Kiss Me Goodnight Sergeant Major

Note: This story intentionally uses outmoded language in a humorous context. The trigger warning shown is intended as an integral satirical part of the overall story and should be read as such.

Trigger warning.

The following content contains words and expressions that will offend almost everyone nowadays and are so far beyond their sell-by date they are practically fossilised. You can almost hear dinosaurs chomping their way through outmoded verbiage. Don’t say you were not warned!

-oOo-

Prologue

In March of 2026, whilst war was raging in Iran, with ordinary Iranian citizens in fear of their lives from all sides, the Middle East in turmoil, the world economy in dire peril and China and Russia gleefully rubbing their hands, according to a press report in the UK representatives of the British Army were seriously debating whether soldiers who self-identified as something other than their birth gender should be allowed to wear makeup on parade. Ruminate on that for a moment. Seriously, ruminate on it.

-oOo-

The unmistakable stentorian bellow of Sergeant Major Buller imposed itself through the Orderly office’s windows. “By the right quick … MINCE! Lef’ right, lef’ right, lef’ … MILLER! GET THAT BLEEDIN’ COCKED WRIST LIMPER YOU ‘ORRIBLE ‘ORRIBLE … PERSON!”

“I say, sir,” Captain Fawcett enthused, gazing out over the Parade Ground. “The Sergeant Major’s really getting the hang of this. I never thought he would.”

Major Ponsonby-Jones, looked up from buffing his nails, regarding his cuticles with a critical eye. “Mmm,” he said. “Salt of the earth, old Buller. Real old school. It must be difficult for the poor old boy - can I say that? I mean, you can almost see the apoplexy building. It’s a wonder his neck doesn’t explode. Still, all credit to him. Throwing himself into it and all.” He levered himself languorously from behind his desk and sauntered over to the mirror inspecting his reflection and enquired: “What do you think of the eye shadow Fawcett? Touch heavy? Be honest, man.”

Fawcett turned his attention back from the parade ground. “Never anything but honest where maquillage is concerned, sir.” he said briskly.”Since you ask, I wonder whether camouflage green is quite the ticket? I know it goes well with the fatigues but perhaps a more delicate shade wouldn’t come amiss? It really needs to be toned down a bit to avoid that washed out look. I know you can always rouge up to flesh out the pallor, but we don’t want to go overboard. Don’t want the C.O. appearing on parade looking like a French tart, do we, sir?”

“Hmmph”, Ponsonby-Jones said gruffly, turning back to look at his reflection again. “Not used to it, d’you see? Got to set an example, though. Don’t want to hurt the chaps’ feelings. Can I say chaps? Solidarity and all that. Wouldn’t normally do this, but modern British Army and all that. You know?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Fawcett said.

Just then, Sergeant Major Buller stomped into the office and threw an heroic salute at Ponsonby-Jones. “SAH!” he shouted. “Captain”: he acknowledged Fawcett with a nod and just the right amount of deference, with the slightest hint of disdain. He thrust his swagger stick beneath his armpit as his boots raised sparks from the flagstoned floor and he drew himself to ramrod attention.

Both officers returned Buller’s salute not with, perhaps, the same vigour and, in Fawcett’s case, with a slight flutter of the fingers in Buller’s direction above half closed coquettish eyes. “At ease, Sarn’t Major,” the major said. “What can I do for you?”

“SAH! Beg to report Sah,” Buller said, pointing at his face. “This mascara, Sah. Does nothin’ but run, sah! Not a very inspiring look sah! Can’t expect the men to face the enemy with weepy eyes, sah! Looks like they haven’t got the guts to finish the job! Johnny Towel… Johnny Foreigner's goin’ to laugh themselves sick.”

Ponsonby–Jones sighed. “Yes I know, Sarn’t Major, but what can I do? M.O.D. army issue. You can’t expect Lancôme quality with defence spending as it is.”

Buller refused to budge. “Sah! That’s as maybe but this … rubbish … isn’t even Maybelline standard. Don’t even pass muster as Boots own brand. May as well use gravy browning and then where does that put us? Accused of brown-facing and shot as spies, or worse, cancelled like as not. We’ve already got an epidemic of beards in the ranks. Makes it difficult to work out who’s who in this Middle Eastern scenario. Mind you,” he added ruminatively, ”I suppose the streaks would give the game away, especially in the desert. I shouldn’t wonder that A section, particularly, would start smellin’ like a Sunday roast with all that gravy cookin’ on their faces. We’ve got some right ones in A section sir, more slap in their bleedin’ rucksacks than back-stage at the London Palladium. Talk about theatre of war. More like Comedy of bleedin’ Errors”

Captain Fawcett gasped. “I say, steady on Sergeant Major, that’s a bit thick. I mean to say!”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” Buller acknowledged, “but that’s what I mean to say. Ever since Standing Orders brought in compulsory make-up half the battalion spend most of the night scrapin’ it off - makes nightly inspection a bleedin’ nightmare. Corporal Jones in particular. Slaps so much cleansing lotion on at nights he keeps on slitherin’ out of his pit. Not good for morale when he’s pickin’ himself up off the floor all night. Squaddies need their beauty sleep. Not what I signed up for at all, sir. Only last week I had to discipline Private Wills - a.k.a. Gloria Honeytrap - for turning up on parade in a tu-tu. Granted it was regulation fatigue colours but you have to draw the line somewhere. Got the don’t-know-what on jankers scrubbin’ out the single sex toilets. Whether they regard that as punishment or benefit, who knows?”

