Echoes in the Pine

The NAAFI Minefield

The air inside the Fort George NAAFI was not something you simply breathed; it was a solid, oppressive entity you had to chew before swallowing. It was a suffocating, blue-grey fog of cheap Lambert & Butler smoke, the sour tang of stale McEwan’s Export, and the unmistakable, institutional scent of floor wax fighting a continuous, losing battle against decades of spilled beer and squaddy sweat. To Corporal “Tug” Wilson, it smelled exactly like home. Or, at the very least, it was the only iteration of home that made any logistical sense to his heavily institutionalized brain.

It was a Friday night in November of 1998, and the cavernous, utilitarian room was vibrating with the chaotic energy of a hundred bored infantrymen trying to drink their body weight in cheap lager before the inevitable misery of the morning. Tomorrow at 0400 hours, they were shipping out into the unforgiving, bleak expanse of the Scottish Highlands for Exercise Highland Mist. That meant ten days of horizontal sleet, bogged-down Land Rover Wolfs, freezing in waterlogged trenches, and eating cardboard-tasting compo rations in the freezing mud. Tonight, however, was about entirely different survival tactics: getting aggressively leathered, shouting over the jukebox, and pretending the impending misery didn’t exist.

Tug stood motionless at the edge of the sticky mahogany bar, a freshly pulled, deeply uninspiring pint of heavy resting in his massive, scarred right hand. At twenty-nine years old and standing six-foot-two, with shoulders that permanently threatened the structural integrity of his civilian Fred Perry polo shirt, Tug was built less like a man and more like a main battle tank that had somehow grown skin. His neck was thicker than most of the younger Crows’ thighs, leading up to a shaved, Number 1 buzz-cut head. His face featured a resting expression that looked permanently braced for an incoming artillery strike, centered around a nose that had been violently broken and reset at least three times in various inter-regimental boxing matches.

The lads in B Company affectionately, and fearfully, called him the “War Machine.” It was a moniker he hadn’t asked for but one that fit perfectly. He was the Section Commander of 4 Section, a ragtag group of misfits widely known as the “Bastard Section,” and his entire life revolved around enforcing the regulations that kept them alive and functioning.

His steely, slate-grey eyes scanned the chaotic room with professional detachment, tracking over the bolted-down Formica tables and heavy-duty plastic chairs. Half the battalion was lounging in “half-masta” rig—unlaced black assault boots and green lightweight combat trousers that made a distinct swishing sound when they walked—having just crawled out of the armoury after drawing their weapons. The other half were desperately trying to cling to the fading weekend in tragic 90s civilian gear: oversized polo shirts, tragic denim, and the occasional horrific attempt at a bucket hat. Oasis’s Don’t Look Back in Anger was currently rattling the speakers of a jukebox that looked like it had survived the Falklands War.

Tug took a slow, methodical drag of his cigarette, letting the acrid smoke fill his lungs before exhaling a thick cloud toward the ceiling. He was trying to maintain his aura of stoic, untouchable authority. But despite his best efforts, his gaze snapped right back to the pool table in the far corner of the room.

It was mathematically impossible not to look at her. Private Frankie Mackenzie was a localized, high-yield hazard. She was a natural ten-out-of-ten, boasting the kind of exaggerated, hourglass, thirty-four-double-D figure that could literally stop military traffic, currently poured into a pair of skin-tight, dark Miss Sixty jeans and a ribbed, olive-drab tank top that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. With her wavy blonde hair tumbling loosely around her shoulders, smelling faintly of apple shampoo and gun oil, and her stance perfectly balanced over the green baize, the lads regularly whispered that she looked exactly like a blonde Lara Croft.

And she knew it. Worse, she weaponized it with ruthless, tactical precision.

Frankie was currently in the process of systematically hustling two “shiny-arses” from A-Company. They were grinning like absolute idiots, completely mesmerized by the view as she leaned low over the table to line up a difficult shot. They were utterly oblivious to the fact that she was draining their beer money with the cold, calculating efficiency of an assassin.

Tug took a slow, deliberate sip of his McEwan’s. His jaw muscles twitched, a telltale sign of his rising blood pressure. He was a professional. He was a Non-Commissioned Officer. He was supposed to be completely immune to the charms of a twenty-one-year-old South London girl who cursed like a sailor, drank like a fish, and hit like a heavyweight bare-knuckle brawler. But Frankie was his absolute kryptonite. She was the one glaring, fatal crack in his heavily fortified emotional armour, and the infuriating woman spent every waking moment of her life trying to pry that crack wider with a crowbar of relentless, aggressive banter.

