on his door and possibly bypass him altogether.

"Corridor!" The voice echoed down the lines. "You have three minutes to be out in whatever you are wearing. Ensure you have a full water bottle with you."

Charlie hopped out of bed begrudgingly, but with a surprising sense of urgency, filled his water bottle and, precisely one minute and fifty-seven seconds later, he walked out of his room where he was immediately blinded by the brightness of the lights. He followed suit of those around him and stood beside his door. He was glad to see that it was not solely he who had opted for the minimalist approach to being dressed for morning parade.

The chap opposite was sporting a very snug pair of briefs, which Charlie found highly entertaining, especially as he was a boxer short man himself. Even more amusing was how, upon realising how revealing his briefs were, he tried to cover his contours with his water bottle. Further down the corridor, he spotted another who had started to shave, decided he did not have time to finish and came out with the old map still covered with shaving cream. He looked very ill at ease indeed.

Colour Sergeant Lefortier stepped out of his office, this time dressed in a tracksuit. It was clearly an early start for him too, but he carried on seemingly unaffected. "Good morning troops," he projected enthusiastically.

"Good morning, Colour Sergeant!" came the roar from the platoon. Charlie had piped up a second or so late, still half dazed by the early start, but it went unnoticed.

"I am Colour Sergeant Lefortier," he began, "of the First Battalion, the Welsh Gahhds." He emphasised the "First Battalion" as he had the day before. "Water parade will happen at zero five hundred every morning – that's five AM for those who still have their civilian heads on them. Ensure that your water bottles are full. Everyone will adopt the position of attention, sing the first verse of the national anthem and then drink the contents of their water bottle daily – make sure it is full to the brim!" He took a theatrical breath before continuing. "Moving on. The following are my rules, which if you follow, we will get on very well indeed. Rule number one; you are to march when moving around the Academy. Don't worry, you'll have plenty of time to practise. All in good time, all in good time! I digress – 'digress,' good word, good word! Rule numéro two; work for each other as a team, and rule three; do not be late or you will get punished." He inhaled as if to continue, but his concentration was interrupted.

"What on earth are they, Mr. Berkeley?!" Everyone looked in to the chap opposite Charlie who was turning a deep shade of beetroot. He stood there stunned, not knowing how to answer so decided it best to remain silent.

"What are they, Mr. Berkeley?" The colour sergeant repeated, this time pointing at them with his pace-stick. "Are they your tighty-whities, Mr. Berkeley?"

Berkeley shrugged gingerly.

"Picture the scene, Mr. Berkeley," Colour Sergeant Lefortier spoke in staccato forcing his accent, "picture the scene; you are stood in front of your men on your first day–"

Charlie started to snigger before biting his lip trying to restrain himself, but it was too late. Colour Sergeant Lefortier had spotted him.

"Ahhh, Mr. Dangerfield, what is so funny? Are you laughing at 'tightie-whities,' Mr. Dangerfoot? Do you find my accent amusing?"

"No, Colour Sergeant." Still biting his lip.

"Ahhh, so you don't think I'm funny then, is that it?"

"No, I mean yes, I don't know, Colour Sergeant." The rest had started to laugh which set Charlie off again.

"Very well, Mr. Dangerfield, you can start us off with the greatest anthem in the world."

Charlie composed himself.

"God save our Gracious Queen..." The remainder joined in to Charlie's relief, and the entire platoon crescendoed as the verse neared the end. Colour Sergeant Lefortier was content.

"Right you 'orrible lot, your next timing is breakfast, now, get away!"

Charlie glanced at his watch. By God! it was only nine thirty-seven. Charlie had felt like he had been up for hours. And he was right. Most people had only been at work for thirty-seven minutes, (and even then, most probably would have had a coffee break by now!) yet by this time he and the rest of five platoon had already sung the national anthem, shaved, showered, changed into their green coveralls, bleached the ablutions, scoffed their breakfast, stood unyieldingly through their morning parade and inspection, staggered through several lessons of drill on the parade square (cries of "'oft, 'ight, 'oft, 'ight" and "halt, check, one two" were already ingrained into Charlie's brain) and they were now lined up outside the Academy Barber Shop awaiting their haircuts.

It was slightly disconcerting to see that those who went before Charlie were coming out with very suspicious coifs indeed, and the victims' faces looked as though they had just been through the House of Horror at Thorpe Park. Sure, the backs and sides were immaculately short, but that seemed to be all. The tops remained disproportionately long and not at all blended in.

Now, Charlie was no expert barber, but he knew a good cut when he saw one. One or two even came out with blood drawn where they had suffered the odd nip around the ear. What added insult to injury was that everyone was still charged the nominal six pounds, even if – like Mr. Apsley – one had been proactive enough to visit a barber the Saturday before starting at the Academy, thus negating the requirement for having their ears lowered.

"What would you like?" asked the barber, whose finished product was closer to that of a village butcher than a hairdresser.

