» War

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Please be gentle, use plenty of lube and cuddle me after.

More years ago than I want to think about, I was an air cadet (the best *kind* of cadet. We go up, the rest of you just go along). Most of the time our activities were limited to marching around in formation, playing in the band and futilely attempting to see Corporal Conway's tits through the gender-bending woollen horror that was the standard uniform.

However! Every so often we'd have a week away at a Proper Military Base, where there would be shooting, flying and walking until it felt like our femurs were poking out of the soles of of our feet. Which was fine, of course, because we were Hard Men. Oh yeah. That's us - 15-18 year olds whose body weight was mostly made up of pimples. 'aaard.

On one such occasion, we went out for a night exercise; 30 cadets, three pseudo-officers and a metric shitton of tarp. Camped out in a forest, we were split into groups by gender and given a scenario. Apparently, we were in enemy territory. A plane had come down at this location, and we were to find it and rescue the pilot - a straw-stuffed boiler suit looking for all the world like some lonely farmer's night-time companion. This was to be done without discovery by "the enemy"; the officers, wandering around with torches. We were given one location for this weary rural lady of the night, the girls were given a second location with a second boiler suit at the end.

Unknown to us, of course, the officers had decided to take the piss by sticking a walkie-talkie down the pilot's jumpsuit in the girl's scenario. The idea, apparently, was to give them a nice little shock when they found it.

End result: after 30 minutes of ducking and prowling through the undergrowth, falling into patches of nettles, getting liberally smeared with mud and failing to realise that legging it really really fast between two trees makes you more visible rather than less, we get to the "pilot". We creep forward, wary for some sort of last-minute trap...and the pilot emits this Cthulian howl of pure terror right into our primitive male hindbrains.

It later turned out that the officers had fucked up giving out the coordinates on the map and sent us to the girls' pilot. It also turned out that 10 Hard Men, presented with a wailing wheat banshee at 2am, will simultaneously shit themselves in public.
(Sun 3rd Jun 2012, 14:46, More)