To Lady Croft, for your humour. "Commander Sandhurst and his 'Hard Thingy'" Chapter one It was a warm-balmy-sunny Wednesday afternoon - Commander Sandhurst's weekly sports afternoon which he normally used for practising his golfing shots out on the neatly pruned grass field that stretched from the garden of the ground floor of his office block towards all three directions. His elite unit, the Scorpio Battalion, the mighty veterans of Operation DE-SA(JHA)-ERT STORM, had recently returned to the base after a successful conclusion of Operation DALLE KHORSANEE in the Cyber land, and the bulk of personnel under him were having post-operational break; he could see his men playing either football or rugby in the field for most of the time from the wide double-glazed window of his office. The southern edge of the pitch ran along a dizzyingly sharp and rugged cliff, beyond which lay a vast sharply-tinted bluey expanse of the Sajha-lantic ocean with a haphazard fleet of sailing boats and occasional smattering of small ferries dotting everywhere. On a clear day, he loved watching the sailing boats disappear into the horizon over coffee and bites of Scottish shortbreads which the barman from the mess fetched every morning during weekdays. But Commander Sandhurst was not playing golf this afternoon. His usual golfing kit and a net full of balls which he carried to the pitch with a certain swagger and an air of self-assurance, were nowhere to be seen this afternoon. He was in his office - yes, you heard it, fuming and probably cursing and cussing. Or so thought his wiry handsome Adjutant next door, who wore his beret in such a way that he always left a wisp of hair hanging loose from the side reams of it. On a Wednesday afternoon and clad in his complete PT gears? Bloody hell. 'Adjutant', just as he stood up to step out of his office, he heard his boss calling. 'Yes sir' said gently the Adjutant opening his boss's door slightly. 'Do you have the file ready yet?' What bloody file? That gave his Adjutant a severe head-in. Oh, Private Croft's interview file - bloody hell. Only now could he remember it was Private Croft's interview with him, the former's sole reason for giving up his sports afternoon. 'Ermm, Sir, will bring it in'. Bloody friggin hell, he cursed himself and rushed to his office to get the file. Private Croft was on attachment to the unit from a Logistical Brigade and has been with the Scorpio battalion for over a year and a half. She was a well-known Smart-alec. Every Tom, Dick or Harry in the battalion knew that and nobody dared try mucking up with her. Because she was smart as well as pretty. A ravishingly dashing beauty, any man's dream girl and doubtless, the men wanted to have a bite at this fiery Crofty pie that had been wreaking havoc in their hearts for the last twelve months or so. Then there was her level of physical fitness that most male members in her platoon found hard to swallow; she was a robust soldier who could beat her male counterparts in most of the physical tests. In drinking and swearing down in the pub and night clubs too. Such was her reputation but the smitten male lot looked up to her bewilderingly with both a level of respect and a tinge of envy. Left, right, left. This was Private Croft's beefy Platoon Sergeant shouting on top of his lunge. His words of command brought with them tremors that reverberated though the corridors of the Headqaurters. 'Left, left, left, HOLD. Look up Crofty, UP, UP an straight on, your beret is f*ckin tiltin' to the back. F*ckin wear it properly before I f*ckin shove it into the shredding machine. Private Croft, ready for the Commander's order Sur', reported the scary looking sergeant, standing at attention and looking directly into the eyes of the nervous Adjuant. The sergeant being a typical Infantry field soldier, had that rough i-will-eat-you-alive look and air about him. 'Sergeant, thank you, you can dismiss for now to your barrack lines and wait until the Commander is through with the proceedings.'', said the Adjutant who escorted Private Croft into the Commander's office. The sergeant had left. He waited outside in the corridor, assuming that the order will be short and swift. Then he heard words flying in his boss's office. Bloody friggin hell. 'Private Croft, what in the world were you thinking when you went on AWOL? Can you tell me why?'. This was the boss going about his bollocking business. 