"The usual?" Charlie replied wincing, and suddenly thinking now was not a time to joke around. He could not believe she had bothered to ask anyone judging by her previous results. "Short back and sides and a bit off the top I suppose," he confirmed. He did not want her using too much artistic licence.

Four and a half minutes of idle chat later (she clearly had not been paying much attention) Charlie breathed a sigh of relief in the knowledge he had evaded too severe a butchery, and left with only two nicks which had drawn blood.

The remainder of the day was spent getting over the initial shock of military life. Charlie tried to get to know his fellow comrades in between welcome lectures from various Academy personnel, who all gave the same generic inspirational spiel, wording it slightly differently each time. The next few days passed in a sleepy blur much like the first, with no real change to the organised chaos of the routine, with the exception of being issued their uniform and regular inspections of their rooms before breakfast.

Colour Sergeant Lefortier was becoming less lenient each time during inspections, yet still retained a sense of humour. The trick, Charlie had realised, was to try to distract Colour Sergeant Lefortier in some way, thereby making him less likely to find something wrong. Charlie did not achieve this by ensuring he was well turned out, or that his bed was immaculately made every morning, but rather using his special touch, a whiff air freshener thirty seconds before Lefortier entered the room. Coupled with a cheery smile upon his colour sergeant's entry and he was confident he would be spared much of the torture that some of the others received.

He was, however, sorely mistaken.

One morning in that first fortnight, Colour Sergeant Lefortier had arrived in a terrible mood. Even the national anthem had failed to cheer him up, which was normally a sure winner. Berkeley, in a bid to catch a few extra precious minutes of sleep, had thought it wise to only iron creases into the side of his uniform that was visible when hung in his wardrobe. Upon this discovery, Colour Sergeant Lefortier let out a cry that may have been heard across Surrey.

"Arrggghhhhh!" Laughter followed from every room on that corridor. "What is this, Mr. Berkeley? Did you think I wouldn't notice this, Mr. Berkeley? Did you think my eagle eye would not spy such a crime?!" At which he ordered Berkeley to take hold of the entire contents of his wardrobe, launch them out the window, and reminded him that they better be immaculate for tomorrow, as his card was marked.

In the throes of laughter, Charlie did not realise Colour Sergeant Lefortier stood in his doorway, staring with a mischievous grin, which seemed to suggest Charlie knew what was coming. The usual trick of air freshener had not worked. Historically, it had never really worked. Lefortier went straight for the sink.

"Incorrect, Mr. Dangerfield. Your toothbrush is not facing north." Charlie remained silent, but his new facial expression spoke volumes. "Well you know what that means don't you, Mr. Dangerfield?"

"Not exactly, Colour Sergeant," replied Charlie grinning, completely misjudging the tone of the situation.

"Well, if we find something wrong we delve a little deeper, don't we, Mr. Dangerfield. Now, what will I find under here, I wonder?" Lefortier pulled back Charlie's duvet. "Well, well, well! It's like birthday and Christmas all at once, isn't it, Mr. Dangerfield?! Are these creases in your bed sheets, Mr. Dangerfield?" Charlie's grinning countenance suddenly morphed into that of a raised brow and a hanging jaw. Before he could contemplate an answer, his mattress, bedding and all were subject to the same fate as Berkeley's, and thrown out the window in one almighty hurl.

CHAPTER FOUR

Cosy Moments

"The aim of the first five weeks is to break you down in order to rebuild you in the Academy's own mould," advised Mr. Dangerfield the elder in a letter to Charlie, "remember this and you shall not go far wrong. Keep smiling and fight on." Charlie was starting to feel homesick.

He had not really had a great deal of time to think about his friends and family so far, as every spare moment was spent sleeping, but his father's letter reminded him that he had barely spoken to them in the three weeks he had been at the Dark Place.

It was Sunday morning and the entire college was preparing for Sunday Chapel. Charlie was wearing his Chapel Order of Dress, which consisted of a dark blue tunic with white collar tabs and large brass buttons, together with matching trousers that had a thick red stripe running down the leg. His waist was pulled in by a navy cloth belt, which restricted his breathing when sitting down. His boots had been polished to an acceptable, mediocre gloss and his forage cap had been brushed to remove any dust or lint visible to the ordinary man's eye. Colour Sergeant Lefortier was no ordinary man, however.

Charlie gave himself a once-over in the mirror, ensuring he was carrying his handkerchief, a comb and some change for the collection. He had mixed feelings about wearing his blues. He knew he looked dapper – they were damnably smart by any stretch of the imagination – but by Jove, they were uncomfortable! He left his room to fall in outside, ready to be inspected. He was cutting it fine, but dared not to run for fear of ruining his current appearance.

Colour Sergeant Lefortier's arrival was betrayed by the rhythmic clack-clacking of his pace-stick on the pavement. Chapel would not commence for at least another hour, but Lefortier was there to inspect the troops before the Platoon Commander, Captain Richmond of the Queens Royal Lancers, could inspect them officially. Lefortier was there to rectify (and punish) any faults. A pre-inspection inspection if you will.

