Free Soldier's Daughters by Fiona Field

of this, she thought. How was she going to bear it? She felt insanely envious of Sam and her posting to an infantry regiment. All those hunky young subalterns to knock around with. And what did she have here? A whole heap of passed-over majors, time-serving till their pensions kicked in, with no sense of humour, who found endless fault in the junior officers who were, themselves, cowed into submission.
    She flopped onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. Surely there had to be more to life that what she had right now? Surely there had to be some way of shaking up this joint? Maybe she’d ring Sam and see if she fancied coming down to Surrey and helping her do a bit of hell-raising. It seemed to Michelle that all her contemporaries in the mess were so wet they needed to be wrung out – or was that just because all the old fogeys had made them that way? She pulled her phone out of her pocket and pressed the buttons to get Sam.
    ‘Hiya, hon,’ she said when Sam picked up. ‘I can’t tell you how envious of you I am right now.’
    ‘Of me?’ replied Sam.
    ‘Of course. It’s beyond dreary here, the job sucks, the pressure is insane, the mess is dead and at weekends it’s empty. So, come on, tell me, what are all those fit young men like?’
    A heavy sigh breezed over the airwaves. ‘I don’t know. They barely talk to me.’
    ‘You what?’
    ‘You heard. I’ve kind of given up and I spend half my free time in my room. Over and above that my ASM hates me and I’m beginning to have real doubts as to whether I’m cut out for this.’
    ‘No-o-o… but you’re the perfect officer. Shit, if anyone is destined to whoosh up the ranks it’s you. Why the self-doubt?’
    ‘I dunno. Maybe it’s just a bad patch. Maybe I need to man up, get used to it.’ There was another sigh.
    ‘That’s it, then, we need to get together. You need to get your butt down to Surrey. We need to have a weekend on the lash, go clubbing, experience hangovers again, what do you say?’
    ‘God, yes, Michelle. Yes! When?’
    ‘Well, not this weekend, I’m on duty, but maybe one soon.’
    ‘You got spammed for a weekend duty early. You’ve only just arrived there.’
    ‘Sort of. I picked up an extra or two.’
    ‘Michelle!’
    ‘I was late on parade. My alarm didn’t go off.’
    ‘Oh, Michelle. You are a numpty.’
    ‘Never mind. I’ll ring next week. We can firm up some proper plans.’
    ‘Brilliant.’
    ‘Hello, Sam.’
    Sam put down the copy of The Times she was reading while enjoying a quiet post-work cup of tea in the mess anteroom. As she looked up she saw James Rosser, one of the platoon commanders of 1 Herts. ‘Hello, James.’
    ‘Mind if I join you?’
    Sam glanced around the anteroom of the mess. The groups of armchairs gathered around low coffee tables were mostly unoccupied. There were a couple of the other platoon commanders across the room, reading the papers, but the majority of the livers-in had already downed a swift cuppa and shot off to their rooms to grab a bag, before racing off for the weekend. The mess this weekend, like the last one, was going to be very quiet.
    ‘Please do,’ she said. ‘But don’t feel you have to keep me company if you’ve got something you’d rather do.’ She quite liked James. He seemed very old-fashioned, which was faintly endearing, and even more endearing, in Sam’s opinion, was his distinct resemblance to a young Hugh Grant, complete with floppy fringe, smiley blue eyes and slightly diffident and shy manner.
    James gave her a lopsided grin and put his own cup of tea down on the table before he slumped into the chair opposite her. ‘Like my laundry, you mean?’
    ‘Hey, for all I know, you might think that ironing is the best fun you can have with your clothes on.’
    ‘As long as you don’t iron your clothes while you are wearing them.’
    ‘Ouch, no. As the battalion health and safety officer I would have to advise against that.’
    ‘You’re all right, that’s not