'Err Sur, but I was inside de camp that nite, innit? Coz I remember, it was ur birthday too innit? an there was cakes to be eaten, innit?'. And this was Private Croft. Oh, yeah, yeah, blagh blagh, yap, yap smarty arse speaking her way out of the mess. Again. Thought the Adjutant, head nodding. One big yap-yap dot com (yap-yap.com), she turned out to be. He smiled this time. 'An I wished you 'aapy burfday' on de 11th, innit?', again Private Croft. 'Yeah, Croft, I know, you did but that's not the point here, is it? You categorically failed to sign in at the Guard Room when you returned. Okay you'd arrived before the time you were supposed to but since the register shows no record of your arrival time written. And that means you'd gone on AWOL.', Commander Sandhurst blurted out. 'Yeah, well metaphorically', Croft again. The adjutant kept on smiling - you know one of those wicked musu-musu smiles. 'Now Goddmmit Croft, enough of your woffles. Hands down - 100 bloody push-ups', the boss fuming. The Adjutant was visualising the unfolding scene inside the closed door. 100 push-ups? Bloody friggin hell! 'But sur, I thought I waz gonna do a 10 rounds of the football ground, innit??', the smart arse Croft again. 'Now shut your flipping mouth, and hands(h) down', Commander Sandhurst raising his voice that had all the hallmarks of the Sean Connery sound effect, especially with the way he couldn't differentiate between a single letter 's' and the letters 'sh' when pronouncing them. He always pronounced the 's' sound as in fish, wish. So kiss was for him 'kish', and miss, 'mish'. So, handsh bloody down! '1, 2, 3, 4',, the counting began. The Adjutant pitied Private Croft and wished he had never brought this case to the attention of his boss. The counting had begun. In earnest. Adjutant thought, Private Croft being Private Croft would finish the 100th push up in a matter of minutes, so he could go and watch the England vs New Zealand rugby in the mess. Alas, little did he know that the order was going to take way more than he though, it would. Much to his annoyance. 'Your thingy is hard, innit?', the smart arse Croft. What? The Adjutant's stood now in rapt attention, heart pouncing in a complete and utter confusion. Doing push-ups and talking about 'thingy'. What in the bloody world is happening there? 'Yeah, hard, isn't it? Catch it properly, will you?', What? 'Oh legs apart a bit please'. The Commander again. What in the f*cking world is happening there? Then he realised that his boss's commands were slowly changing with each utterance of the numbers, 60, 61, 70, the sharp deep effect of his voice slowly mutating into humming murmurs with his fits of puffing, panting and moaning. 'Oh yes, oh, count it, god I should do it more often'. Yeah, do that OFTEN in your bloody coffin! Then 'ping'! Something clicked in his mind instantaneously. The pearl of wisdom = Monica Lewinsky. The only clue left to the 'hard thingy' conundrum. See, such a thing called nfatuation' too does come in handy. The Commander was well aware of his fantasy about this certain brunette creature who had wreaked havoc in the corners of a certain 'white' house not long ago. And besides, he had watched the Larry King interview on tele only last week. Yeah, with Lewinsky in it, talking in person. Bastard. The boss is shagging Private Croft. Bloody friggin hell. In his office and in front of my friggin nose. Sad old friggin git. F*ck, f*ck bloody f*ck. I must stop it before the whole bloody world knows about it. Yes, must do it, resolved. Then in a fit of both excitement and confusion, he swung open his boss's door with all his strength, and lo, there was his boss lying on the floor, completely tuckered out, panting. Caught in the bloody act. 'Oh hello Danny, not yet finished', said his boss smiling. Danny - that was his Adjutant's first name. Then carried on his boss again, 'I thought, I should do some push-ups to burn off the fat on my tummy that I have put on from the summer ball and the parties after that. Private Croft, can you hold the bar (the 'hard thingy') properly over my feet, another 20 yeah?' 'Please carry on Sur, de pleasure is mine, innit?', said Private Croft smiling, looking smugly at the Adjutant who was clearly shaken and embarrassed. 'Oh, sorry Sir', Danny, the Adjutant slammed shut the door behind him hard and stormed out of the office building, fuming - swearing and cursing at his boss. He did not returned to the office that day. **************The End********************************