“She’s taking them to the bloody cleaners, Boss,” a voice muttered from his left elbow.

Tug didn’t bother to look down. Private “Smudge” Smith, a wiry, cheeky twenty-one-year-old who served as Frankie’s partner-in-crime and the section’s resident clown, had materialized beside him. Smudge was clutching a pint of Stella Artois to his chest and grinning a feral, gap-toothed smile that usually preceded some form of disciplinary action.

“A-Company are a bunch of soft muppets, Smudge,” Tug rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that usually sent new recruits scurrying for cover. “If they’re stupid enough to play Mackenzie for cash, they deserve to be drinking tap water and eating dry rations for the rest of the month. I have zero sympathy for shiny-arses.”

“Did you see the shot she just pulled off, though?” Smudge laughed, taking a deep pull of his pint and wiping the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Off the cushion, right into the far corner pocket. She barely even looked. She’s a bloody menace, Boss. Best sharpshooter we’ve got in the battalion, with a rifle or a bloody cue.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that, Smudge, or we’ll never hear the end of it,” Tug warned softly, his eyes never leaving the pool table. “Her head’s big enough as it is. If you inflate her ego any further, she’ll be demanding a salute from the Company Commander by Tuesday.”

Over at the pool table, Frankie sank the black ball with a sharp, incredibly satisfying crack. The two A-Company lads groaned in perfect, miserable unison. Frankie straightened up, chalking the tip of her cue with an utterly predatory, victorious smirk. Even from across the smoky, crowded room, Tug could see the brilliant flash of her piercing, icy blue eyes.

“Right then, gents,” Frankie’s voice carried over the din of the NAAFI, thick with her jagged South London council estate grit. “That’s another tenner you owe me. Pay up, unless you want me to trot over and tell your Platoon Commander you just got battered at pool by a bird.”

One of the A-Company lads, a tall, spotty kid who looked like he hadn’t started shaving yet, dug into the pocket of his trousers with a heavy scowl, slapping a crumpled ten-pound note onto the wooden edge of the table. “You hustled us, Mackenzie. You played rubbish the first two frames on purpose.”

“I didn’t hustle you, you absolute plank,” Frankie shot back, snatching the note with lightning speed and shoving it into the tight front pocket of her jeans, drawing their eyes right back to her hips. “You were just too busy staring at my chest to notice I was actually playing pool. Next time, try keeping your eyes on the balls, yeah? The ones on the table, I mean. Not that you’ve got the tactical awareness to track either.”

Smudge barked a loud, genuine laugh, nearly choking on his Stella and coughing beer through his nose. Tug just shook his massive head, though he could feel the ghost of a proud smirk fighting desperately to break through his established scowl. He took another long, punishing sip of his bitter beer to drown the expression before anyone could see it.

“She’s a total liability, Boss,” Smudge noted, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his green t-shirt. “A gorgeous, terrifying liability.”

“She’s a soldier, Smith,” Tug corrected automatically, falling back on the safety of regulations, though he knew Smudge wasn’t talking about her military prowess. “And she’s carrying the L96 sniper rifle tomorrow. So unless you want to be the one lugging fifteen pounds of bolt-action steel and optics up a vertical peat bog in the freezing rain, I highly suggest you stay on her good side.”

The Waterloo Surrender

The Oasis track finally faded out, leaving a trail of distorted guitar feedback in the air. For a brief, blissful three seconds, the NAAFI returned to its baseline state: just the sound of clinking pint glasses, roaring laughter, the dull thud of tungsten darts hitting cork, and the hum of the terrible fluorescent lights. Then, the jukebox clicked over, machinery whirring as it loaded the next CD.

The opening, upbeat, aggressively cheerful piano chords of an entirely different era blasted through the smoke-filled room.

ABBA. Waterloo.

Half the room groaned in theatrical agony; the other half erupted into cheers. It was the unironic, guilty-pleasure anthem of the British Army, a song that somehow bridged the gap between hardened infantry killers and drunken karaoke enthusiasts. And for Private Frankie Mackenzie, it was a literal call to arms.

