A Soldier's Story

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Carnal Passions
A Division of Champagne Books
www.carnalpassions.com
Copyright 2011 by Iona Blair
ISBN 9781926996028
March 2011

Cover Art by Jenn Smith Produced in Canada

Carnal Passions
#35069-4604 37 ST SW
Calgary, AB T3E 7C7

Canada

       Sand, grit and suffocating heat bore down on the armoured vehicle. On the horizon, the snow capped Afghan mountains hovered, enigmatically. Lieutenant Jay Sutherland wiped the sweat from his eyes and counted the days until his tour of duty ended. These patrols were the worst. You never knew when you'd be blown up.

       "There's something up ahead, sir."

       The tension was palpable, a collective holding of breath.

       On the side of the road a ramshackle farm truck looked threatening and eerily familiar. "I've seen this type of thing before." The sergeant looked ready to throw up. "It could be wired to detonate when we pass by."

       Jay nodded. He gave the order to approach it cautiously. Rifles were drawn and ready to fire. The rough road burned through his boots. He wondered if this would be where his luck ran out?

       A sudden movement near the suspicious vehicle made everyone jump and aim

       "Hold your fire." Jay watched with bated breath as a man emerged from behind a cactus bush.

       "It's a suicide bomber," the sergeant yelled.

       Everyone froze. Backed off. Hit the ground.

       Jay's heart pounded out a tattoo as the focus of so much terror, opened the truck door, climbed into the driver's seat and started up the engine.

       "It's gonna explode," predicted the sergeant. "Keep your heads down."

       They braced themselves for the impact.

       The engine grinded and choked reluctantly, but after several tries jerked clumsily to life.

       No explosion.

       It was like an anti climax. Jay watched the old truck barrel away, leaving a cloud of pollution behind it.

       Everyone exhaled again. "It was just a guy taking a leak." The sergeant laughed. Others joined in.

~ * ~

       I don't know how much more of this I can stand. Jay stared into the bathroom mirror and scratched his two-day stubble. Blue eyes, even features and cropped black hair looked back. Although well past midnight, the barracks were still noisy. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed and someone yelled. It grated on his nerves, more than usual. Heck face it, they were badly frayed. He shrugged. After almost a year in this hellhole, who could wonder why? He drained his whiskey glass.

       Of course, it wasn't only the War on Terror that rattled his cage. He peered at his reflection with undisguised dislike. It was what it had driven him to. What he had become. He lit a cigarette and threw the match in the toilet.

       No one in his military family had thought to warn him about the hidden side of combat. The arousal, for instance, that shocked him to the core. It first happened during an ambush by the Taliban. Facing death and destruction at any minute, he'd been suddenly hornier than a ten-peckered owl. But then maybe everyone did not experience this? He couldn't imagine it ever happening to his father.

       You're oversexed; he mouthed to his mirror image before shuffling back to his room. There was no crumpet, as the sergeant called it, around here. No dance halls or bars. No way to get your rocks off except with hand polish. He needed to get laid, quite desperately. Daydreamed about hookers.

       He fiddled with the sluggish table fan, aiming it towards the bed. After plumping up the pillows and logging in to his laptop, he reread the last email he'd received from Kerry. They'd only been married for a couple of years, but had known each other for a lifetime as family friends and neighbours.

       She missed him so much, she said. He felt a stab of guilt. He couldn't honestly say he felt the same way. He had, of course, when he was first deployed here. But as the months past…well extreme circumstances changed people. Vancouver, where he'd grown up, seemed very far away.

       He heard the scream of a siren. More trouble. Some poor bugger, like the one that used to share his room––he glanced over at

the empty bed––blown to smithereens.

       He tried to sleep, but with a mind racing like the Indy 500 it was impossible. Besides, it was just too bloody hot. He got up and thumped the fan. But it wasn't just the heat, the danger, the horniness for hookers––heck he'd never paid for a piece before. Something else was happening that he wouldn't even acknowledge to himself. Couldn't. It went against everything he'd been taught. Everything he believed in, all his values.

       He rubbed his head so vigorously the scalp glowed. Lit a cigarette. Watched the smoke curl up to the rafters. Why couldn't he get Corporal Darren Morrison out of his mind? There, he had admitted it. It was out. Why did he feel so unaccountably drawn to the fairhaired young man with the unusual green eyes?

       It must be, he reasoned, all part and parcel of the horniness in battle scenario. Everything had gone crazy and out of whack. Once he was back in Canada again, with his family, all this would be just like a very bad dream.

       Had his father ever felt drawn to one of his comrades during the Gulf War, he wondered? Then dismissed the thought, immediately, as being unforgivably inappropriate and disloyal.