Charlie was stood third man from the right marker in the front rank. Only those who, in Colour Sergeant Lefortier's eyes, were competent at drill could stand in the front rank. The aim was to hide all those who were not so proficient at putting one foot in front of the other to a set timing. In this vain, Five Platoon would at least appear professional when marching around the Academy.

Charlie was promoted to the front rank quite early on, as drill seemed to come naturally to him. Nevertheless, the majority were stood in the front rank, not by promotion, but by process of elimination, as most of the platoon had been relegated to the centre or, worse yet, the rear rank for complete two-footed buffoonery.

The pre-inspection passed without too much hindrance. Every now and then he could hear the movements of someone falling out before seeing them from the corner of his eye hurtling themselves around Chapel Square in a stilted run that one can only accomplish in blues. Such punishments were usually handed out to those whom had forgotten their handkerchief, had a fingerprint on the peak of their cap, or whose trousers were not sitting on the second to bottom lace of their boots.

From time to time, Charlie would not be as immaculate as he was on this particular day, yet Colour Sergeant Lefortier would choose to ignore it. Oh, he noticed when Charlie was not at his best, but as it was not often, Lefortier let it slide and focussed on the weaker members of the platoon. However, much to Charlie's dismay, and often just when Charlie thought he could do no wrong, Lefortier would make an example of him.

Today was one of those days.

"Ahhh, Mr. Dangerfield," said Lefortier, eager to find fault with our young Oxtedian.

"Good morning, Colour Sergeant," replied Charlie, moving his head one hundredth of an inch in order to make eye contact with his inspector.

"Eyes front! Head up! That's it! No need to look at me, Mr. Dangerfield. I know I'm good looking, but I'm not into that sort of thing. You're not into that sort of thing, are you?"

"No, Colour Sergeant."

"Not that there's anything wrong with being into that sort of thing, Mr. Dangerfield. This is a modern man's Army. As long as it doesn't interfere with work. Do you fancy me, Mr. Dangerfield? Is that it? Is that why you looked at me?"

"No, Colour Sergeant," said Charlie, looking at Lefortier again, without meaning to, but as if to reinforce his statement adamantly.

"Arrrrgggghhhh!" wailed Lefortier comically. "There you go again! Two laps of Chapel Square, Mr. Dangerfield, for moving on parade. Go! Not on my watch," he said to the remainder. "Only the highest standards in my platoon!"

It was quite obvious to the platoon at this point who the colour sergeant's favourites were and who they most certainly were not. Those who were favoured by the colour sergeant (usually the more competent or more humorous of the platoon) tended to be treated more mercifully. Mr. Turner, known for dribbling when he slept in lectures, had a terrible time and was unable to build any sort of rapport at all, but the platoon had identified this and lent a hand whenever he was dealt a particularly unpleasant task.

Five Platoon were brought to attention as its commander approached. Captain Richmond looked resplendent in his blues. His blood-red peak cap contrasted well to the navy of his tunic and the silver chain-mail epaulettes complemented the chrome shine of the skull and crossbones, which sat at the centre of his cap.

Charlie puffed out his chest and locked his knees back, as his turn to be inspected – his moment of glory – arrived. Some small talk such as "how are you finding your first few weeks?" and "good turnout, but your boots could be shinier, Mr. Dangerfield," and before he knew it, Captain Richmond had moved on. "A lot of pomp and ceremony for nothing," Charlie thought. "Perfectly acceptable if there was some sort of VIP inspecting, a member of the royal family perhaps, but all that just for Chapel. Utterly ridic!"

Moments later, the cadets of Old College were given the command to fall out and attend their respective chapels. The Royal Memorial Chapel was by far the biggest and could house the entire Academy on certain occasions. The Multi-Faith room was used as a hideaway mainly by the overseas cadets and, finally, there was the Catholic Chapel. This was Charlie's chapel.

Now, Charlie was not a left-footer by any means. He barely considered himself religious, yet he would go to Catholic Chapel over the Royal Memorial Chapel every time. To him, the content of the services was no different (if it was, he could not tell how) and the hymns were usually quite similar.

No, he chose to go to Catholic Chapel and endure all the Hail Marys for two very simple reasons; The service in the Catholic Chapel was a winning thirty minutes shorter than the other and, because of its reduced numbers, religiously offered complementary coffee and biscuits afterwards, which was all very civil indeed. Occasionally, Charlie would be pinged with the odd reading, but it was worth it just for the extra thirty minutes of freedom.

On this specific Sunday, the sermon was particularly wearisome; the hymns failed to ignite the je ne sais quoi in Charlie, and he was of a predominantly emollient and torpor nature – likely fatigued from the two laps of the square he had to run prior. On several occasions he had to be nudged by Apsley, who had taken to coming to Catholic chapel with him for the reasons already stated and, at least once or twice, he received disapproving looks from one of the platoon commanders, as he enjoyed the odd cosy moment.

