The Soldier Who Taught Her to Love

Chapter Three - Kermit

Chapter Three – Kermit

Jim Henderson sipped the hot scalding liquid of his black coffee, allowing it to burn the back of his throat, to ignite his senses after another night plagued with the series of nightmares that depicted his life.

The dream he had awoken from, was the one that haunted him the most, and he was at a loss to know why.  After many a horror that was worthy of nightmares, Jim found that the face of a woman, wife of some f*****g billionaire, who had gone to f*****g Africa on their honeymoon, only to find her captured by the Militia, crazy rich fuckers. Jim scoffed internally for the millionth time since it happened.  He had been part of the f*****g rescue mission his last one before the psychologist diagnosed him with PTSD and gave him an honorary medical discharge. The look of sheer horror in the woman’s eyes when he had found her, haunted him. She could not speak, laid naked, with a man hovering over her ready to violate her more than he already had and her inability to say any other word than f*****g “Trifle” all the f*****g time, f**k knows why.

The woman had been in utter terror, scared out of her wits, as they dragged her naked from her captivity. Jim had tried in some way to save her blushes, as he placed his army issue jumper over her, but the look she gave him had made him feel like the f*****g piece of s**t rapist. This memory haunted Jim, more than any of the bloodshed he had witnessed or the eyes of the men he had killed in cold blood either with his weapon, or his bare hands and kept him awake during the night hours. Was it because the mission was to rescue a defenceless civilian woman, or the fact that the expression in her eyes had told him in detail the story of her suffering? Jim was at a loss to comprehend why this mission haunted his existence, but he had come to realise long ago that events and happenings are sometimes lost in translation, and he would never grasp the understanding of the reason why.

 As normal, Jim had awoken this morning, sheets soaked with his sweat, and items from his nightstand scatted across over his room, broken glass adorned the floors glistening in the morning rays of the sun as it peaked through the mesh curtain.  The mess served as reminder that he was, despite the glory and newfound fame, a broken man, who had seen and done despicable things.

During his first days of leaving the Army he had taken solace in many endless bottles of alcohol, hoping it would numb his brain, but all he found was the bottom of an empty bottle and still the nightmares remained.  Lost in his thoughts Jim remembered his first days in the army, he had been a young lad of 18 years, who thought he could conquer the world and be home in time for tea, wet behind the ears. The reality was, he did not know one end of a weapon from the other, and basic training was the second biggest wake up call of his life, the first, entering the selection process to join the team of elite soldiers, the best of the best. After serving 6 years in the parachute regiment as a standout soldier he entered that process, and passed, very few do, only the best of the best. It had been during the first days of his basic training, as a new recruit that he gained his nick name, which also saw his bed box being upturned, and him cleaning the toilets with his toothbrush for the night.

Jim laughed as he fondly remembered. He had been messing about, the typical Jack the Lad, full of the confidence of the good looking youthful lad he once was, the corporal had screamed for his group to ‘fall in’, but being wet behind the ears, with an attitude that needed to be levelled he had remained talking at the side of the parade square with his newfound mates. Jim smiled once more as he remembered the ear bashing he had received.

“YOU” the corporal had spat in his face, making Jim want to gag.

“Are named after the creator of the muppets, and you are the biggest f*****g muppet of them all, even bigger than Kermit the f*****g frog”

And so it was, that Jim Henderson became ‘Kermit’, but to have a name allotted to you was a right of passage, and Jim was proud of that.

Taking another sip of coffee allowing the black liquid to ignite his mind and chase the slumber of yet another sleepless night, he awaited his fellow instructor’s arrival into the stone buildings set in the heart of the cold wet climate of Scotland.

Tomorrow would hail the start of filming for yet another series of Special Forces; Have YOU Got What It Takes, who the f**k comes up with these titles, Jim wondered, but in reality, for all his inner mocking, this show had brought him some peace. Whilst he spent two weeks, turning civvy softies into soldiers who had the capacity of possibly passing real selection his nightmares retreated, and lay dormant, only surfacing again once the process had finished. This gig gave him back the sense of belonging, and he would be forever thankful for it.  One of his many brothers in arms, ‘Tank’ had recommended him to the producers, forcing him to clean up his act, stop drinking and return to his true self for two weeks, twice a year.

