Whispers of Betrayal Read Online Free PDF

successful soldier, was Abel Gittings.
    Didn’t stop him being a prick, of course, and it took a totally unambiguous prick to wander over to Mary’s Troop Sergeant during an exercise on Salisbury Plain to enquire whether the troop was ‘taking care of their little lady, making sure she’s tucked up at night, got her bed socks on’. A few patronizing words that in a fleeting moment had destroyed all the respect she’d sweated so hard to build.
    When he and Mary were alone, his eyes said it all. They wandered over her like a route march through the Brecon Beacons, marking every turn and undulation, and rarely making it as far as her own eyes.
    One evening in the mess she had joined in a game of ‘tunnels’. Simple rules. Pile all the soft furniture into the centre of the room to form the tunnel. Then two teams, one at either end. The object was to force your way past each other in the narrow and dark confines of the tunnel, run back to the starting position and down a pint of whatever was on the list before the next member of your team took over. A relay game of high spirits and considerable quantities of alcohol. When it had come to Mary’s turn, Gittings had arranged for himself to be her opponent, intent not so much on pushing past her in the tunnel as grabbing and fondling every last soft bit of her. His hands were all over her, half an arse and a full raw nipple, and when the buttons started popping she’d decided she’d had enough, even from her CO. She’d left him with a fiercely bloodied nose. Yet he’d thought it great fun. Later he bought her a drink at the bar and quietly propositioned her. ‘Swift and Sure, my girl. Swift and Sure!’ he’d whispered, expropriating the Corps motto.
    She told him in the most lurid terms to shove his active service up his own tunnel, and had been overheard. After that it was never going to be the same between them.
    Two months later the Regiment was sent on its second tour of duty in Bosnia. An O Group was called and troop dispositions were announced. Bosnia was prime posting, a real war, everyone wanted in, and Mary’s troop was to be sent again.
    Without Mary.
    Her troop was to be deployed under the command of a differentofficer, and Mary was about to be reassigned. As Families Officer. She was out of the loop, sidelined, humiliated. Nothing wrong with her performance, the adjutant had told her later when she’d kicked down his door demanding to know what the fuck was going on. It’s simply that the CO thinks it’s time for you to move on, take the next step.
As a Families Officer?
Anyway, Bosnia was inappropriate for her. That’s the term he’d used, ‘inappropriate’. She hadn’t needed an Army field manual to translate. Inappropriate
for a woman
. After all, the men had to keep their eyes on the enemy, not on her arse.
    Gittings had confirmed these details in the mess after dinner one evening, elaborating with a few more lurid descriptions of what he thought the most appropriate position for a woman like Mary should be.
    It was, of course, unprofessional for Mary to respond in the way she had but, even in hindsight, the sweet-sour pleasures of the moment hadn’t lost their freshness. She would for ever cherish that look of bewilderment in his alcoholic eyes – her father’s eyes – followed by the first flush of pain in the moments after Gittings had hit the floor. She had bloodied and bent the CO’s nose once again, and broken a tooth for good measure, but this time without the covering screen of the tunnel. She’d thumped him out in the open, in full view of the entire mess.
    ‘Was that swift and sure enough for you, sir?’
    The matter couldn’t be left there, of course, but Gittings decided against a court martial. His bloody nose had quite a history of its own, there would be too much scope for awkward questions at a trial. Anyway, Mrs Gittings had already put up with as much lurid rumour as she would tolerate about what she referred to as his