Bloody Ruperts! [Reid]

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

His boots splashing through puddles hurriedly, Lieutenant Oswald moved through the heavy rain. The water ran off his brown leather raincoat, and soaked into his peaked cap. The evening was closing in, and the dark grey sky stole away an hour of daylight. This was third consecutive day of constant rainfall, and it annoyed Oswald. He’d been due to play a game of golf with an old friend today, which he had been looking forward to for the past month. Now his clubs abandoned in the corner of his living room.

The rain had yet to stop. I had got heavier and lighter, but had not stopped once during day light hours. It made no difference to men who were not on leave. They shot, did drill and practised their field craft whether it was baking hot or a blizzard. A little rain never deterred the Sergeant Majors or Training Officers. But it ruined those who did have leave. Oswald had one week’s relative freedom and three days had already been written off.

He moved up a paved path, towards a red-brick, two storey building ahead. It was the camp cookhouse, which had been built with the rest of the camp during the First Boer War, and desperately required maintenance. There would probably be buckets everywhere, catching all the small drips. But money these days went into guns and tanks, not roof repairs… The bottom was the mess of the Other Ranks, which was always noisy and a small layer of cigarette smoke formed just below the ceiling during the evenings. Benches and a rough wooden floor was all the soldiers got. The Officers’ mess on the second floor wasn’t much better. A threadbare crimson carpet was spread across the floor, and rugs were placed over areas where the carpet had disappeared altogether. The tables were marked and stained, and the seating comprised of uncomfortable wooden chairs that teenagers in a woodwork class must have produced. Even though it was the Officer’s mess, the same crap food that was served three metres below was served up there, by the same dirty and untrained men. Hairs in food were not uncommon, and Oswald often wondered if it was deliberate.

He reached the heavy door of the building and shoved it open with his gloved hand, expending some of his pent-up energy. The door swung only halfway open before noticeably striking something. When Oswald moved around the door, expecting to see a chair or maybe something like a box, he got quite a fright. A man stood swearing into his hands, which were clutched over his nose. Blood trickled around his fingers, and Oswald was not happy to see this man was a superior. “I’m so sorry! Are alright, sir?” Oswald said, with the tight feeling in his legs he always got as a boy when he knew he was in big trouble. “Do I look bloody well alright?!” the man barked, before pushing past the Second Lieutenant and storming into the Other Ranks’ mess, probably searching for tissues.

Oswald wasn’t sure if he should stay hanging around and wait for the officer to return, but the man had disappeared into the mass of bodies which populated the mess area. If he stayed hanging around here like a lemon, the man might come back and give Oswald a tough time, so he decided to keep a low profile and sneak up the metal staircase to the Officers’ mess.

Following convention, he removed his cap and coat, before moving over to some pegs and commandeering one for himself. Unlike the area below, the mess up here was virtually empty. Not a good thing, because that officer would have no trouble seeking Oswald out up here if he wanted to. A small group of men sat smoking cigars and drinking spirits in dilapidated old chairs and listening to a wireless, while a few small groups of officers sat chatting over their grub. In all, there were less than twenty men up here, opposed to the several hundred downstairs.

Oswald moved casually towards the wireless set, but not wanting to intrude, stood staring out of a filthy Victorian window. Some French politician was being interviewed and seemed to be struggling to understand the interviewer’s questions as much as the interviewer was struggling to understand his answers. Realising that he had nothing better to do, Oswald moved from the window over to the serving area. He picked up a sticky wooden tray and walked along the line of tins, trying to decide between the cremated roast chicken and the ‘meat’ stew. In the end he accepted three slices of chicken from an aproned Lance-Corporal , who had a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a brown stain across his white and creased apron. At least if the chicken was burnt to a cinder, it wouldn’t deal out food poisoning. Oswald moved along and spooned dry vegetables onto his cracked plate. Carrots; peas; roast potatoes, sprouts. He doused the whole lot in watery gravy that smelt nothing like gravy… He decided to skip the pudding of bread and butter pudding…

He moved away from the serving area and looked forlornly at table after table of empty seats. He knew nobody there, had just nearly knocked an officer out and was holding a tray of “Totally inedible cack.”

