Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq Read Online Free PDF Page B

stuck into her since Sandhurst. Now be a good sport and disappear, eh?”
    With that he got up, called me a tosser, winked, and vanished towards the door. I felt a vague pang of guilt but it soon evaporated when Kate reappeared, all T&A and sporting freshly applied gloss lipstick.
    “Where’s your friend?” she asked.
    “Ah, I’m not sure,” I stuttered. “His mobile phone rang and he had to shoot off somewhere.”
    Kate looked deeply disbelieving but said nothing. Conversation resumed and I plied her with more vino. The evening disappeared in a haze of wine and reminiscing about the bunch of wasters with whom we had passed through officer training. Then, just before the bar called last orders she stood up, looked down her nose at me and held out her hand. I stared at it dumbly, frustrated that she was calling time on the evening.
    “Come on Harry,” she cajoled. “Let’s get back to my place. There’s a stash of wine and you might as well spend your last real night of civilisation enjoying yourself.”
    I chortled at my good luck, downed the remnants of my wine, grabbed La Gibson by the arm, strode out into the freezing night air and hailed a passing cab. A few minutes later we tumbled through the door of her flat, a delightful little place on the Hoe. She practically tore the shirt off my back and I reciprocated by relieving her of her skirt and blouse. My Camberley fantasies were rapidly being fulfilled - she had the body of a gymnast and was clearly proud of it. I pulled down her bra and grabbed a handful of breast while she wrapped her legs around my waist and lowered herself onto me. I was so taken aback by her impatience for a good seeing-to that it took me a moment or two to get into my stride. But before long I was bouncing her for all I was worth, while she cried out like a banshee and dug her fingernails into my shoulders. Her physique was matched only by her stamina and when we eventually called it a night I was a spent force, albeit a very contented one. In the morning I awoke shortly before six, mouth parched from all the wine and the vigorous exercise that had followed it. My previous night’s conquest lay tucked under the duvet in blissful ignorance. I shuffled through to the kitchen for a glass of water before getting dressed as quietly as I could manage. Kate still hadn’t stirred and I really couldn’t be fagged with the usual morning-after pleasantries or any more of her banal twittering, so instead of waking her I stole quietly away, shivering in the chilly pre-dawn sea air.
    By the time I had a shower and a shave and presented myself for an early breakfast, the first glimmers of dawn were showing themselves and Stonehouse was brightening up. As usual the waitresses were a joy and, presumably from years of experience, could home in on a hangover from a thousand paces. I was duly plied with lashings of coffee and toast, followed by a full fried breakfast which would have been a challenge for a gang of Irish navvies. By the end of it all I was pressed to work out whether I was fortified or simply more tired and sleepy than I had been at the outset. I didn’t have long to ponder the question though as just at that moment my media and artillery brethren appeared, both looking as rough and hungover as me.
    “Ah, Flash, you disgraceful excuse for a friend,” commented S02 Media, perhaps justifiably. “And did Sir get lucky last night? Or did the stuck-up cow blow you out?”
    I shot him a victorious grin. “I was invited back to her place, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “Don’t avoid the question, Flashy. Did you, or did you not, give her the good news?”
    I confessed and, at the insistence of the boys, spent the ensuing five minutes giving them a blow-by-blow account of the bedroom gymnastics the previous evening, my story being punctuated by the occasional comings and goings of the mess staff. When I had finished there was a brief silence, eventually interrupted by the