The chaplain, who insisted on being called "Father" as opposed to "padre," was perhaps the only person not to notice Charlie struggling to keep his eyes open, but then again, he was probably the only one who was not there for the vast selection of hobnobs and fruit shortcakes. Under the Father's instruction, the congregation stood for some hymn, which Charlie did not know, and he proceeded to mumble along.

There is absolutely no doubt that had the hymn been one of the favoured classics such as Jerusalem, I Vow to Thee my Country, or even Bread of Heaven, Charlie would have been the first to the fore, belting out the tune in true patriotic fashion, shaming all those who shied or cowed behind such an enthusiastic tenor, raising the roof with more gusto than a night at the opera. Unfortunately, however, the hymn was a bore. A monotonous eight-verser interspersed with the same uninspiring chorus. And so, instead, Charlie slept.

Such nocturnal instincts may have gone unnoticed, but for the calamitous crash Charlie made as he partially collapsed into to pews and mumblers around him. The Father shot a look of narrowed eyes and daggers, not unlike Saint Peter's at the Pearly Gates before he condemns his subject to a life in the underworld. The band stuttered and then continued to play. The Father returned to his hymnbook. The mumblers, after a short snigger, carried on mumbling.

CHAPTER FIVE

Playing Soldiers

Five Platoon's first major exercise came the following week. This was their first opportunity to live out in the field and put all the lectures and doctrine that most of the Academy had slept through into practice. This was it. Charlie's grand opening at playing soldiers. The platoon was split down into three sections of nine to ten men and Charlie found himself in One Section. With him were Apsley (who was fast becoming his closest friend), Jackson, Berkeley, Braithwaite, McGregor, Wilson, Evans and Mohammed, who was the Crown Prince of some oil-producing sultanate, and a damned good fellow at that. A good section in Charlie's opinion. The weaknesses in one or two members were compensated by their humour. After all, maintaining morale would be a crucial test of leadership when one was cold, hungry and at the wrong end of a thunderstorm.

Thankfully it was another sunny day, albeit extremely cold. Every now and then Charlie would look to the sky and thank the Big Man for the sun and, likewise, pray for the sun to reappear if it was raining. He was never sure whether his prayers were really being answered, but he continued anyway – just in case. It is said that a man's church is his home and on this occasion his home was a woodblock in the surrounds of Pippingford Park.

The section worked hard digging the pits where they were to sleep. Two men per pit; each struggled to dig through the frozen earth. Colour Sergeant Lefortier went round the troops inspecting each of their efforts.

"That needs to be much deeper," were so often his choice words. "The more digging you do now, the less you'll have to do in the dark." There were only a couple more hours of light at best, Charlie estimated. Eventually, Charlie and Berkeley finished their trench. Their hands were calloused and cracking in the cold, dry air. This was not the type of soldiering Charlie thought he would be doing. He thought he would be rolling around in the mud shooting things, not digging holes to sleep in.

He could see a farmer-type in wellies and a wax jacket talking to Captain Richmond and pointing quite adamantly about the place. Five or so minutes later, Captain Richmond broke the news that Five Platoon had, in fact, encroached fifty yards onto private land and that, rather unfortunately, they would have to fill in their pits and move the harbour area fifty yards to the south. Many a grumble was made under the breaths of Five Platoon, but the task was completed within a couple of hours, although the new pits appeared to be shallower than a worm's grave.

The following morning, having washed and cooked their boil-in-a-bag breakfasts, Five Platoon assembled in the open, just outside the harbour area, making three sides of a square. Colour Sergeant Lefortier stood in front of his men, making up the fourth side.

"Right," said Lefortier, in that manner that suggested something bad was about to occur, "take out the mess tin that you cooked with this morning, the gas parts of your rifle and take off your boots. I want to see yesterday's socks too – check that you've changed them. If anything is not up to standard, you see that tree at the top of that hill? Well, you know what to do! That's it, don't be shy – Berkeley, there's no use trying to clean it now! Right, you 'orrible little toads, let's see what we can find. What's that on your rifle, Mr. Turner?"

"Rust, Colour Sergeant?"

"The tree... go!"

"Mr. Braithwaite, did you polish your boots this morning?"

"Err..."

"Go! Same for you, Mr. Berkeley, boots. Go!"

"Yes, Colour Sergeant."

"Arrrrrggghhhhh! Mr. Dangerfield! What is this?!"

"Colour Sergeant?"

"Rust on your rifle, boots un-polished, a black mess tin – black! And did you even bother to wash and shave today?"

"Yes, Colour Sergeant."

"What with... the mess tin?!"

"Err..."

"Go!"

By the end of the inspection, everyone had been picked up for one thing or another and a steady stream of cadets ran to the tree and back.