[William Reid]

Sat in his office, Lieutenant Reid looked up at the clock mounted on the wall, a rather cheap one made of plastic. The hands were quickly approaching seven o’clock, prompting Reid’s stomach to remind him that the measly lunch he was served was almost seven hours ago. With a loud growl, he accepted the fact he was not going to get any more work done until that problem had been remedied.

Signing off one last form, he came to his feet; walking around the desk that took up most of the small room he donned his overcoat from the hook on the back of the door. Reaching back to the desk, he grabbed his peaked cap and left, locking the door behind him. Walking down the polished halfway, the smell of damp was ripe as the Victorian building was assaulted by a barrage of rain.

He carefully opened the door, having to fight against the wind, and stood under the small shelter over the doorway. Donning his hat, he chose his route. He would have to make a break over some uncovered ground, but for the most part of the fifty metre walk he would be able to stay in the dry patch next to a building.

Stepping off, he pressed against the wall, grimacing slightly as his mirrored shoes quickly took on a layer of grime. Stopping just once to return a salute from a Sergeant returning to the barracks, he made it through the rain and to the large mess building. He did a double take as he noticed a small smear of blood on the frosted window of the door, the red showing brightly from light on the other side. He shook his head, and opened the door, entering the musky building.

Making a beeline to the metal staircase, he quickly ascended to the Officer’s floor, ears buzzing with the hubbub from downstairs. Stopping by the coat hangars, he hung his hat and coat, noticing the several puddles under each peg. The weather had been like this for too long, a non-stop barrage from above. Sometimes the monotony was interrupted by lightning or hail, but for most of the last fortnight it had been rain, rain and more rain.

Entering the near-deserted mess, he cast his eyes amongst the other weary faces of officers, glad another day was approaching its end. Cigar smoke was drifting up towards the ceiling, a more educated version of the cloud downstairs representing the pay difference between Officer and Enlisted. The obligatory wireless was playing, a French politician speaking about something or another, Reid did not pay particular attention, though, taking a place at the rear of the small line to get food. The term “food” being used in the loosest way possible.

Taking his own wooden tray and chipped plate, he looked the smoking Lance-Corporal up and down. ”If I find any ash in my food, I will have you on a much less glorious job for a long, long time, Lance-Corporal,” he threatened, his voice making it clear it was by no means a hollow threat. With a slightly sullen look, the junior NCO removed his cigarette before giving Reid’s plate a good dollop of stew, making possibly too much noise as the spoon hit the plate.

Taking a few potatoes to soak up some of the gravy from the stew, he walked away, looking for a table. There was plenty of choice, only a few of them being used. He overheard one officer, a Second Lieutenant mutter about the standard of the food. Smiling, Reid waited for the Lieutenant to sit down, before moving to the opposite end of the table. ”William Reid,” he said, smiling slightly, ”I couldn’t agree more about the food, do you mind if I have this seat?”

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

OOC: I’m pushed for time, and can’t really find too much to write about, hence the shortness.

Deep in his own thought, it made Oswald jump as he realised he was being spoken to. He looked over to the man who had spoken to him, hoping beyond hope it wasn’t Captain Bloody-Nose. But instead he saw a blonde haired man, who appeared to have the same taste in moustaches as he himself did. “Yes, go ahead,” Oswald said, before noticing the two pips on the man’s shoulders “Sir.”

Watching the Lieutenant rather curiously, Oswald lowered his wooden tray down onto the table, before pulling the chair nosily back. “I am Second Lieutenant Oswald, sir, of the Seventh Armoured.” he said, sitting down and realising he’d ended up with the chair that rocked. The fact the screws holding the back of the chair to the cushioned seat were anything but tight did not please Oswald either. The officer just across from him seemed friendly enough; he had asked to share a table.

Oswald appreciated the company. He’d expected a lonely evening with crap food and nothing good on the wireless. At least a little conversation would make the hideous food more bearable. He took another look at what the Army enjoyed terming a meal. Only then did it occur to Oswald that he really wasn’t that hungry. Or maybe it was just the sight and smell of the food that had turned him away?

