Soldier of Missfortune 2 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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By the time the colonel arrived: I had been pulled out of bed; showered, de-haired under my oxters, and dressed in a bra, panties, skirt and top with a pair of shoes with two inch heels. In addition they had pierced my ears and plonked a wig on my head.

To say I felt a complete idiot would be an understatement. In the shower, I did get to see the tiny wounds under my breasts where the saline bags had been inserted and they somehow knew how to inflate them with more salt water, because they did so while I watched. Apparently, they’d have to increase them daily, which meant sticking a syringe full of saline into the breast but in a place where it wouldn’t leak out afterwards. They were tender but not as much as down below, and I doubted I’d be riding a bike for a while with junior being incarcerated by his own scrotum–talk about ironic or whatever.

The catheter came out–no it didn’t, they took it out, and it felt like they were going to pull my bladder with it. Boy did my eyes water, and it hurt to pee afterwards for a couple of hours or so. Now I think I know what cystitis feels like–my mum used to get it a lot at one time. I could, however, pee or wee as I was told to describe it, men pee, girlies wee apparently. Bet you didn’t know that. My voice still sounded like a six year old on steroids–so after my shower I was literally squeaky and clean, and I felt at a distinct disadvantage arguing with them, so I let them get on with things until the makeup. Then I sulked.

“You’re not making me look like some painted trollop,” I squeaked at them.

“Alexandra, please cooperate, we’re going to teach you how to do your own makeup.”

“Why do I want to know that?”

“Like you’re a woman and nearly all of them wear some sort of warpaint now and again.”

“I prefer a natural look,” I squeaked.

“Tough, now shut it and learn.” I sulked but she carried on regardless and I learned there was a bit more to it than just plonking on eye shadow and lipstick.

“You’re lucky, young lady, you have quite good skin and no beard shadow.”

That was probably because I had no beard, when I was in school half the boys had more hair round their dicks than I had on my whole face or body, come to think of it some of the girls had more hair on their faces than I did–I had this peach fuzz–which is still the case. I did try shaving it once or twice to try and toughen it up but all that happened was I came out in a shaving rash which itched like buggery, so I didn’t bother again.

By the time Leonardo had finished painting my face, I looked similar but different. I could see me, but it was like a girl had been painted over the top of me. It would have been fascinating if they hadn’t been doing it to me.

At midday the colonel arrived. “Right, give her a jacket or something.”

“What for, I’m not cold?”

“Here you are Alex, sweetie,” one of the women working with me held a blue fleece jacket for me to slip my hands into, and then gave me a handbag to match the black court shoes I had on.

“Follow me, Montgomery,” the colonel turned on his heel and walked out of the building.

“I can’t go out like this,” I protested in my silly high-pitched voice.

“Get in the car, God, I hate whining women. Shut up, Montgomery and do as you’re told.”

I didn’t have much option, so I got in his large Vauxhall car and pulled the seat belt over my tender tits. Sitting down wasn’t exactly a bundle of laughs either–it hurt and also was as prickly as if I was trying to mount a hedgehog.

“Right, I’m taking you to the officer’s mess for lunch. I expect you to act like a lady, not some scrubber off the streets. If you don’t, then if you think life is uncomfortable now, just wait–I have the power to make life very difficult.”

“You don’t think going to sleep as a man an' waking up like this isn’t?”

“We all have sacrifices to make, Montgomery, if all you lose is your balls–then I’d say the mission was a success.”

“Would you be so positive if it were your balls on the line, sir?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve risked more than that, loads of times.”

I sat and pouted, pretending to look out of the window.

The drive was a short one and before we got out of the car, I asked him, “Why have we got to come here, sir?”

“I want you to start socialising as a female.”

“Is it wise to come here, sir? I mean, even if I try my best, I’ve never done this before, and you might get embarrassed–accidentally, I mean I wouldn’t do that on purpose.”

He looked at me and thought over my comment. “Okay, Montgomery, there’s a pub a mile or two down the road, we’ll go there. If you are thinking of starting something or legging it, I shall make life not just difficult–it’ll become impossible, especially in the glasshouse with all those randy squaddies.”