"Hygiene is paramount in the field," orated Lefortier. "If you go down, you take half the platoon with you, and then you're combat effectiveness is kaput. Nothing. Nada. It seems that the only way to ensure this message gets through is with physical exertion – it's not a punishment, but a learning process. You all know where the tree is by now, on your belt buckles, go! The first two back won't have to go again! 'urry-y-yup!"

The remaining days on exercise were filled with low-level infantry skills, attacking enemy positions manned by Ghurkhas, who would die in the most spectacular and exaggerated manner when charged at by a screaming officer cadet in the throes of fury. Section-level attack after attack onto a suspecting and well-informed enemy. At least the sun was out, Charlie thought, as he looked to the heavens as a sign of thanks.

At one point the exercise was brought to a standstill, as Mohammed launched a smoke grenade to cover a left flanking movement, only to find it had set the grassy heathland on fire. The cadets, glad of the break, were rushed to stamp it out before it spread. Charlie later found out from the weather lady on Radio Four that it had been one of the driest winters on record.

Charlie closed into Captain Richmond. It was finally his turn to lead one of the section attacks. Captain Richmond gave a grid reference of a known enemy position, which, once plotted onto his map, Charlie could see it was approximately half a mile away. He was told that the enemy were two to three in number and were dressed in British desert uniform and that, coincidentally, they were equipped with the British assault rifle.

His mission was simple: "Destroy the enemy position no later than fifteen hundred hours." Apsley was the section Second in Command and ensured that, whilst Charlie was receiving his brief, the section had re-filled their magazines, replenished their water bottles and taken on some food; a biscuit or a bar of chocolate provided in the ration packs. Having ensured the section had reapplied their camouflage cream and stuck fresh grass into the elastic on their helmets, Apsley reported to Charlie that One Section was ready to move. He took a bearing and briefed his section on the plan:

"Right, listen in. There is an enemy position approximately half a mile away northwest from this location. They are two to three in number." He put on his commander's voice. "We will advance in arrowhead formation with Charlie Fire Team on the right, Delta Fire Team on the left." Arrowhead formation allowed the section to cover a wide area of open ground with a good frontage to the enemy. Should they have been contacted from the front, it allowed the maximum amount of firepower to be brought down to bare, supressing the enemy in order to put in an assault.

They stepped off and made their way over the uneven ground, every now and then, Charlie would check his map ensuring he was going in the right direction. After some twenty minutes, two shots were fired from about three hundred yards away.

"Contact front," shouted Berkeley, the point man, which was the cue for the rest of the section to fire a few rounds in the general direction of the threat, dash forward zigzagging left and right, hit the deck, crawl forward a yard or so and fire off a few more rounds. Not everyone was as aggressive as Colour Sergeant Lefortier would have liked, but at this early stage, the mechanics were all he was looking for, though even they proved non-existent at times. Charlie crawled back from the section to assess the situation and gave the order for Apsley to take charge whilst he came up with his plan.

The section was in a bowl whereas the enemy were firing from a small clump of trees on the high ground. Everything was going off around him. His adrenaline spiked and he could barely hear his own thoughts over the crackle of the firing. He tightened the grip around his rifle, as he tried to recall the lectures that he now regretted he had slept through. He flitted his eyes about the place; to the high ground; to the section; to his watch. His brow furrowed. A million and one things were flying through his mind and he could not make sense of any of them. And then it came to him. Suddenly, it was all clear. He took in a deep breath, parted his lips and formed a slow smile.

To the left of the position was open grassland, which he immediately ruled out as a possible approach, as there was no cover in which to manoeuvre. Twenty yards or so behind the section was a natural ridge, which would offer some good protection and a good point from which to fire. To the right and leading around to the rear of the enemy position was a woodblock from which Charlie could launch an assault.

Charlie's adrenaline spiked for a second time, though he briefed his plan with confidence and clarity, as best he could, whilst they continued to fire: "One Section," he shouted, "we will move back to the ridge behind us. Delta Fire team will provide fire support from the ridge, as Charlie Fire Team assault right flanking using the wood line as cover."

Charlie threw a smoke grenade to cover the section's withdrawal to the ridge, and again to allow Charlie Fire Team to peel right into the wood line. His heart was racing as his adrenaline continued to increase. His eyes stung as a mixture of sweat and camouflage paint dripped down his face. In pairs, they bounded forward towards the position, perpendicular to the fire support.

Dropping off Evans and Mohammed, he and Berkeley crawled up to the position and posted a grenade. Their vision was obscured by their helmets, which had slipped down over their eyes. The grenade went off and Charlie rose to one knee, switched to automatic and emptied half a magazine into the position, whilst the Ghurkhas rolled and screamed and theatrically made the most of their glorious deaths.

"Position clear," he shouted, which was the cue for the remainder to regroup on the newly destroyed position. Close to exhaustion, he took a moment to catch his breath. He was fragged, but he was content with his and the section's efforts.

