Collateral Damage

3, Loose Lips

There's nothing wrong with a good weekend break. My British companions and I always take time off as an opportunity to get drunk. Unlike the Americans, we're allowed to drink, and so we hobble our way toward a local town. The thing about being in a war-zone is some of the Towns are desolate, and when they aren't, as the invading soldiers, we're often hated. Luckily, we've been stationed here a while. The locals have acclimatized to us, and some even support our cause.

Johnson and Evans are always good company on a Friday night. We sit in this old bar, light flickering. We joke about how it looks like something out a horror movie.

"Anyways, I notice you have no man with you," I chuckle. Evans laughs and shrugs. "What can I say, Military men are selfish cunts," she replies. She glances at Johnson, "No offence," She snorts. "So date a Civi*," I argue, "Yeah but the distance, come on. Besides Civis* always seem so intimidated that their girlfriend's in the army. I think it threatens their manhood," she sighs. I shrug, I suppose she's not wrong. I've dated one Civi* in my life, big disaster, never again.

"So, here's the real question. Now you're no longer getting married to Robinson... Who's the new man?" Evans asks me. I laugh at the stupidity of the question. "Nobody, I'm going to enjoy single life with no ring to hold me down," I chuckle. "It was your fault for dating a TOM anyway," Johnson points out. "Yeah, it was always a bit odd. He joined the Military really late, then instantly started dating a Staff Sergeant," Evans adds. I shrug, "I suppose, but for me, it didn't matter at the time. I thought our relationship was about more than ranks," I sigh. That's the thing, men always get so OCD about ranks, I've known First Class Warrant Officers who've only gotten there by sleeping with officers. It's easier for girls though, push your tits up and anybody will promote you for a chance to touch them. I suppose that's because there's just so few girls around, I guess soldiers must get lonely, can't blame them. "What did you do with your ring?" Johnson asks me. "Well that's a funny story," I reply.

"So after the rather disappointing night before our wedding. I just pretended nothing happened. I made my way to the church, wearing my wedding dress. Couldn't be fucked to do my hair though. I walked into the church and everyone made a big fuss. My mum was crying all that shit. I just turned to Robinson, who'd gotten all dressed up in his uniform and I just said, 'you cheating cunt'. There was this argument where he tried to make an excuse. Saying shit like 'I'm not in love with her' and 'you're the only one for me' and so I just slipped the ring right off my finger and threw it at his face. As you know, I never miss, so it hit him right in the middle of his forehead. You should have seen the look on his face though, you'd have thought I'd spent actual bullets down the aisle," I laugh but my friends glare at something behind me. I spin around. It's those fucking Honey-Brown eyes again!"

"You left your husband on your wedding day?" Ferenczy exclaims, "Fiancé, and he was a cheating cunt. Not that's any of your business," I snarl. "Apologies Miss Moore," Ferenczy replies. I twitch. I hate being called that. "Lilly, we should go," Evans mutters. I shake my head, I'm standing my ground. "Please, let me buy you a drink," Ferenczy requests. I have to admit for an Americans his manners are impeccable. I scratch the back of my neck. Oh hell no, I'm not catching feelings for a fucking American soldier. "I'm good thanks," I reply. My tone is a little harsher than I intended. "Then don't let me. I'll do it either way," he chuckles. I raise an eyebrow, is he hitting on me? So he orders drinks. One sits in front of me so I glare at the glass. Do I drink it? Do I knock it over? Do I smack the little shit for being a pervert? So many different options. I settle for the free drink and take sips. "How long have you been in the army?" Ferenczy asks me, "ten years, you?" I reply, "Seven,". I'm a little confused, only seven years? "I joined after college," he adds. American college, that's a university, right? Their college is four years. Presuming he went at eighteen, did his four years, finishing at twenty-two. Then serving for seven years, making him twenty-nine? "So you're twenty-nine?" I ask. Ferenczy nods, raising an eyebrow. "You're twenty-eight?" he tries. I shake my head, "Twenty-six," I correct him. His confusion clearly grows, "I went to Harrogate, that's for 16-17-year-olds," I explain. He simply nods, probably not taking it in.