I shivered despite the sunshine. “You’ll have nothing to worry about, sir, I’ll do my best to act like a woman.”

“Alright, Montgomery, the pub it is then.” He started up his car and we drove on to the pub, which was a little country one. The New Inn or something equally bland, but if this was a new inn, the other ones must be very old, because this one looked about two hundred years if it was a day.

We alighted from the car and he waited for me to walk round to him, “Off we go, Montgomery, ladies first.” He pulled open the door and waved me through.

“Hello,” said a cheery young barmaid.

I smiled back and the colonel offered a verbal greeting back to her. “What would you like to drink?”

“Could I just have a fruit juice, sir?”

“A pint of Old Peculiar for me and a fruit juice for the lady.”

“Which juice would you like?” asked the smiling woman.

“Um–orange, please.” I squeaked and blushed–goodness, multitasking already, must be the implants.

We took our drinks and sat at a table in the corner, it was just as well the glass wasn’t filled to the top because my hands were shaking as I picked it up and carried it to the table.
The colonel drank some of his pint and then excused himself to go to the loo. The barmaid came over to me. “Is everything alright, you seem very nervous?”

Oh poo, what do I do here? “Yes, I’m fine thanks, he’s my boss and I don’t know him that well.” My squeaky voice began to sound more little girl than Minnie Mouse.

“As long as you’re okay, that’s fine–will you be eating?”

“I think so.”

She went back to the bar and came back with two menus, “Depending on how hungry you are, the stilton and broccoli soup is pretty good, and the bread is fresh baked.”

“Thanks, I might try some.”

The colonel came back and saw me chatting with the barmaid, who went back to serve a customer. “What was all that about?” he asked gruffly.

“She asked if we were eating and recommended the soup.”

“Is that what you’d like?”

“Yes please, I think I would.”

He rose and went to order the food. “It’s on its way.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I suspect it might be better if you called me, Mr Stone, or Harry.”

“Yes, sir, Mr Stone.” Poo, no wonder he acted like a nutter, he was a total psycho–at least by reputation he was. Even the tabloids call him The Flint, which means we of course call him Fred Flintstone, yabba dabba bloody doo. He’s from the Paras and they’re all barking mad–hard as nails and about as bright. Nah, I’ll stick with the techies–at least we have a few brain cells functioning–I reckon it must be all that hitting the ground from forty thousand feet or whatever they do for kicks–apart from killing people that is. Thank God were not at Aldershot.

I caught him staring at me, “Is everything alright, s–um Mr Stone?”

“Um–what? Yes fine–if you pull this job off, it’ll save hundreds if not thousands of lives.”

“I’ll do my best, Colonel.”

“Good m–um–girl. You know, you have a potential to make quite a reasonable looking female, Montgomery.”

“Mr Stone, my name is Alex or Ms Montgomery.”

“Yes, alright, you’ve made your point.”

“So have you, Colonel.”

“One soup, one ploughman’s,” said the barmaid delivering the food and eating irons. She was spot on, the soup was really tasty and just as well I didn’t have too much because even though I was wearing a girdle thing under my skirt–you have to support the tissue that’s been lipo-ed or it goes all wrinkly–the waistband of my skirt was getting tight.

We ate in comparative silence. Then I asked the question. “What exactly is this job I have to do.”

“I’d have thought you’d been in the army long enough to know that you don’t ask stupid questions, Mizzz Montgomery.”

“Seeing as I’m taking all the risks, I’d have thought I had a right to know.”

“It’s just as well we’re in a public place, Montgomery, because I’d have happily slapped that pretty face into the middle of next week for impudence. You have no idea how many are at risk just to get you close to the target. Now shut your stupid painted mouth unless you can say something sensible.”

I felt myself get very hot and tears filled my eyes–I hadn’t cried since I was in the year ten at school when some bastard called Bevan kicked me rather hard in the balls–but I was close to bursting into tears; very close.

I picked up my bag and walked–no–I ran to the toilets–and straight into the gents. “Next door, love,” said some bloke who was zipping up his fly.

Shit–I can’t do anything right, can I? I backed out apologising and felt tears run down my face.

“Are you alright, love.”