“Oh, yes! Fucking have some of that!” Frankie yelled, dropping her wooden pool cue onto the green baize with a loud clatter that made the A-Company lads jump.

Tug watched, his blood pressure steadily rising, his knuckles turning white around his pint glass, as she vaulted onto an empty, sticky Formica table in the absolute dead centre of the room. She didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second. She grabbed a rolled-up copy of The Sun from a nearby chair, gripping it tightly like a microphone, and kicked instantly into a ridiculous, high-energy, completely unashamed 70s dance routine, her heavy black combat boots stomping a relentless rhythm against the hollow plastic of the table.

“My, my! At Waterloo, Napoleon did surrender!” she belted out at the top of her lungs, completely off-key but overflowing with a magnetic, ten-out-of-ten confidence that instantly commanded the attention of every single man in the room.

Within seconds, the Bastard Section had rallied to her chaotic banner, abandoning their drinks and their dignity. Smudge abandoned Tug at the bar, sprinting over to jump onto a plastic chair beside the table, playing an imaginary tambourine. Private “Ginge” Evans, a lanky, pale twenty-year-old who usually carried the section’s heavy GPMG machine gun and possessed the terrifyingly pale complexion of a true redhead, materialized from the crowd. His bright ginger hair bobbed wildly as he provided terrible, high-pitched backing vocals. Even Private “Baz” Barrett, a stocky, dangerously silent former amateur boxer who functioned as the section’s physical anchor and rarely cracked a smile, was drumming out the pop beat on a tray of empty pint glasses with a pair of spoons.

Tug leaned his heavy, tattooed forearms against the sticky surface of the bar, feeling the heat rising steadily in his thick neck. He was trying his absolute hardest to maintain his War Machine facade, projecting an aura of weary, superior command, but his steely eyes were locked entirely on Frankie.

She was a localized force of nature, a hurricane of blonde hair and attitude. She spun around on the table, her hips moving to the beat, her curves highlighted perfectly by the tight clothing. She was leading a chorus of hardened, swearing, emotionally stunted squaddies in a Swedish pop song, and they were eating out of the palm of her hand. It was total chaos. It was completely undignified. It was a disciplinary nightmare waiting to happen.

And then, the chorus hit.

“Waterloo! Knowing my fate is to be with you!”

Frankie spun around sharply, her bright blue eyes zeroing in through the smoky haze, locking dead onto Tug standing at the bar. She didn’t break eye contact. The room seemed to blur around the edges. She leveled her rolled-up newspaper at his broad chest like the barrel of her L96 sniper rifle, flashing him a devastating, wicked, entirely intentional wink that hit him harder than a 5.56mm round to the ceramic body armour.

“Waterloo! Finally facing my Waterloo!” she sang, pointing the makeshift microphone directly at his heart, practically screaming the lyrics at him over the noise of the crowd.

The lads around her, catching the direction of her gaze, erupted into hooting laughter, following her invisible line of sight to their stoic, terrifying Section Commander.

Tug felt his face flush a deep, angry red. The thick veins in his neck stood out against his skin, pulsing visibly. He could feel the eyes of his men on him, waiting for the War Machine to snap, waiting for him to bark a terrifying order to shut the entire spectacle down and order them all to scrub the latrines.

Instead, Tug simply lifted his pint glass exactly one inch off the bar in a silent, grudging toast. He hid his twitching jaw behind the rim as he drank the bitter liquid, refusing to look away, accepting the challenge in her eyes.

Frankie’s grin widened into a triumphant, radiant beam. She had won that round. She turned her back to him, launching into the next verse with Smudge and Ginge screaming the lyrics beside her, her hips swaying to the music.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Wilson,” Tug muttered to himself under his breath, setting the empty glass down with a heavy, definitive thud that cracked a coaster. He needed a cigarette. Urgently.

The Stolen Smoke and Squaddy Banter

Ten minutes later, the song had mercifully ended, Frankie had hopped down from the table to thunderous, drunken applause, and the Bastard Section had successfully commandeered a large, curved corner booth in the darkest part of the NAAFI. Tug sat at the very edge of the semi-circle, a fresh, cold pint resting in front of him, and a lit Lambert & Butler cigarette hanging lazily from the corner of his mouth, the ash growing dangerously long.