CHAPTER SIX

A Letter From Home

Back at the Academy, a letter was waiting for Charlie. It was from his girlfriend, Anna, whom he had met during his final year at Cardiff. At five feet six inches, rich brunette hair down past her shoulders and awfully elegant in her manner, Charlie thought she was a good egg. Having met the parents on numerous occasions, he was somewhat of a family favourite. He could chat for hours with Anna's father about sport and such, and her mother reverted to a giggling schoolgirl as a result of his flirtatious, yet charming manner.

She started the letter detailing how well the family were and that they all wished Charlie the best during his training. She went on for two paragraphs explaining all that she had been getting up to over the past month and how it was a real shame Charlie could not be there to share these wonderful experiences with her. The letter ended with a curt paragraph that transformed Charlie's countenance from one of happiness to one of shock:

"I am, however, struggling immensely without you here and I think it would be for the best if we broke up. Please stay safe and enjoy your weekend off.

A."

It was out of the blue and he found himself angrier at the lack of kisses at the end of the letter than at the contents of the letter itself. Seeing him quite down, Apsley tried to cheer him up. "Look here, Charlie. This girl isn't worth the heartache. You know what they say here, right? Eighty per cent join the Academy with a girlfriend and only twenty per cent smoke, but by the end, only twenty per cent have a girlfriend and eighty per cent smoke." Charlie offered a courteous laugh. "Don't worry about it. We have our first rugger game tomorrow against the Gunners, not to mention the long weekend after that."

"You're right. Fancy a fag? Now's as good a time as ever to start," said Charlie, trying to put on a brave face.

Charlie had missed playing rugby and was glad with his first opportunity for a run out. He was substituted onto the field in the second half and put in a sterling performance, setting up two tries and preventing another, helping secure victory for the home side. The best, however, was yet to come.

The first five weeks were robust. They were designed to shatter the officer cadet by depriving him of sleep, contact with the outside world and, most frustratingly for Charlie, any alcohol.

Post-match, Charlie showered, changed into his tweed jacket and tie and went to the pavilion. The Rugby Officer, Major Smith, gave a short speech welcoming the Junior Term cadets and awarded the man of the match. Handshakes by both sides before the newcomers were awarded their half colours for getting their first cap for the Academy.

"Gentlemen, please enjoy the food that has been provided; everyone's first drink is on the Academy," Major Smith proclaimed. "Juniors, as you are aware, you are not permitted to drink in the first five weeks and we are still in week four. However, I am a major, and you have attested to following orders. To that end, I order you to each fetch an alcoholic beverage of sorts and if your colour sergeants have a problem with it, well I outrank them too!" There was a roaring cheer as everyone rushed to the bar. Charlie smiled. It was the small wins that amounted to the big victories for him.

All efforts for the fifth week were towards Passing off the Square. This was the cadets' test to prove that they had mastered the arts of drill and that they were capable of dressing themselves to a perfect standard. After an inspection and drill test, each cadet would have to march out to the Academy Sergeant Major, salute to prove that he had the correct form and answer a series of questions ranging from the history of the Academy to the core values of officership. As a result, every evening that week was spent on bulling parades.

The platoon sat in their coveralls lining the corridor, applying layer upon layer of black polish to their drill boots with their index and middle fingers, before buffing them to a high shine with a wet rag or ball of cotton wool. Inevitably, the shine was never good enough until the last minute.

"Turner, in what year was Old College built," asked Rowington, the nominated quizmaster, who tested the platoon on a plethora of questions.

"1812," responded Jackson, after seeing Turner struggle.

"Berko," said Rowington, addressing Berkeley, "who is the Academy Sergeant Ma–?"

"Arrrggghhh!!!" interrupted Colour Sergeant Lefortier, who, in a jiffy, had appeared from nowhere, as was so often his fashion. "Who the hell is 'Berko,' Mr. Rowington?" He spoke in staccato, emphasising each word, another of his traits.

"Sorry, Colour Sergeant. I was referring to–"

"How about I start calling you by your nickname, Mr. Rowington?" continued Lefortier, ignoring Rowington's rejoinder. "We don't use nicknames at the Academy, Mr. Rowington. Or should I call you 'Rowy?'"

"'Rowy,' Colour–?"

"Twenty press-ups, Rowy," went on Lefortier. "Deeper shine needed on those boots, Berko! You can have twenty press-ups, too! Deeper shine, deeper shine!"

The Thursday had arrived. It was time to pass off the square, but more importantly, it was the last day of the hell of the first five weeks. Charlie could smell the sweet air of London already. The inspection came and went; Charlie still focussed on the bomb-burst in hours few. The drill test had gone to plan with only minor mistakes made by a few who had been consigned to the rear rank and still managed to resemble Bambi on ice, nevertheless, went miraculously unnoticed by the Academy Sergeant Major.

The whole platoon seemed to have a rare spat of swagger and panache about them. This pleased Colour Sergeant Lefortier, who was now in his element. Charlie was one of the last to be called out, but came to attention and marched out with the same panache and swagger that the platoon had shown moments previous.

