Even if heâd been racing Osama bin Laden, Stalin and Hitler, they still wouldnât have cheered Mr Jenks. The cheering reached the ears of the soldiers who had already completed their three-mile run and were starting to drift to their barrack blocks or homes for a shower, and they stopped to watch the spectacle of Chrissie and the RSM, pounding, neck and neck, along the road to the regimental guardroom.
The cheers, coupled with the knowledge that, if she lost, HQ Company would forfeit their long weekend, gave Chrissie the impetus she needed, and with a final, superlative effort she made it back, through the barrack gate and onto the parade square twenty yards ahead of Mr Jenks. The soldiers erupted.
She wanted to lie down she was so knackered, but pride kept her on her feet while she gulped air.
âYou may have beaten me this time,â gasped the RSM, as he stopped beside her and shot a vitriolic look at the cheering troops. âIt wonât happen again.â
Chrissie wasnât sure if it was a threat or a promise, but she didnât care; she was too exhausted to care about anything, except not throwing up or passing out.
Lee, who had seen her cream past, was lost in admiration, as were most of the soldiers from Chrissieâs company who pounded onto the parade square over the next few minutes, amongst them the CO, who was stunned to discover that the RSM had met his match.
Colonel Notley came to a halt next to his RSM. âDonât tell me you were beaten, Mr Jenks.â
âI was, sir.â A lesser man than the CO might have quailed at the tone of the RSMâs voice.
âAnd by a slip of a girl.â
The RSM glowered.
The CO turned to Chrissie whose chest was still heaving. âWell done⦠erâ¦â
âSummers, sir.â
âYes, well done, Summers. Good effort.â
âThank you, sir.â
âI think your efforts inspired the troops. HQ Company came home in a cracking time.â
Chrissie wondered if they had just chased after her and Mr Jenks out of curiosity. She didnât feel inspirational. But she did feel quite proud that sheâd rescued the companyâs long weekend. It was a good feeling.
The CO drifted off to talk to some of the other NCOs and an admiring group formed around Chrissie.
âWell done,â said Lee, âyou were amazing.â
And Chrissie felt ridiculously happy to have his approval and her good feeling
got even better.
âSo how many did you get?â asked Chrissie. She was still puffed even though she had recovered sufficiently to climb the stairs, albeit very slowly, to her barrack room where Immi was already showered and now dressed in combats rather than PE kit.
âFive and extra PT for four weeks,â she replied glumly. âAnd then I have to pass my BFT or itâll be more of the same. Honestly, Chrissie, Iâm a clerk, I bash keyboards all day. Why do I have to be super-fit to open a filing cabinet?â
Chrissie grabbed her towel. âTell you what, suppose I have a word with Sergeant Wilkes and see if sheâll let me take you for extra PT? I mean, I know Iâm not a PTI but sheâs knows Iâm fit.â She didnât add that the whole regiment knew that now. âAnd you and I could have a bit of fun together as we work out. How about it?â
âYouâd do that for me?â Immi was genuinely astounded.
Chrissie nodded. âBut youâve got to promise me youâll make a proper effort. Just âcos Iâm not some hairy-arsed PTI doesnât mean you can take advantage. Iâll expect you to graft â
and
pass your fitness test. First time.â
Immi nodded eagerly. âI will, promise.â
âIâll make sure you do, if you make the effort too. So, to make sure, weâre going to start with a session in the gym this evening.â
âThis evening!â squeaked Immi. âBut we did a run this
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