The booth was a chaotic mess of empty prawn cocktail crisp packets, spilled beer forming sticky puddles, and heavily overflowing plastic ashtrays. Private “Professor” Miller, a skinny, deeply nervous nineteen-year-old combat medic who looked like he belonged in a quiet university library rather than a frontline infantry unit, was frantically polishing his thick-rimmed NHS birth-control glasses on the hem of his shirt, looking completely overwhelmed by the volume of the room. Next to him, Private “Nobbie” Stiles was leaning forward, loudly bragging about a highly fictional, entirely fabricated SAS selection course to anyone who would listen.

“I’m telling you the absolute gen, lads,” Nobbie was saying, his voice earnest and full of misplaced bravado. “If my bloody knee hadn’t gone on the Fan Dance march over Pen y Fan, I’d be in Hereford right now wearing a sand-coloured beret. The Directing Staff pulled me aside, looked me dead in the eye, and said I had the exact psychological profile they look for in Tier One operators. Said I was too lethal for regular infantry.”

“Nobbie, you couldn’t find your own arse with both hands, a flashlight, and an ordnance survey map,” Baz grunted from across the table, not even bothering to look up from the depths of his pint glass. His voice was a low, threatening rumble. “The only thing special about you is your dietary requirements and the fact that you still get lost on the way to the cookhouse. You’re a walking, talking sandbag.”

“Bollocks to you, Baz,” Nobbie snapped, his face flushing red with indignation. “You don’t know the gen. You’re just jealous because you’re a blunt instrument.”

“I know you’re a massive, undeniable wanker,” Baz replied calmly, taking a sip of his beer. “And if you don’t shut your cake-hole about the SAS, I’m going to demonstrate exactly how blunt an instrument I can be on your jawline.”

Tug inhaled a deep, steadying drag of his cigarette, letting the toxic smoke coat his lungs. He was just about to intervene and tell Nobbie to wind his neck in before Baz actually hit him, when a familiar, intoxicating scent of apple shampoo and faint gun oil cut sharply through the stale, sweaty air.

Frankie slid into the booth right next to Tug. There was plenty of room on the cracked vinyl bench, feet of empty space she could have utilized, but she chose to press herself firmly against his right side. Her thigh brushed heavily against his, her shoulder knocking against his bicep. Tug stiffened instantly, his muscles tensing instinctively at the contact, a purely biological reaction he couldn’t control. He stared straight ahead at the opposite wall, refusing to look at her.

“Alright, Boss?” Frankie asked, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave into a register that was thick with relentless, teasing intimacy.

Before Tug could formulate a gruff, professional answer, she reached up with lightning speed. Her cool fingers grazed his bottom lip for a fraction of a second, sending a jolt of electricity through his jaw, and she neatly plucked the lit cigarette straight out of his mouth.

“Oi,” Tug growled, turning his heavy head to glare down at her, his War Machine mask slipping just a fraction.

Frankie completely ignored his warning tone. She placed the stolen cigarette between her own plump, slightly chapped lips and took a long, deeply satisfying drag, her chest expanding against the tight fabric of her tank top. She blew the smoke out in a thin, perfect stream directly past his face, turning her head to flash him that same infuriating, ten-out-of-ten, butter-wouldn’t-melt grin.

“Thanks, Wilson,” she purred, her eyes dancing with amusement. “I was absolutely gasping for a smoke.”

“You’ve got your own bloody fags in your pocket, Mackenzie,” Tug rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, though he notably made absolutely no physical move to take the cigarette back from her.

“Yeah, I do,” she winked, leaning even closer, her voice a husky whisper. “But yours always taste significantly better. Plus, stealing them gives you an excuse to scowl at me. You look dead ally when you’re angry, you know? The veins in your thick neck go all... Action Man. Does it come with the optional gripping hands, or do I have to buy those separately?”

Across the table, Smudge let out a loud, obnoxious snort of laughter. “Careful, Mac. You’ll give the Boss a massive heart attack before we even get to Inverness. His blood pressure’s higher than the RAF’s annual catering budget. You keep pushing him, he’s going to pop a vessel.”

“I can handle him, Smudge,” Frankie said confidently, leaning her weight slightly against Tug, her shoulder pressing firmly into his rock-hard bicep. “If the Fantasians actually show up in the Highlands tomorrow, I might need someone incredibly big and stupid to keep me warm in the freezing bogs. You reckon you’re up to the job, Wilson, or are you too busy polishing your precious pace-stick?”