I nodded, and slipped into the ladies and locked myself in a cubicle and the tears came. I howled to myself, but not loudly enough not to hear the door open. It did, and the footsteps, women’s footsteps, sounded on the ceramic floor. “Are you alright, Alex? It’s me Tanya the barmaid.” She tapped on the door of my cubicle. “Alex?”

I was trying to hold my breath and shudder silently, sitting on the toilet and shaking.

“Alex, I know you’re in there–are you alright?”

I sniffed and gave the game away. “I’m alright–just my time–you know.”

“D’you want some paracetamols, I’ve got some in my bag.”

“No, I’ll be okay, thanks for caring.”

“Well of course I do, we girls’ve gotta stick together.”

“Yeah, solidarity sister,” I said pulling up my panties and tights before flushing the loo.

“Your boss asked me to check on you, you’ve been in here about quarter of an hour you know.”

“Have I?” Serves the bastard right.

I emerged from the stall and went to wash my hands after wiping what was left of my prickly genitals–the stitches were pulling.

“Better sort out your makeup, I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”

I nodded and felt like crying again–from the glance in the mirror I had rivulets of mascara down my cheeks and my lipstick was worn off after eating. In short, I was a total mess.
I wiped most of the mess off with toilet tissue and powdered over the cracks, then I added a bit of lipstick to my bottom lip and rubbed them together–it improved things a bit without me getting it all over my face.

A woman came in to use the loo and I smiled and left.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” asked an irate colonel as we walked back to the car, “I had a bloody good mind to leave you here. Get in,” he spat opening the car remotely.

Sat in the car and burst into tears again. He sighed loudly and as he drove off, he muttered to himself, “What the hell have we created?” That made me feel really wanted.

Over the next few days, apart from saline injections and anti-testosterone jabs, I realised that my emotions were possibly stirred up by the hormones–no wonder women are so unbalanced if they have these bloody things circulating round them all the time–I didn’t really do emo before–but have I made up for it since?

My hair was bleached to match some blonde wigs they gave me. I was drilled in speech, movement, deportment, gesture, makeup and personal care. My bra size had gone up from a thirty four A to a thirty four D–yeah, I didn’t wear a bra, I used a wheelbarrow until they can get the scaffolding delivered.

All the bloody surgeon said was, “Think how lucky you are, at least your tits are the same size, most women’s aren’t.” Then added, “You won’t be lying on your face for a while, will you?”

I wanted to say all sorts of nasty things to him, but that just made me enemies, so I held my tongue. I continued with the programme, developing a reasonably good appearance and manner as a female, even the colonel was pleased.

I also gleaned a little about the job–and I decided I wasn’t up for it–I had to kill someone–no way. I don’t care who they were, I’m a technician not an assassin, and the more girly I got, the less I wanted part of it. We’re Brits, we don’t go round popping people off–do we? Well this one doesn’t.

Because of my apparent progress, yeah, I was a real girly now, I was allowed to come and go as I pleased. I hadn’t spent anything for weeks, so I went into the town centre every day and drew out some money. I set up an account with a different bank under the name Alison Bright and they accepted my home address–I explained I was a technician with the MOD and would transfer my other account over in the next month or two. Meanwhile, I shoved in over two thousand pounds and kept a further five hundred on my person. I might be working with spooks but I could be sneaky too.

I’d made my mind up, despite how much it hurt my pride and transgressed everything I thought I believed in about serving my country–I was going to desert. All I had to do now was pick my time. It had to be as a woman, because that’s what my body was now, so was part of my mindset–although had I changed that much?

I lay in my bed churning things over in my mind–perhaps I hadn’t changed so much–or was I just too close to see. I wanted to see my parents but they’d be watching for me there–unless I was clever. I knew they’d support me if they heard my side of the story before the army told them a pack of lies.

My dad would be disgusted if he thought I was some sort of freak through my own choice and as for deserting, well that would just about send him loopy, which is exactly what they would tell him.

I’d have to chance it–let him know he now had a rather curvy bit of totty for a son, and let him know it wasn’t me who did this to me.

I felt so alone and very soon I’d be even, more lonely as I went on the run.