‘Tank’ was a small stocky ‘built like a brick s**t house’ man, hence his name, who was the “Head Instructor”, they had served together, for over 12 years in the Special Forces, and had been on many a covert mission together.  At that time Kermit had out ranked him, but now, he played second fiddle to the man, and he was pleased to do so.  To be on this show came at a price, no more anonymity, thrown headlong into the spotlight, attending endless talk shows, or questions from joe public regarding missions, or what they had or had not done. The endless female fan letters, as he was deemed the ‘hot stuff’ of the group of ex-soldiers her had inadvertently earned a new nick name of “Eight Pack” referring to his washboard abs, many a meme had arrived on social media, pictures of Kermit the frog with a defined set of abdominals, or just an actual washboard super imposed onto its stomach. Girls and women young and old, drooling at his eight pack, and bulging muscles. The lads had often taken the piss out of his newfound sexy stud muffin status, but he viewed the whole thing as pathetic. If any of these women glimpsed what truly lay within his frozen unreachable heart, Jim knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, they would run to the other side of the earth to escape him.  He had placed himself in danger by allowing his face to be broadcast around the United Kingdom every Sunday night for 6 weeks, twice a year, making himself a target for those who would recognise him from the different ops he had been on who may seek the ultimate revenge.

Jim sighed as he took another gulp of the bitter tasting coffee, and wondered what rabble of s**t they would be presented with this time. The producers chose the contestants, in love with a sob story. There was little wonder that within the first three days more than a half of these fuckers were removing their armbands and returning home crying for mummy offended by their methods, as they did not fully believe what went on, thinking it was mostly set up for the cameras.  Still, he did have respect for those who came here wanting to change their lives, but not, for many who sought only the 15 minutes of fame they would receive for being on the show, or now it was open to women, who came with a face full of make up like barbie on a mission to try and bat their fake eyelashes in the hope of having some horizontal exercise with one of the famous instructors. A few of the old contestants had eared some small semblance of respect from Jim, but even then, they never kept in touch after the wrap party these guys would disappear from their lives and return to their normality whilst Jim and the guys returned to their life of nightmares, and cold sweats.

The large barn door creaked open, and Tank filled the entrance, not in height, but in width.

“Hey Kermit, good to see you again bud” Tank greeted Jim with a man hug.

“Ready for the shits and giggles Bro” Jim smiled warmly, the peace of familiarity flooding his body, and instant relaxant to his pent up anxiety.

“Yeah, as always, bro.” Tank chuckled, f**k he loved this gig, watching those who, had a misguided belief they Had what it takes, stumble and fall, because of a little pain, those fuckers new nothing of pain, Tank mused, as he remembered as if yesterday, dragging his dead mate out from a mission so that his body could be returned to his family.

“New instructor this season, dunno if you know him, Steven Benson or ‘Cigs’.” Tank informed Jim, they were used to new instructors, sometimes they imbedded them with the contestants, as a mole to give feedback and keep eyes on them when the instructors were not watching.

Jim had done one op with ‘Cigs’, years before, he was a good guy, but Jim was shocked to find him here, he had been involved in the world of close protection, guarding the rich and famous from whatever, scared them shitless at night.  

“Yeah, did an op with him, a good lad, thought he was in close protection?” Jim questioned, not that he cared all that much, but still it was something to converse about.

“He was bro, but some s**t went down, when protecting some motorcycling championship rider’s girl she ended up getting attacked and stabbed and the f*****g rider himself, and the fucker who did it got out of jail because they had lured him into the f*****g ally the Spanish authorities deemed it as entrapment. As the senior guy in the field, ‘Cigs’ took the fall for it” Tank relayed the story, knowing all to well, that many times it was the decisions of others that put you in the line of fire, both literally and figuratively.

“Is Cigs a mole, or on the team from the off” Jim wondered out loud he was a man of few words, and when he was not screaming and shouting in the ears of the contestants he was naturally a quietly spoken private man.

“Mole” Tank offered.

Scratching the back of his neck, Jim stretched, silence descended between the pair, not awkward or uncomfortable, just the silence of men who had seen the worst this world had to offer and understood the need to retreat back into the safety of their own heads behind the walls and walls of protection they had built around themselves in order to survive.

The rest of the team, both those on and off camera who made up the instructors arrived, and Jim settled himself into the mission of planning an ambush for the new contestants, giving them a reality check and wake up call. He planned that as the hyped up and excited contestants headed to base, unawares that they would be laying in wait of the convoy of black SUV’s that transported 22 pretenders, well 21, and 1 mole.  Jim’s plan was to halt the convoy and grab the fuckers out before dragging them on a 6 klic hike across the punishing Scottish terrain, then Tank making them strip bare, and immersing themselves in the cold waters of loch ness. Yeah, these guys were in for a wake up call when reality hit, and on more than one occasion contestants had handed in their armbands right then and there unable to comprehend that the selection process was in fact very real, and not just acted out for the cameras.