Post by William Reid on May 18, 2013 1:09:16 GMT
Despite the fact the building was not even a year old, the corridors already had the musky smell of damp to them. Mingled with the perpetual smell of wet paint, it was the calling card of the Royal Engineers. Kit bag over one shoulder, key in the other hand, Reid walked down the dark corridor, the carpet muffling the sound of his leather shoes. He reached his familiar door and slipped inside, dropping his bag on the bed and a let out a sigh of relief. It was warm, that was unquestionable. By some minor miracle, Lt Reid had managed to secure a fortnight pass to go home and enjoy the August sun. Coming back to base, his skin was definitely a shade pinker. It would have been unprofessional to arrive on base, and possibly be seen by enlisted men with his sleeves rolled up, so a thin veil of sweat covered his forehead from the exertion of carrying his heavy kit bag up several flights of stairs and along several humid corridors.
The room screamed army. Small, but well-furnished it was typical junior officer accommodation, the likes you would find anywhere in the world. A single bed, comfortable despite its size sat in the corner. The cleaners had been through obviously, and it was made perfectly, crisp white sheets folded over the issue itchy grey blankets that nobody ever found comfortable (apart from when one stumbled back from the mess at 0300). A desk took up another corner, with a dim lamp over a courtesy pad of paper and pen, it was the small details. A wardrobe, still stocked with Reid’s uniform was along one wall, next to a dresser. White painted walls stood against the dark grain of the furniture, but the room still felt small. From his window, he could see out on the fields bordering the camp, a few trees swayed in the wind. All in all, it beat the barrack blocks, but it wasn’t home.
Opening his wardrobe, Reid took off his tweed jacket, hanging it as he did a quick survey of the uniform he would need the next morning. A quick iron couldn’t hurt it, but everything looked to be in order. Service dress on the left, battle dress on the right, and civilian clothes hanging in the middle, a handful of empty hangars were quickly filled from his kit bag. Shirts, trousers, jackets, and hats were all soon replaced. A few personal effects were placed in drawers, and the kit bag was hidden away on top of the wardrobe. He stole a quick glance at his alarm clock. 1542. Dinner wouldn’t be served in the mess for another couple of hours. Leave had been good, almost too good, he though, self-consciously feeling a belly that had grown ever so slightly.
Committing himself, he pulled out an ironed PT shirt and shorts from a drawer, quickly changing and hanging his travelling suit back up – it would be washed at the end of the week along with his other clothes and uniform. Brown leather running shoes were laced up, and Reid reached in to a drawer, pulling out a watch he had been given for his nineteenth birthday. Silver face on a brown leather strap, it was subtle, but still informed others of the richness of his family. Vain, doubtless, but it felt good. The strap was worn and the face had been sand blasted unevenly in Africa.
Deftly jogging down the stairs, he found himself stood in the shade of a tree. There was a good running circuit around the base, three mile. Nothing overly strenuous, but it would get his heart pounding again. Twisting the ring on his watch to set the timer for zero, he set off, left foot, right foot, the familiar cadence ripping through his whole body as his mind settled in to the familiar calm. Twenty minutes was his aim, maybe follow it up with some calisthenics in the gym.
The room screamed army. Small, but well-furnished it was typical junior officer accommodation, the likes you would find anywhere in the world. A single bed, comfortable despite its size sat in the corner. The cleaners had been through obviously, and it was made perfectly, crisp white sheets folded over the issue itchy grey blankets that nobody ever found comfortable (apart from when one stumbled back from the mess at 0300). A desk took up another corner, with a dim lamp over a courtesy pad of paper and pen, it was the small details. A wardrobe, still stocked with Reid’s uniform was along one wall, next to a dresser. White painted walls stood against the dark grain of the furniture, but the room still felt small. From his window, he could see out on the fields bordering the camp, a few trees swayed in the wind. All in all, it beat the barrack blocks, but it wasn’t home.
Opening his wardrobe, Reid took off his tweed jacket, hanging it as he did a quick survey of the uniform he would need the next morning. A quick iron couldn’t hurt it, but everything looked to be in order. Service dress on the left, battle dress on the right, and civilian clothes hanging in the middle, a handful of empty hangars were quickly filled from his kit bag. Shirts, trousers, jackets, and hats were all soon replaced. A few personal effects were placed in drawers, and the kit bag was hidden away on top of the wardrobe. He stole a quick glance at his alarm clock. 1542. Dinner wouldn’t be served in the mess for another couple of hours. Leave had been good, almost too good, he though, self-consciously feeling a belly that had grown ever so slightly.
Committing himself, he pulled out an ironed PT shirt and shorts from a drawer, quickly changing and hanging his travelling suit back up – it would be washed at the end of the week along with his other clothes and uniform. Brown leather running shoes were laced up, and Reid reached in to a drawer, pulling out a watch he had been given for his nineteenth birthday. Silver face on a brown leather strap, it was subtle, but still informed others of the richness of his family. Vain, doubtless, but it felt good. The strap was worn and the face had been sand blasted unevenly in Africa.
Deftly jogging down the stairs, he found himself stood in the shade of a tree. There was a good running circuit around the base, three mile. Nothing overly strenuous, but it would get his heart pounding again. Twisting the ring on his watch to set the timer for zero, he set off, left foot, right foot, the familiar cadence ripping through his whole body as his mind settled in to the familiar calm. Twenty minutes was his aim, maybe follow it up with some calisthenics in the gym.