“I see you went for the… meat stew, sir,”Oswald said, a slight smile on his lips. “Personally, I find charred poultry far more attractive. You just can’t beat that crust twenty year’s worth of oven grease adds to a bird, sir.”He picked up an unclean knife and fork and decided that the spuds looked the most advertising of the amassed foods. He chopped into them and took his first bite. It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, but what’s the worst you can do with a potato?

[William Reid]

OOC: Looking at your App, I’m going to say this is in early 1941.

Laying down his tray and taking a seat, Reid began to feel himself relax. It was a long day, and whilst the food may not exactly be gourmet, he had half an hour ahead of him with no worries, and possibly even some good conversation.

The Second Lieutenant in front of him looked respectable. Reid had a firm belief that all officers in the armed forces should be gentlemen, and this one seemed up the level. He could hold his cutlery properly, and spoke with certain eloquence. Aside from the obvious damp, his uniform looked fine, and it was worn properly to the book, not unlike some of the poorer enlisted men.

Quartering a potato so it could start soaking up some of the brown water on his plate, Reid cast a cautious eye over Oswald’s chicken meal, something which looked to have been cooked with equal love and care of the stew. He gave a small laugh to Oswald’s joke as he found a piece of meat, and sliced the already pitiful portion down to a bite-sized piece and promptly began chewing on the rubbery piece, washing it down with water. He would have preferred some wine, but really this meal seemed an insult to anything other than water.

”I was tempted by the grease, oh yes, but the allure of rubbery meat came out on top.” There was one thing about the army, everyone, from the lowliest Private to Battalion Staff would complain about the food. Reid very much doubted that anyone higher would have to eat this, though.

”In all fairness, though Lieutenant, if this stew is warm, it can be a God-send in the field. However I see no reason why it should be served here, when the war is still a few hundred miles away.” He broke for a moment, taking another bite of food and chewing it over. ”When I was training at Sandhurst, unless we were in the field it was three cooked meals a day, each one infinitely better than this. And to think, I only finished my training a year or so ago. The quality really has gone downhill since then.”

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

Oswald began to relax as the conversation continued. He felt better in the company of the upper class. Unfortunately, the war had killed off most of the better officers, and so they had been replaced by men from the ranks who showed any kind of leadership potential. The result of this horrible idea was a rainbow military, with drunkards commanding gentlemen. This was the British Army not theRed Army. There were standards; we were an elite army, not made from people who couldn’t even spell their own names!

“It’s the rationing, sir” Oswald spoke in response to the Lieutenant’s question. “Even the worst of the food must be used... Maybe if the Navy wanted to up-their-game, we could finally have some good food around here.”
He decided to risk the chicken, and took his blunt knife to the white meat. He cut through it, but it quickly disintegrated. Maybe he was best to become a vegetarian for the evening? Oswald instead began to tackle the Brussels sprouts on his plate. He’d never been a fan of them, but at least they were physically edible. Even if they were nearly cold, they were positively gourmet compared to the other crap this cookhouse turned out.

Orphanage meals had been better than this, Oswald tried to remember. He could have just been more hungry back then. It was a long time ago, and best forgotten. His past was his past, and now only the future counted. That was the only thing you had power over, so that was the only thing worth worrying about.

“So who are you with, sir?” Oswald asked, as he prodded some gravy-covered foreign object with his knife. It did not look like any food he’d ever seen. It made his stomach turn when he realised it was an adhesive bandage. He dramatically slipped it onto the end of his knife, and then transferred it to his wooden tray. This was ridiculous, and he was tempted to complain. Bad food is one thing; bad hygiene is something completely different.

[William Reid]

Deciding that perhaps the potatoes would be a better option than the meat was a mistake for Lieutenant Reid. The powdery insides of the jackets disintegrated, turning in to a brown lump floating on the gravy. All in all, a rather unappetising sight. He looked back up at Oswald. ”Rationing is one thing, but we’re growing enough potatoes for the country and all we get are these distinctly sub-standard ones, as Officers, one would think we would have some standards around here.”