The platoon was marched off the square and back to their lines. A rare well done was given by a pleased colour sergeant. They were dismissed. Charlie's first weekend of freedom in five weeks had begun and he was going to ensure he made the most of every moment he had.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Millionaires' Weekend

The challenge had been set. After five weeks of minimalism and conformity, the members of Five Platoon would not struggle greatly with the task of adding some individuality to their currently barren dorms, but the mission had been set nonetheless.

Charlie also set himself an undertaking, which came in two parts; firstly he had promised himself that he would use this weekend to forget about Anna. This was simple enough. Given enough Tanqueray No. 10 he was pretty sure he could forget quite a substantial amount. Secondly, he was to acquire objects for his room that would, he hoped, distract or divert the all-seeing eye of Colour Sergeant Lefortier. This would be but a small hiccup in Charlie's weekend plans, for he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

The only benefit of those hideous first weeks – to which, Dear Readers, I have probably not done justice – was the inability to spend any real amount of money. Thus, armed with a full month's wages and with another pay day around the corner, Charlie, who was of the school of thought that believed there was no use dying rich, had no misgivings about the significant amounts he was about to spunk. He reckoned that, behind the hard exterior Colour Sergeant Lefortier still knew how to entertain himself during times of boredom – of which there were many for a colour sergeant at the Academy – and so Charlie adjusted his purchases accordingly.

He started with some essentials like Conqueror paper and Debrett's Correct Form as well as a few other Academy classics to fill the bookshelf. As a last-minute impulse, he also threw in a word-a-day calendar.

Any young buck with a spare quid or two will always find it difficult to be frugal when faced with temptation and Charlie was no exception to this. He took a stroll down Saville Row – just to see what was on offer – and found himself reappearing on Bond Street the proud new owner of a smart, off-the-peg tweed sports jacket, which he did not need, but could not resist buying after seeing it displayed in the window.

There was not an entirely dissimilar incident when he just popped down Jermyn Street for a look-see and ended up with three new double-cuffed, pocket-less shirts, two hand-knitted ties, several agreeable hankies and a set of braces, not to mention a pair of solid silver monogrammed, chained cufflinks. However, not one of these purchases had helped Charlie accomplish the latter half of his mission.

Consequently, by the end of his spree a couple of hours later, other purchases included a Venus flytrap (for practical reasons), a small cactus garden (for aesthetic reasons), a large poster of a promiscuously undressed model, whose name escaped Charlie (although in reality her name was the least of his concerns!) and, the pièce de resistance, a children's duvet set sporting a Tyrannosaurus Rex, a Stegosaurus and a Triceratops.

Charlie was not a particularly accomplished palaeontologist, nor was he that obsessed with children's duvet sets; however, he believed this was a winning combination if ever he saw one in a bid to distract his colour sergeant.

Every one of Charlie's old school friends from King's had done well for themselves. Apart from Johnny, who was in the term above him at the Dark Place, and William, who was a pilot in the Royal Air Force, the majority all seemed to have migrated en masse to London. South of the Thames was the favoured location of many, and Clapham in particular, adjacent to the Common, was the vicinity in which James Hunter-Brooks had decided to reside himself.

James was Charlie's best friend and de facto Best Man should either of them be unfortunate enough to get married. They had grown up together since the age of twelve in their first year at King's, climbing trees, building dens and discovering the unknown about the female species. Now both in their early twenties, James was very much a deviant and certainly someone not to introduce to Mother! Despite their close bond, they were both quite competitive and this often led to one trying to outdo the other (never in a mean-spirited manner, mind), especially when sport was involved; even more especially when girls were involved.

James was also a handsome chap. An inch or so taller than Charlie, he was a dab hand at rugby, playing in the centre, and quite the charmer to boot. His skills in cricket differed slightly, leaning more towards bowling, but what he lacked in expertise with the bat he made up for fielding on the slip. He was halfway through his first year training on the London Stock Exchange and was destined for high places. On this occasion, it just so happened that for Charlie's momentous return, James, Johnny and William had all congregated at Château H-B for what they hoped would be a memorable weekend.

Like most military-minded fellows, the boys had a plan. This plan was not a detailed one, more a rough itinerary of how the weekend was to pass. After a few aperitifs to whet the palette, the chaps would leave Winsham Grove for livelier watering holes – most certainly along the King's Road – and continue on their path to inebriation, all the while forgetting the trials and tribulations they faced at work. Morning would arrive in varying amounts of pain for each and they would use the aftermath to attempt to re-piece the events from the night before over brunch. The process would then, in all likelihood, be repeated. Unfortunately, like most military arrangements, the evening did not go entirely to plan.

So allow me to explain how the plan deviated somewhat. The evening started as it should; the Tanqueray No. 10 was produced, together with some Angostura bitters and tonics, and was well-received by all. It did not take long to forget about Anna. In fact, she had not entered Charlie's mind at all since Johnny and William had turned up, but there was no harm ensuring this was the case with a few Pink Gins.