Ponsonby-Jones, steepled his fingers in thought. “Sounds to me like a bit of self-discipline is called for here, sergeant major. Can’t have the men - I can say men, can’t I - abusing their privileges, not to mention wasting MOD resources.”

“Discipline, Sir?” Buller scoffed. “This new intake don’t know the meanin’ of the word. Just let me loose an’ I’ll show them discipline.”

Ponsonby-Jones sucked in his breath. “God forbid Sergeant Major,” he said, horrified. “Isn’t one of the new conscripts some sort of human rights Johnny? Last thing we need is getting bogged down in the European Courts, much as I applaud your dedication.”

Sensing an impasse, Captain Fawcett pursed his lips and tapped his chin, “If I could make a suggestion, sir? I have a friend …”

“And would that be friend, friend, sir, or friend, friend?” Buller asked, innocently. “Only wouldn’t want to get hold of the wrong end of the stick, not with that gobby platoon leader in A section just itchin’ to report back to Stonewall - or whatever support group is the flavour of the day - on any inadvertent language anomaly.”

Fawcett glared, coldly. “Just friend, Sergeant Major. We go back years, they and their wife.”

“Ah, wife,” Buller nodded, knowingly. “And would that be wife, wife, sir or wife, w. .?”

“Yes, thank you Sergeant Major,” Ponsonby-Jones broke in. “Don’t let’s get hung up on semantics. We’re talking - what was it, Fawcett - maquillage?”

“Mackie what?” Buller queried. “I’m talkin’ make-up, sir, or at least the poxy apology for slap we’re havin’ to work with.”

“As I was saying, sergeant major,” Fawcett said, heavily, “if you would let me finish, my friend…” he emphasised the word, “ … is in theatricals …”

“Ahh!” said Buller and Ponsonby-Jones in unison.

Fawcett ignored the implied insinuation, “ … and what they don’t know about make-up isn’t worth knowing.”

“And I couldn’t agree more,” muttered Buller soto voce.

Fawcett disregarded the intrusion. “What I was going to suggest is that I get my friend to lay on some classes for the troops. Teach them how to apply make-up effectively. They’ll know how to make the best of what we’ve got. Good for morale, don’t you think? Excellent team building exercise.”

“I say, well done Fawcett! Thinking outside the box as usual. Makes you proud to be British!” Ponsonby-Jones thrust out his chin in Imperialist fervour. “We’ll have the best turned out battalion in the British Army. Get to it man!”

Much to Buller’s disgust, the Major’s fervour was met with an equally enthusiastic response from the troops. He washed his hands of it and left the proceedings to Captain Fawcett and his ‘friend’. The ‘friend’ was a proper ‘luvvie’ and they and Private Wills - a.k.a. ‘Gloria’ - hit it off famously. Indeed, Gloria soon assumed unofficial tutelage status and could be seen swanning around the barracks in full slap, touching up the lacklustre efforts of the rest of the battalion.

Then came the passing out parade, when Fawcett’s friend - and Gloria - had done all they could and wanted to display their prowess.

To be fair, the troops were immaculate. Beards trimmed to within an inch of their lives, hair coiffed beautifully, maquillage honed in an understated way and combat uniforms tailored to perfection, Fawcett’s friend beaming in the background.

“I say, Fawcett. Well done,” Ponsonby-Jones said. “Good show, eh, Sergeant Major?”

Grudgingly, Buller concurred and stepped forward to straighten a squaddie’s lapel that was perfectly manicured in the first place. His hands got no purchase and he did a double take down the line. “Sweet Jesus!” he swore. “This lot’s all stark bollock naked apart from the boots. It’s all bleedin’ make-up”

In the background Fawcett’s friend clapped his fingertips delightedly, steepling them under his chin and hopping up and down in excitement.

Fawcett echoed the sentiment. “I should have said, my friend is also a leading body painting artist, so I thought, why not? Once you think about it this is ideal for hand-to-hand combat. The enemy won’t be able to get a purchase on anything. The Sergeant Major just demonstrated that. While they’re still trying to grapple they’ll have a foot of cold steel up them in no time at all. There’s only one possible point of purchase,” he said indicating one camouflaged but indubitably larger than life example,” but if Johnny Towel… Johnny Foreigner tries any of that, their Command will have them hauled off to the nearest high building and pushed off in no time at all. Do our job for us. They don’t like it up ‘em, d’you see sir? Genius, I thought,”

Buller snorted. “You thought, did you, sir?” he said, lifting the nearest protuberance inquisitively with the tip of his swagger stick. “Well, with respect sir, you know what thought did.” He jiggled another protuberance thoughtfully, “Well, at least, it’ll answer an unspoken question about Gloria - I’ve always wondered. By God, I don’t know what they’ll do to the enemy but they frighten the bleedin’ life out of me! I think I’d rather take my chances with the gravy browning.”