”Really, Lieutenant, and it pains me to say this, all of our armed forces are out-dated,” he responded to the Navy comment, with a matter-of-fact face. ”In the army, we’re still using weapons dating back to before the Great War, and the less said about our armour the better. Our Navy’s ships are mostly old, and we don’t have too many effective ways of countering submarines. At least the Royal Air Force is the best in the world, but they can not win a war by themselves, who knows, if we had a better equipped army three years ago, we could have avoided this entire war.”

Taking another miserable bite of food, he allowed Oswald to take up the conversation again, enquiring about Reid’s division. ”Sorry, how rude of me. I’m with the Seventh Armoured as well. Able Company, under Captain Brentwood.” He gave a look of distaste to the bandage which Oswald was pulling out of his food. ”My word,” he noted, ”that is just appalling!” There had to be some standards, but this was a shocking breach of any sane man’s health and safety, who knew what else could be floating around in the food. The thought of it made Reid feel queasy.

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

Oswald was rather surprised by how critical this man was being of the military. Fine, we could be a little better, but this man was virtually being seditious. Maybe a few Panzer’s would liven up our armoured forces? What about some U-Boats to help our ‘mostly-old’ ships? The British Army was not terrible; we were giving as good as we were getting in North Africa. But disagreement leads often to argument, and argument isn’t the best way to forge a friendship. Oswald just showed his interest, and tucked away another spout as an excuse not to speak.

He once more observed the bandage, which had been formed into an open-ended cylinder, probably to fit around a finger. Oswald felt his stomach turn, and decided to give that filthy Lance-Corporal a hard time about it. Maybe he could get a free drink from the bar out of it? A free meal would be a punishment, not compensation. The Second Lieutenant rose from his seat, and navigated the sticky, gravy-soaked piece of fabric onto a thin napkin. “Excuse me for a moment, sir.

Holding the napkin slightly cupped in his right hand, Oswald advanced the short distance to the serving counter. The Lance-Corporal just stared blankly at him. As Oswald met his gaze, he spoke gruffly “What?” Oswald glanced at the pip on his shoulder. “Sir...?

“Corporal, would you mind explaining to me why I have just found a band-aid in my food, and why I shouldn’t have every damn cook on this place put on a charge?” Oswald didn’t particularly enjoy rocking the boat, but if he showed he wouldn’t take crap, he would hopefully earn the respect of Mr Reid. That was the theory at least.

The Lance-Corporal didn’t look concerned in the slightest. Most would cack themselves if a Sergeant Major or Under Officer appeared, but Second Lieutenants weren’t seen as carrying much weight. The junior NCO smiled.“Maybe it’s in your food, sir, because it fell off your finger... sir.”

[William Reid]

Watching the Second Lieutenant excuse himself, Reid mulled over another rubbery piece of meat, observing how the small encounter would go ahead. In a textbook army, the Lance-Corporal would take responsibility, even if it wasn’t him directly, and sort everything out to the best of his ability, if he was unable seeking a senior NCO.

Of course, with the attitude problems of the “Lance-jack” he had doubts this would go down smoothly, so Reid watched carefully. The Lance-Corporal, as expected, did not have any respect at all for the position of an officer, and Reid found himself climbing to his feet, and taking a few steps around to shadow the Lieutenant.

It was quite disturbing, that a young man in the army, in a position where he had been promoted because of his leadership potential, and had a lot of contact with the fresh “boots” in the army was so lax around an officer. He hadn’t even pulled himself to attention, and was talking through a cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth, as if he was back in the northern-England cities his accent betrayed him from, casually talking with friends.

He took a moment, and eyeballed the Lance-Corporal, using a cold stare which Reid felt he had perfect to make the recipient feel thoroughly uncomfortable, and to expect some sort of punishment, possibly cruel and unusual, was coming his way. He didn’t intrude straight away, instead making his presence was known, but allowing Second Lieutenant Oswald to carry on.

With an inexplicable amount of cheek, the junior NCO suggested that Oswald was in fact responsible for the band-aid. Making a literal growl of disgust in his throat, Reid fixed his eyes on the Lance-Corporal, mouthing the word “attention”, resisting the urge to add some sort of demeaning comment. That sort of thing wasn’t appropriate for a man of his position really, even if the horrible little man deserved it. He just waited for Oswald to make his move, and see if he was deserving of his pip.