Now it has to be said that the four were all very good friends indeed. Every now and then the paradigm would shift and one pair would spend more time together than with the other, but as a whole, the four were inseparable. Together they were prone to being quite troublesome and mischievous, however, and as any sound chemist will testify to, their behaviour worsened with alcohol – gin in particular.

On this occasion, there was absolutely no malice intended (I reiterate what good friends they were). However, Johnny, having been through what Charlie was experiencing a mere three months prior, knew how important it was for him to have, tonight of all nights, a superb night. Alas! In collaboration with William and James, they agreed to give Charlie double, nay, triple the amount of gin in his drinks to ensure he had the most enjoyable evening possible. Charlie was unaware of this agreement, and any suspicion he may have had waned as the second, third and fourth refreshing beverage came his way.

This, Dear Readers, is where the plan deviated.

Charlie had earned himself a reputation at Cardiff for being able to handle his drink. It was a reputation he worked hard for over his four-year tenure and was quietly proud of it. Nevertheless, five weeks of prohibition and military training affects even the most impervious tolerance to alcohol. The one beer he did have after the rugby match against the Artillery was not, in any observer's opinion, sufficient to return him to his previous form.

By ten o'clock, the boys had made it to Fulham, and had just joined the queue to enter the first of several bars they had planned to call on, when Charlie had a sudden urge to answer Nature's call. Luckily, he thought, he was in the perfect place to empty his full bladder, and with more skill than should have been physically possible in his state, he unzipped, leant against the wall for support, and let flow. This was all very amusing to James, Johnny and William, who were now roaring with laughter. The others in the queue did not find being splashed quite so funny, and some of the girls, who had a clear line of sight of what was occurring, screamed. Before he had finished, and still flying low, a stout and muscular doorman picked Charlie up by his scruff, like a mother carries her puppies, his black boots being speckled with the remaining drops in the process. By pure coincidence, that was also the moment the Tanqueray No. 10 got the better of Charlie, as he volcanically erupted from his mouth, puking in his uprooter's face.

There was more laughter from the boys, more screams from the girls and one very unimpressed bouncer, who threw Charlie to the kerb and began wiping himself down. It was at precisely ten twenty-three PM when Charlie had to be thrown into a taxi and put to bed.

Charlie was the first to wake, with a foul headache and a burning taste in his mouth, and here the plan resumed. Each woke up sporadically over the next forty-five minutes in a manner not dissimilar to a tortoise awaking from hibernation. The exception was James, who, being the last to arise, was woken by a jug of water thrown in such a manner that more or less every drop ended up on his face, immediately followed by laughter from the other three.

Before long, they were sat on their favourite table in their favourite café trying to summon the strength to finish their English breakfasts. "I just can't understand why I crashed out so early on," Charlie proclaimed slightly deflated, which gave rise to raucous laughter from all, "pissed on a bouncer, you say?"

"Pissed on yourself and puked on a bouncer is probably a more accurate description," corrected James. More laughter.

Johnny explained how Charlie had had the lion's share of the gin, omitting rather diplomatically whose idea it was. He described how they had taken photographs of Charlie in his intoxicated state, which would be kept safe under lock and key, and used as leverage should the other three require it over the next year. He went on; how that far from leave a friend in need, they all decided to go back to H-B's and follow Charlie to bed, though they did carry the evening on, making it several hours later than he. The laughter continued and Charlie could not help but join in. He saw the funny side to the evening, even if he did feel the night had been wasted.

"Well, we'll just have to make up for it tonight!" he said optimistically, rubbing his hands together.

And make up for it they did.

This time the evening went considerably more to plan. A few school friends joined them (all City big-timers, all residing in Clapham) and after several cautiously homemade cocktails, they found themselves in a taxi making their way across the river to the Royal Borough. The boys, similarly dressed in blue shirts tucked into chinos and brown shoes, enjoyed themselves in several bars along the King's Road.

The evening was full of joviality and each went about themselves in the carefree manner of any twenty-something year old with a wallet full of expendable cash. Charlie, now making up for lost time, splashed out on a bottle of over-priced fizz and attracted the attention of a group of half a dozen striking girls, which did much for his credibility amongst his peers. It was not long before he had returned to his former Cardiff glory, as shot after shot disappeared within seconds of being served.

This was no time for gentlemanly behaviour, or chivalrous conduct. His sights were set. He was on the offensive and armed to the teeth with flirtatious charm. Each sentence seemed to him to make his female audience swoon, and his confidence grow in turn. He felt unstoppable. Witty line after witty line. He appeared razor-sharp and ultra smooth in the same breath. There was no escape, he thought. This was a sure winner. She had told him her name a least twice, but between the tequila slammers and the goldschlägers, the double whiskeys and the jägermeisters, he could not remember. But that was of little consequence, he thought. He leant in close to offer a seductive kiss on the cheek and a playful nibble on the ear, and then whispered something suggestive.

She withdre