Tug turned his body slightly, invading her personal space right back, looking down from his superior height straight into her bright, defiant blue eyes. He kept his face completely blank, a stone wall of military discipline, masking the absolute riot going on in his chest.

“I’d rather take my chances standing blindfolded in front of a firing squad, Mac,” Tug said, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in his chest. “You’re significantly more dangerous than the bloody enemy. And if you don’t get off my arm in the next three seconds, I’m going to make you carry the spare Jimpy barrels on top of your sniper gear on the tab tomorrow.”

Frankie laughed, a genuine, throaty sound that made Tug’s chest painfully tight. She didn’t move an inch away. “Promises, promises, Corporal. You wouldn’t do that to your favourite marksman.”

“Are we actually getting deployed to Achnashellach, Boss?” Spoonie asked, desperately interrupting the thick tension before it suffocated them all. Lance Corporal “Spoonie” Witherspoon, the section’s highly-strung, perpetually stressed signaller and second-in-command, looked utterly miserable. He was already dreading the sheer weight of the archaic Clansman 320 radio battery pressing into his spine. “I heard a nasty rumour from the quartermaster’s stores that the whole exercise is totally bone. Just endless tabbing around in the pissing rain looking for A-Company, who are probably sitting in a dry barn drinking tea.”

“It’s an FTX, Spoonie. Field Training Exercise. Of course it’s going to be bone,” Tug said, forcibly shifting his focus back to the section, leaning his massive bulk forward and resting his heavy elbows on the sticky table, putting an inch of space between himself and Frankie. “We drop off at the Line of Departure at exactly 0400 hours. From there, it’s a twelve-hour tactical tab through the worst peat bogs in Scotland to locate 2 Platoon. They’re playing the enemy. We are the Recce element. We find them, we don’t engage.”

“Twelve solid hours?” Professor squeaked in pure terror, his hazel eyes widening comically behind his permanently fogged-up glasses. “Sir, the meteorological reports say it’s going to be sub-zero temperatures up there with horizontal sleet. We’ll be completely track-happy by hour six. We’ll be hallucinating.”

“Don’t call me Sir, Professor, I work for a living,” Tug snapped, instantly falling back into NCO mode. “And you need to suck it the fuck up. You’re in the infantry now, not studying biology at Oxford. If it ain’t raining, it ain’t training. If you get trench foot because you didn’t change your socks, I’ll personally charge you for damaging government property.”

“Can I just shoot A-Company?” Frankie asked, taking another long drag of Tug’s stolen cigarette. “Just a little bit? I’ve got the L96 all wrapped up beautifully in sniper tape and hessian, she’s practically begging for a target. Lieutenant Percy has a very punchable, aristocratic face. I reckon I could ping his Kevlar helmet clean off from eight hundred metres in a crosswind.”

“We have blank rounds, you absolute sociopath,” Smudge interjected, shaking his head. “Yellow-tipped plastic rubbish that barely makes a bang. If you manage to hit Percy with a plastic blank from eight hundred metres, I’ll personally buy you pints in the NAAFI for a solid year.”

“I’ll just throw the heavy bloody rifle at him, then,” Frankie countered smoothly without missing a beat.

“No one is throwing absolutely anything, and no one is shooting anyone with anything other than standard-issue blanks,” Tug ordered, looking around the table, his War Machine authority settling over them like a heavy, wet blanket. “A-Company are a bunch of lazy, incompetent shiny-arses, yes, but they’re out there digging in. We find them, we report their grid coordinates, we wait for the main force to push up. No heroics. No breaking radio silence to tell dirty jokes on the net, Spoonie. We get in, we get freezing wet, we get it done.”

“Understood, Boss,” Baz muttered, draining the last dregs of his glass.

“Right,” Tug said, looking down at the heavy, black G-Shock watch on his thick wrist. “It’s exactly 2300 hours. You lot have five minutes to finish your pints, then I want you all back in the block, packing your Bergens, waterproofing your kit, and getting your heads down. Anyone late for the O-Group briefing at 0300 will be doing burpees in the mud until they vomit up their own boots.”