       It wasn't just the physical attraction though; Darren was one of the most reliable and likeable soldiers under his command. When Jay had been sick with flu, Darren had brought him cups of tea from the canteen and chatted to him to keep his spirits up. "You're looking better today, sir," he would say. To which Jay would reply, between bouts of coughing, "Then looks can be deceiving."

       Jay felt that if the sirens didn't stop he'd go mad. He covered his ears with his hands. He felt so lonely, confused and cut adrift from the safe world he once knew and trusted. Life had been predictable and secure, working in the family nursery––he held a degree in horticulture––and attending church on Sundays.

       The sirens suddenly stopped. Sheer bliss. Everything fell unnaturally quiet, as if the atmosphere still hurt from the onslaught. He should try and get some sleep, or at least rest. He lay down on the bed. Only a few weeks to go and he'd be home. He couldn't believe it. It was like another world. But would he make it? That galled at him as well, for so many guys didn't right at the end of their tour. Did they get careless? Or were they on such tenterhooks about getting wounded or killed that they brought it on themselves? Did their fear and dread attract what they wanted most to avoid?

       Talking of avoidance, he turned over on his side and faced the wall; he aimed to do just that with Corporal Morrison. It wouldn't be easy, however, as he was part of his squad, and damn it all, he liked the guy, the unsettling physical attraction aside.

~ * ~

       Taliban fighters had been reported hiding out in a remote village north of Kandahar. "We have to flush them out." Jay led a foot patrol through the polyglot of primitive houses made of baked mud and straw. It had taken them the best part of the morning, through narrow desert roads to get there. Half starved children eyed them warily from the doorways. The soldiers distributed food rations.

       "Over here, sir." Darren emerged from a ramshackle outbuilding at the side of a house. Through an interpreter, an old man told them that the group of fighters who stayed there had left at dawn.

       "Check every inch of it, anyway," Jay ordered. "And watch out for booby traps." He had seen too many soldiers blown to bits when they stepped on cleverly concealed bombs.

       The village was unusually quiet, sweltering under a noon sun that burned down like a fiery demon from a starkly white sky. Jay wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, while keeping on the alert for any unusual activity. A mangy yellow mongrel so thin its ribs showed through skulked along beside him. He threw it some beef jerky, and watched while it devoured the treat.

       "It's all clear, sir." Darren swung his rifle over his shoulder.

       "Until tonight when they'll be back again." Jay shook his head. He felt they were engaged in a war that couldn't be won. So am I, he thought, ruefully, for Darren's closeness had weakened all his resolve to mush. On the bumpy ride back to the barracks he felt uncomfortably aware of his presence. The desire to do unspeakable and forbidden things throbbed to such a crescendo that he visualised them as a hot red presence that lay swollen on the air between them. He longed to stroke his thigh, to tongue kiss him, to reach his hand between his legs, all the same things he had done to girls. What the fuck was happening to him? Stop, stop, stop, he willed himself.

       The vehicle veered around a pothole then came to a sudden stop, throwing its occupants against each other. The feel of Darren's skin hard against his own burned like a branding iron. "Sorry about that, sir," the driver said. "The damned engine stalled out on me."

       Jay nodded and glanced around, surreptitiously, at the other soldiers. Had anyone noticed his infatuation with Darren? Then he banished the thought, as quickly as it had come. Of course they hadn't. It was just the guilt pricking at him. For that matter, was Darren even aware of the turmoil he was causing? He hadn't given any sign–– couldn't of course, under the circumstances––except for a certain intensity in those incredible eyes of his. Green had never looked so cool and seductive before. Damn him! Seducers like him used to be executed as wizards.

       Yet even as he thought this, realised it wasn't Darren's fault, it was his own, for being weak and unnatural. It's the fricken' war, he decided for the umpteenth time, but it sounded pretty lame, too much like a convenient excuse. No war or any other calamity was reason to lust after another man. Good God, this had to stop. He had a wife at home, and a family prominent in the community. His father, a city councillor, had run for mayor last year. He'd been defeated by a very small margin of votes, but would try again at the next election.

       Would this horrible bumpy ride in 120-degree heat never end? He longed for the sea breezes in Cyprus, where he would spend five glorious days to "decompress" before flying home.

       He tried to take a swig from his water bottle, but it tumbled out of his trembling hand. "Here you are, sir." Darren retrieved it from under the seat and handed it to him. Jay noticed the concern in his eyes. "Are you alright, Lieutenant?" he asked.

       "Yes…just tired." And consumed with lust for you, the infernal little voice that refused to be quiet piped up in his tortured mind.