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

The Lance Corporal’s comments placed Oswald on the back foot. He hoped the junior NCO would apologise, offer a fresh , delicious… meal, and then promise a free drink at the bar when Oswald refused the food. Oswald wasn’t angry, rather bewildered and considered what to do next. The Lance Corporal was pushing his luck, but had made a perfectly sound statement. If Oswald gave him a charge, his CO might give the Second Lieutenant a hard time, demanding to know why his soldier was scrubbing toilets for simply making a statement.

Oswald needed a quick reply, which would knock this man down a few rungs. After all, he was only intending to impress Mr Reid over there, and thus needed the kind of answer which an upper class, ‘pip-pip, cheero’ Sandhurst graduate would approve of. Whether Oswald thought it was too strict or too lax was beyond the point.

“Name.” Oswald spoke, trying the sharpest voice he could muster. He out his notebook to record this information, but he wasn’t totally sure which pocket it was in, and didn’t want to make and arse of himself trying to find it. “Smith,” the man replied plainly, not in the cocky tone of before, but not particularly sincere either. Oswald gnashed his teeth quietly, and remembered a saying he had been taught: a difficult challenge presents a worthy reward if successfully overcome.

As Oswald again considered his next move, he watched the man mouth some profanity to somebody behind the Second Lieutenant. “So then, Smith, how long have had the privilege of being a non-commissioned officer?” The man looked back at Oswald. “Three weeks. I got a field promotion after our last Corporal fell on his bayonet… Tragic. But at least I know I earned my rank, unlike some other people in this army.”

Oswald’s eyebrows shot up at this comment, and he suppressed a feeling of rage in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t uncommon to find this ‘them and us’ mentality between the officers and the other ranks, but this Lance Corporal was being bold by stating it in an officer’s mess. Oswald knew he had to take some form of action, but what exactly could he do? If this man was field promoted, demoting him would have little effect because he’d probably regain the rank within a month. He could even wear it as a wound; the stuck-up officers taking away his rank for telling them the truth that they didn’t want to hear. All because their food wasn’t quite up to the standard their chef would produce on the yacht. A charge wouldn’t teach this man anything either; he appeared the kind of character which had received a lot of them, and it would simply be water off a duck’s back. Oswald felt almost a little helpless. What could he realistically do?

[William Reid]

Reid started to nod with some satisfaction as Oswald began taking a harsher tone with the Lance-Corporal, trying to squeeze out some of the respect his rank earned him, and the Lance-Corporal did indeed seem to lose some of his cockiness. But not enough considering his situation and that was starting to get to Reid.

He allowed Oswald to write down the Lance-Corporal’s name, and ask a question about his rank, but the complete lack of respect in his responses was not acceptable. He would be one of the enlisted men with an attitude towards the officers where they did nothing and messed up constantly, something very untrue. He walked around Oswald, so he was stood beside both men, their bodies forming an open-ended square.

”Forgive me for interrupting, Second Lieutenant, but can I help to end this quickly and without a scene?” The question was quite obviously rhetorical; the Second Lieutenant could not simply tell a superior officer just to back off. He turned his attention to the Lance-Corporal. ”Lance-Corporal Smith, is it? Unless you wish to return to Private Smith, I suggest you co-operate and start acting a lot more respectful to all officers, am I clear?” Barely pausing long enough for a sullied reply, he took charge of the situation, as he was trained. ”Now, correct me if I am wrong, but Second Lieutenant Oswald here found a sticking-plaster in his meal, something which violates just about every single health and safety practise from here to Berlin. Now, I have reason to believe this is yours, as does the Second Lieutenant, whilst you are claiming it is the Second Lieutenants. Lance-Corporal, would you mind showing me your hands?”

With some grumbling to which Reid just raised an eyebrow, and brought his withering stare upon the Lance-Corporal, the man’s hands were soon flat in front of him. ”Firstly, Lance-Corporal, where are the gloves you’re obliged to wear when dealing with food? To use a certain metaphor, strike one. Secondly, on your left ring finger, there is a faint black line, indicating the presence of an adhesive. Which means you either have not washed your hands in a long time, or that a plaster has fallen off recently. Strike two. And thirdly, there is a distinct cut on that finger, indicating a plaster was most likely worn recently. Three strikes and you are out, on?”

