Going All The Way (Bootneck Threesome Book 2) by Mark Time

Author:Mark Time [Time, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Smashed Plate
Published: 2016-04-28T22:00:00+00:00

‘Soldiers can sometimes make decisions that are smarter than the orders they’ve been given.’

~ Ender’s Game, Orson Scott Card

WITH ADVENTURE TRAINING APPROACHING, I was asked to take part in a charity run from Rideau Camp in the South to Airport Camp the British Forces HQ on the outskirts of Belize City.

It was an idea spawned the previous year by the lads of the Parachute Regiment - now there’s a first - to try and raise money for a para sergeant’s child suffering a debilitating illness. They’d chosen the route, 213 miles of arduous terrain, in a team of ten runners and had completed the course in just over 22 hours. It was hoped the run would be kept alive by the following units and we decided we should continue tradition. Not only would it be for a great cause, but also we had to beat the paras.

Ten of us were chosen. I can only think I got the nod due to them wanting someone to do impressions with their genitals in the back of a vehicle - my ‘goose flying south for the winter’ only slightly behind my ‘Angel Gabriel’ as a 7 Battery favourite. It took us the best part of the day for us Holdfast Camp lads to get down to Rideau Camp in the south of Belize. We arrived early evening and were fed and watered while meeting the other runners based at Rideau. For the Battery lads, it became an impromptu reunion after a few months separation; for me it was good to meet future mates. For the sake of sensibility prior to an epic run at 0400 the next morning, we just had a solitary beer and went to bed around 2200hrs.

‘Why you in bed, ya bunch of lightweights?’ asked one of the Rideau runners. It was a nice way to be awoken.

‘We’re running at four,’ replied someone post- slumber.

‘Four in the afternoon, ya dick. We’re running through the night to escape the heat of the day,’ said the Rideau lad.

‘So much for 24 hour military time keeping then,’ I said.

Thinking it would be unsociable to not join the lads in their bar, we had another beer, and another and another. We left the bar at 4am, totally mingbats. Only 12 hours to sober up before we were to each run 21 miles. Well at least it wasn’t a marathon.

Waking in the early afternoon with a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage, I joined the lads to collect the stores for the run. The camp quartermaster was a paratrooper on an extended deployment and had organised our rations for the run. He must have had a wager that we wouldn’t beat the paras’ time and also his regimental pride was evident as the rations issued were a shit load of water, a sack of potatoes and a sack of carrots. Raw. With no cooking facilities and our beds the floor of the four-tonne support truck, rather than whinging like bitches, we saw it as an ideal opportunity to get one over on the paras.

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