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I know it’s illicit… and that’s what makes it exciting. What if I get caught? I ask myself… think of the shame. You won’t get caught… it’ll be fun! I’m in a dilemma. I toss a coin – tails. I go. I catch a bus to Yarmouth, a ferry to Lymington and two trains to Bournemouth. A group of school c***dren board the train. I imagine them singing: We know where you’re going, we know where you’re going!’ I get a grip of myself. I get closer to my dirty destination. My excitement… and anxiety increase. What if I suffer a heart attack? I visualise the headlines in the local paper: Respectable local man dies in brothel – partner never knew. Witty whispers: ‘He went before he came!’ I alight at Pokesdown Station – aptly named – and I’m reminded of a rough suburb of London. I stroll down Boscombe High Street trying not to look like a bloke visiting a prostitute. I’m outside and press the buzzer – I’m sure everybody is looking at me. My heart is pounding. Answer the facking door! I want to say. A. She could watch and learn. We had about twenty minutes at the most. The bunker was just a minute or two away, but through trees and undergrowth, where none of the resting troops would see. I held the vines back from the hidden entryway, and Lovall and her buddy entered, with M16A2s and ALICE field packs. There was just room for the three of us and the gear. "Drill Sergeant, are we still training?" Lovall was being coy with me. Her buddy, Donahue, took a seat in the corner. I grinned at both of them, as dim light came through the southern facing entrance. I could see enough to be glad I was here. "Lovall, you are about to learn some new tricks. Maybe. Maybe you already know them. We'll find out. Donahue, you watch the packs and weapons. And you can watch us too, if you want. Just keep quiet. Got that?" "Roger, Drill Sergeant. Watching here!" She was being cute. That was the red head coming out. I might be happy to meet up with her some other time. Now it was Lovall's turn. She had.
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