Soldiers' Wives by Fiona; Field Page A

the three miles. Obviously with most of the regiment away on exercise the previous two weeks, there had been no formal PT and Immi had taken advantage of that to bother even less than usual with her fitness levels: fitness levels which had always been borderline and which were now completely below par.
    â€˜I can’t,’ sobbed Immi, as she finally gave up. ‘I’ve got to stop. You carry on.’
    Chrissie nodded and ran on while Immi gave up and took the instant bawling out from Sergeant Wilkes. The words ‘extra duties’ floated after Chrissie, as she raced forward to catch up with the rest of the squad. Putting on a spurt she not only caught up with the squad but eased her way to the front, passing the CO and the RSM as she did so.
    Maybe the RSM was in a foul mood (and when wasn’t he? It was as if it was in the job description of RSMs always to be in a foul mood) or maybe it was the sight of a woman – a
woman
– passing him, but he halted the entire squad and made them start performing press-ups. Once they’d all, including Chrissie, given him fifty, he then found a steep side-track, and made everyone run up and down that a few times; naturally he and the CO were observers rather than participants. By the time he’d finished with HQ Company, a number of soldiers were being sick in the gutters and the rest were either red, or ashen with exhaustion. Even Chrissie had her hands on her hips, her legs apart and was bent at the waist as she gulped in lungfuls of air.
    While she was doing this, the other soldiers loped past, Lee amongst them. He shot Chrissie a look of sympathy – having the RSM give you a hard time was no fun.
    A couple of minutes later the RSM ordered HQ Company to start running again.
    â€˜And if no one beats me back the entire company will be confined to barracks for the next week and you can forget the long weekend,’ he shouted, fresh as a daisy, to the still-gasping troops. ‘Understood?’
    â€˜Sir,’ came a ragged and lacklustre response.
    â€˜
Understood?
’
    â€˜Sir!’ roared back the sixty or so soldiers.
    The RSM, not having performed press-ups or having been beasted up and down the hill, set off at a punishing pace. Soon most of the soldiers were lagging behind. Every now and again, Warrant Officer Class One Jenks would run on the spot and harangue the lagging soldiers ‘to get a grip and put some effort into it’
but most of his troops were too shattered to respond. There were only a few soldiers, Chrissie included, who were able to keep up with him. It wasn’t any sort of spectacular fitness that gave her the impetus, but the certain knowledge that he wanted her to fail – and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. In her limited experience of the army, she had found that there were some male soldiers who still didn’t accept that women might have equal skills and fitness, and she was pretty sure the RSM was one of them. Her determination to prove him wrong was giving her a boost better than steroids or blood doping.
    With about half a mile to go, and with the several hundred soldiers who had just been allowed to get on with their training run without any intervention from the RSM in sight, Chrissie kicked for home, in a move Jess Ennis or Paula Radcliffe would have been proud of. The RSM responded and managed to catch up with Chrissie, shooting her a look of smug triumph as he passed her. Chrissie kicked again and drew level with him. By now they were starting to pass the other soldiers, the ones still running in something resembling squads.
    â€˜Go, Chrissie,’ cheered a voice from the ranks. Lee.
    The RSM gritted his teeth and made another effort to beat Chrissie, but she was spurred on by her lone supporter.
    Other soldiers picked up on Lee’s support and began to cheer Chrissie on. It wasn’t that they wanted Chrissie herself to win, they wanted the RSM to lose.