A collective, miserable groan went around the table, but no one argued. They all knew better than to push Tug when he was laying down the law. Tug stood up, his massive, imposing frame towering over the booth, casting a long shadow. He looked down at Frankie, who was still casually smoking his cigarette, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“See you in the block, Mackenzie,” Tug said gruffly.

“Night, Wilson,” she grinned, blowing a perfect smoke ring in his direction that hit his chest. “Don’t have sweet dreams about me. You need your rest.”

“Not a bloody chance,” Tug muttered, turning on his heel and pushing his way through the crowded, sweaty NAAFI towards the exit, ignoring the way his heart was thumping against his ribs.

The Car Park Scrap

The brutal Scottish air hit Tug like a physical blow the absolute second he pushed his way through the heavy, battered double doors of the NAAFI. It was a sharp, biting cold that smelled heavily of the nearby sea salt, damp earth, and impending frost. He stood on the concrete steps for a long moment, letting the freezing chill wash over him, cooling the angry flush that Frankie’s proximity had put in his neck and cheeks.

He dug a massive hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his crumpled pack of Lambert & Butler. He desperately needed a fresh one. He sparked his Zippo lighter, cupping his hand defensively against the rising wind, and took a deep, grounding drag. He stared out across the dimly lit, expansive car park, looking at the rows of green military vehicles parked in perfectly straight lines, trying to focus his mind on the complex logistics of the exercise tomorrow.

And then, he heard the voice.

“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. We’re all mates here.”

Tug paused instantly, his combat instincts flaring. The cigarette hovered inches from his mouth. He turned his heavy head slowly, his eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the sickly orange glow of the sodium streetlamps dotting the perimeter.

Over by a parked four-tonner Bedford truck, half-swallowed by the shadows, two figures were standing uncomfortably, aggressively close. One was Frankie. Her arms were tightly crossed over her chest, the zip-up Adidas track top she had thrown over her tank top pulled tight against the biting cold. The other was a bulky, broad-shouldered lad in a faded A-Company t-shirt. It was the exact same spotty, arrogant lad she had successfully hustled at the pool table an hour ago.

“Back off, you absolute fucking muppet,” Frankie’s voice rang out across the tarmac, sharp, venomous, and entirely devoid of humour. The playful, teasing banter from the NAAFI was entirely gone. This was the raw, untamed South London estate girl shining through, the seasoned scrapper who had physically flattened much bigger idiots than him to earn her “one of the lads” status in an infantry battalion.

“You took twenty quid off me in there,” the A-Company lad slurred, taking an aggressive step closer, raising a heavy hand to grab her arm. “I reckon you owe me a drink, at least. Or maybe something else to make up for making me look like a twat in front of my mates.”

Frankie didn’t back away an inch. She didn’t flinch. She simply planted her combat boots shoulder-width apart, her weight shifting perfectly onto the balls of her feet. Tug recognized the stance instantly from dozens of unarmed combat drills. She was about to drop him where he stood.

“Touch me,” Frankie hissed, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm, deadly register, “and I’ll break your fucking jaw in three places, push your nose so far into your brain you’ll smell memories, and leave you choking on your own teeth in this puddle. Walk away.”

The lad hesitated, a brief flicker of genuine doubt crossing his face as he processed the violence in her eyes, but the gallon of Stella Artois currently swimming in his system made him incredibly, foolishly brave. He reached out again, his fingers brushing her sleeve. “Feisty little—”

“Hey.”

The single word wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t screamed. It was a low, guttural, earth-shaking rumble that seemed to vibrate the concrete directly under their feet.

The A-Company lad froze instantly, as if he’d been hit with a taser. Frankie’s eyes flicked quickly over his shoulder. The hard, killer instinct in her gaze melted instantly into a profound look of relief, which was then incredibly quickly masked by a look of profound annoyance that she wasn’t going to get to hit him.

Tug stepped out of the deep shadows of the NAAFI steps. He didn’t rush. He didn’t run. He walked with the slow, deliberate, incredibly heavy tread of an apex predator that knows it has already won the fight before it even begins. The loose gravel crunched loudly under his heavy boots. He stopped exactly two feet away from the A-Company lad, towering over him, his massive frame casting a dark shadow that completely swallowed the younger, drunken soldier.

Tug looked down at the lad, his face an emotionless, terrifying slab of granite, the cigarette glowing cherry-red in the corner of his mouth.