He allowed himself a smug smile, as the Lance-Corporal gave a distinct look of defeat. This went well, it was a chance to show his authority, and the rest of the kitchen crew was looking on. This would hopefully improve their standards, but now he had the duty of making sure his relationship with the Second Lieutenant was not tarnished, as Reid feared the man may resent him for stealing his thunder.

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

Out of the corner of his eye, Oswald spotted Reid push his chair back and leave the table. It was reassuring to have another pair of hands to deal with this cocky Lance Corporal, and Oswald had a feeling Reid knew what he was doing. Oswald smiled slightly as he heard the Lieutenant’s footsteps come closer, ready to squash this NCO like an annoying, fat African fly. ‘Smith’ didn’t appear concerned by the arrival of a second officer, and made no attempt to salute nor come to attention. Instead, he looked at Reid as if the officer was something nasty he’d scraped off his boot.

Oswald greeted his superior with a gentle nod, but was annoyed when Reid implied he was making a scene. But Oswald wasn’t going to turn away a recues party because they weren’t rescuing him to his liking. Reid quickly threatened the NCO with demotion, and then very quickly cut him down to size. It reminded Oswald of the cartoons his kids watched; a huge tree goes along a conveyer belt into some hideous machine, and after lots of noise and woodchips and sawdust, a tiny toothpick came out of the end. ‘Smith’s’ ego had hopefully undergone the same transformation.

The Second Lieutenant turned and nodded his admiration for his superior. But it unfortunately, it seemed that Smith hadn’t quite gotten the message…
“So you want to know where my gloves are? Well, guess what; some inbred of a rupert at the admin office forgot to order our next month’s worth of gloves.” His voice was rising in volume. “The plaster that I had on my hand came off when I went over an obstacle course just twenty minutes ago, which some officer sent us over because he thought we ‘all needed the exercise’. He sat inside a warm little hut drinking Earl Grey tea, as we crawled through mud, clambered over walls, and went swimming though a pond!”

By now, the wireless had been turned down, and all eyes were on the Lance-Corporal attacking an officer. He must have known he was going to lose his rank, but the cooks in the kitchen behind seemed to almost find his action noble, in a perverse way. “So I’m terribly sorry, SAH,” he continued “But when you are clambering around an assault course, and actually trying to earn a living, standards may slip if you’ve only got five minutes to sprint halfway across a base so that Baron Hubert the bloody Fourteenth can have his caviar just the way he likes it!”

Oswald suppressed the feeling to snigger at the absurdity of the situation. He wondered what Reid would do; shout, rant, explode, be cool and calm, try and outsmart the Lance C- Private, back off, demand to speak to his superior? At least it made better evening entertainment the wireless….

[William Reid]

Still sitting on the small glow from the barrage on the Lance-Corporal, Reid took Oswald’s nod well, feeling fairly sure he had earned some more of the junior officer’s respect, something that would be vital on the battlefield. And of course, Oswald was a decent man of apparently decent stock, somebody to which he could have some sort of friendship with amongst the division’s junior officers.

He wasn’t, however, expecting the sudden turnaround by the Lance-Corporal, attacking officers in general, and bringing a stunned silence to the entire mess. The wireless was turned off, cutlery set down, and a few a men came to their feet, taking it as a personal insult. He carried on, saying how officers were not true soldiers for not taking part in constant assault courses. Certainly, the officers had other things to do and were not always taking part in physical training, but they did their fair share, and certainly were not unfit, compared to some of the General officers.

Reid found himself the centre of attention, his reaction could make or break his future career. He reached in to himself, drawing out his voice from his diaphragm, the excessively loud and deep drill voice that could make a man shit himself from this range. The fact was, this was an unacceptable situation with a junior ranked man thinking that he could not only talk in this manner of those above him in the military hierarchy, but also in the social hierarchy of Britain, something that Reid was not prepared to stand for. ”How dare you! You, barely one step up the ladder of rank feel you can make these comments on officers. You need to learn some respect, Lance-Corporal, and do so in the next thirty seconds before I find the officer in charge of the mess, and have you put under arrest for what is arguably insubordination. Am I crystal clear, Lance-Corporal?”