“Is there a problem here?” Tug asked quietly. The quietness was the most terrifying part.

The lad swallowed hard, a loud gulping sound in the quiet night. His wide eyes darted frantically from Tug’s massive, heavily tattooed forearms, up to his broken nose, and finally to his dead, grey eyes. The alcohol-fueled bravery evaporated instantly, replaced by sheer, unadulterated terror. “N-no, Corporal. No problem at all.”

“Good,” Tug rumbled, slowly taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling a thick, suffocating cloud of smoke directly into the lad’s face. “Because if there was a problem, I’d have to assume you were actively harassing one of my soldiers. And if you were harassing one of my soldiers, I’d have to physically demonstrate why they call my unit the Bastard Section. And then I’d put you in the fucking hospital. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Corporal.” The lad took a hasty, stumbling step back, practically tripping over his own feet in his desperation to get away from the War Machine.

“Now,” Tug said, his voice dropping another full octave into a demonic growl. “Fuck off back to your block before I lose my temper and break you in half.”

The lad didn’t need to be told twice. He spun around and power-walked frantically across the car park, disappearing into the darkness as fast as his legs could carry him.

Tug stood in absolute silence for a long moment, watching him go until he was out of sight, before finally turning his heavy gaze down to Frankie. She was looking up at him, her arms still firmly crossed, but a small, familiar, infuriating smirk was playing on her lips.

“I had him, you know,” Frankie said defensively, though there was absolutely no real anger in her voice. “I was a second away from putting a mean right hook straight through his teeth. I didn’t need rescuing.”

“I know you were,” Tug sighed heavily, running a massive, scarred hand over his shaved head. He took a slow step closer to her, invading her space just as she had done in the booth earlier, but this time, the dynamic was entirely different. There was no audience. No Smudge to make a joke. It was just the two of them alone in the freezing, isolating Highland air.

“Then why did you step in?” she challenged softly, looking up into his grey eyes, her voice barely a whisper in the wind.

“Because,” Tug said, his voice dropping, intensely aware of how incredibly close she was, of the faint, sweet smell of apple shampoo cutting through the cold air. “If you break your hand on his thick, stupid face, Mackenzie, who’s going to carry the L96 sniper rifle tomorrow? I’m not doing your job for you.”

Frankie laughed quietly, a soft, breathy sound that sent a shiver down Tug’s spine. She uncrossed her arms, reaching out with one delicate hand to gently flick an imaginary speck of lint off his broad chest. It was a brazen, highly intimate gesture that made Tug’s heart slam violently against his ribs.

“You’re a terrible, terrible liar, Wilson,” she whispered, her bright blue eyes shining in the dim orange light. “You just wanted to protect me.”

Tug looked down at her, fighting every single, primal instinct in his body that screamed at him to close the remaining inches between them and pull her against him. The tension was electric, a live, humming wire in the incredibly small space separating them. Fraternization was a serious, career-ending disciplinary offence. He was her Section Commander. It was strictly off-limits. If he crossed this line, if he gave in to what they both clearly wanted, he’d lose his stripes, and she’d be posted out to another unit immediately.

He stepped back, breaking the magnetic pull with a sheer, agonizing force of will. He forced his War Machine mask firmly back into place, locking his emotions away in a steel box.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Private,” Tug said gruffly, his voice intentionally harsh as he turned his back on her and headed towards the dark silhouette of the barracks. “Get your kit sorted. We’re off in four hours.”

“Yes, Sir, Boss, Sir,” Frankie called out after him, her voice ringing with clear, victorious amusement in the empty car park. “See you in the mud!”

Tug kept walking, forcing himself not to look back, though he could still physically feel her eyes burning into his spine. He took a long, final drag of his cigarette, staring up at the pitch-black Scottish sky. The mist was already starting to roll in heavily from the surrounding hills, thick, cloying, and unnatural, swallowing the stars whole.

Ten days in the Highlands. Twelve hours of tabbing through the freezing bogs. Blank ammo and a radio that barely worked.

It’s going to be a total nightmare, Tug thought to himself, crushing the cigarette butt under his heavy boot.

He had absolutely no idea just how terrifyingly right he was. The Bastard Section thought they were going to play war in the mud. They didn’t know the real war was already waiting for them in the mist, and it didn’t take prisoners.