Reid stopped shouting, his face a bright red, a colour which did not really suit his complexion. Thankfully, one stress was dealt with, as a rather flustered looking Second Lieutenant pushed his way through the kitchen, telling the other staff to get back to work. This man was in a bit of a state, his uniform had the odd stain on it, and it looked quite rough as he stopped in front of Reid. ”Sorry Sir, I heard the entire thing from my office. This is unacceptable, again I’m sorry, Sir.” The officer did indeed look quite apologetic, and Reid nodded, making a mental note to check up on this situation. He turned to his right, facing Oswald, ”Second Lieutenant Oswald, do you wish to add anything? After all, you were wronged in the first place here and I want you to feel that justice has been served.”

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

Reid’s response came as no surprise to Oswald, but the sheer volume. He threw a hand up to his ear as he was nearly deafened by the outburst. It took a moment for him to recover, as the Lieutenant gave the Lance Corporal a second, rather more forceful dressing down. It was odd to watch a man like Reid turn himself scarlet. Oswald expected him to be a man of calm and control, which he probably was until pushed to the absolute brink. The whole situation made him smile at the irony of the Lieutenant’s earlier comment about not ‘making a scene’.

A hassled Second Lieutenant appeared from behind the ranks of interested and listening cooks. He rushed to put out the fire ‘Smith’ had started, before it became an inferno. Oswald was rather flattered when Reid asked ‘if he had anything to add’. He could now appear as the Dr Jekyll of the pair. He folded his arms and sucked air through his teeth, enjoying the situation.

“Well, I would like some compensation for this man’s actions,” he said, gesturing at Smith, who looked like a two year old who had just had his favourite toy taken away. “After seeing that… thing in my food, I’ve rather lost my appetite. Would I be able to have a bottle of your best whiskey please?” He glanced at Reid and smiled slightly. “Oh, and could I have this Private’s name? There’s always some jobs that need doing, and an extra pair of hands are sourly needed around the billets.”

Oswald was glad the situation had been resolved, and mere comment about the terrible food had landed him with a bottle of the good stuff. Well, it wouldn’t be good, more mediocre, but it was still alcohol. And there’s no better way to learn about someone’s personality than from the end of a bottle. He turned and looked at Reid.

“Thank you for the assistance, sir. I hope whiskey is to your liking? If you’re done with your food, maybe we should return home to ‘powder our noses, and then maybe meet back here at say, nine o’clock?”

[William Reid]

Reid felt himself cooling down, his pulse returning to a resting rate after the unusual outburst. Breathing through the nose to return to a composed look, he listened to Oswald’s request for a strong bottle of the “good stuff.” This man certainly knew what he wanted, and how to get it. Requesting the Private’s name for further jobs nailed the coffin shut on Smith’s career, for the time being at least. Certainly Oswald seemed to enjoy the theatrics, drawing in breath whilst drawing out the wait for his response.

Smiling slightly, he turned towards Oswald again, listening to the junior man’s suggestion. He eyed up the amber liquid in the glass bottle, slightly dusty indication that the bar in the mess was mainly only for show – most men dared not drink from there, preferring to source their own liquor and enjoy it in the solitude of their offices. It would be quite nice, mused Reid, to enjoy a social drink with another officer, and the mess would certainly be a lot quieter later. Resolving himself, he replied to Oswald, ”it was my pleasure, Second Lieutenant. I would be more than happy to return later and to see whether or not this bottle was worth the trouble. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will retire for now.”

Nodding his acknowledgement to the kitchen Second Lieutenant, he took his plate from the table and placed it at the far end of the kitchen so it could be washed, and left the mess. Retrieving his coat and hat from the cloakroom, he walked down the metal staircase, feeling content at his plans for the evening. He had to stop once and allow a Captain to pass whose nose looked slightly swollen and in the dim light, Reid could swear he could make out a faint “moustache” of blood. Slightly confused, he chose not to answer, carrying on down towards the rainy entrance, not looking forward to the papers he would have to finish before he could say he had earned the drink.

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post

The following CP has been issued:

Oswald - 8CP

Reid - 8CP

-JT