Major Bob

4 Coy, 5 Para's Company Commander was Major Bob Gordon DSO.  Before he joined 4 Coy, Richard had done background research on him, on the principle that “time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted”. There was, it seemed,  more to Major Bob than met the eye. On first acquaintance he appeared to be a  cheerful, sports-mad, hearty Philistine Englishman. His boisterous conversation tended to include, depending on the season, generous lashings of rugby, the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, test-match cricket, field sports (Bob was a keen rough-shooter) and, less often, boxing. Like Richard, he had graduated MA from Cambridge but was at pains to emphasise that he was not intellectual and had spent most of his time at Uni playing rugby, cricket and boxing; which was not, however, strictly true.  

Although Major Bob tried to keep this dark, Richard had discovered that he  had scored a very respectable Second in the Cambridge History Tripos. Had he been slightly less active on the sports field, he might have pulled off a First. Bob was reportedly married, or had been; latterly Mrs Gordon seemed to have faded from the scene. He was a Roman Catholic and had attended a Catholic school before Cambridge. Still in his early thirties, Major Bob was tipped as a man to watch; someone who might command a battalion in the not too distant future, who might proceed to even higher things; always provided that he kept his nose clean. 

The most noticeable thing about Major Bob was his size; he was about two inches taller than Richard - who was exactly six feet – a characteristic that he shared with Sergeant Patrick Kincaid, although it was less obvious in Bob's case because he was also very broad and muscular; a typical rugby forward. Kincaid was beautifully-proportioned, like an Ancient Greek athlete. (For whatever reason, 4 Coy of 5 Para set a high standard of male good looks.)  By contrast, it was only when you were close to Bob Gordon that you realised how tall he really was. He had boxed for the Army and had been caricatured in an Army magazine as a muscle-bound super-hero in a provocative skin-tight outfit. He had kept and framed the cartoon, which amused him. Above his massive body, Bob had “manly cherub” boyish  looks, with a healthy complexion, slightly retrousse nose and a good set of teeth. He sported a full head of dark, wavy hair, which he had cut in a 1950s style: cropped short at the back and sides; very short indeed just above the ears and at the base of his neck, but longer and more luxuriant on top and with a curly quiff at the front.   

Behind the facade of the jovial sportsman there were indications of something more complex. Bob had knocked out numerous opponents in the boxing ring but he had also done so outside it; he had a temper, although he mostly kept it under wraps and under control. One victim had been a Royal Marines subaltern who had cheeked him; Bob laid him out cold. Fortunately the young officer was a fellow-boxer; when he came round, he merely complimented Bob on his upper-cut and did not make any official complaint. Predictably Bob had had a personality clash with Lance-Corporal Roddy McSpunk early in their acquaintance. The insufferable McSpunk had  committed quite a serious offence and then had the audacity to argue about it: his patience exhausted, Major Bob had finally scooped up McSpunk; carried him, kicking, screaming and swearing, across the parade-ground  and thrown him fully-clad into the deep end of the swimming-pool. That had silenced McSpunk; at least for a time. There was evidently vulnerability too; Bob had suffered severe clinical depression, requiring antidepressant drugs, following the death of his best friend, a younger officer, in a climbing accident in the Alps. What to make of all this? Auden had it right, Richard thought: 

there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.

When Richard arrived in 4 Coy Bob had been on a course; to date they had had relatively little to do with each other but, soon after Richard's eventful birthday party, Bob returned and invited Richard to lunch at his house, which was near  the base.  

The British Army of the Rhine (BAOR) had a surplus of accommodation. Large as it still was, the UK's military establishment in Germany was much less than it had been immediately after the Second World War, when the Brits had requisitioned and constructed a huge number of dwellings for soldiers, airmen and civilian officials. As a result Richard, for example, enjoyed an enormous apartment in a nondescript block; it consisted of two family flats knocked together. Major Bob had done better still: he lived off-base in a 1930s Bauhaus-style house constructed for a Nazi official, Professor Willi Schneider, and confiscated by the British in 1945. Its former owner was thought now to be living in Argentina. The Schneider haus, boringly renamed Ellis House after its first British occupant, stood on a small hill and enjoyed panoramic views. It was to Ellis House that Bob whisked Richard in his sports car soon after his return to Germany, “to catch up and get to know you properly”. As Richard half-expected, there was no sign of Mrs Gordon; Major Bob was looked after by Heinrich, a middle-aged German civilian batman. Before lunch Bob gave Richard a quick tour of Ellis House. Apart from its stylish Bauhaus exterior, the house could have been any officer of field ranks's residence in Aldershot or Colchester. The interior was bland and nondescript; all surfaces were painted white or magnolia. The furniture was PSA issue; the pictures looked as though they had been supplied by some official art go-down. There were three  exceptions: a well-appointed snooker-room and a home gym with impressive weights. Finally Bob ushered Richard into what he called “the snug”. It was clearly his favourite room. At one end, near the window, was a table set for two. Heinrich waited on them. 

Originally Professor Schneider's library, “the snug” was long and gave good views across the countryside from picture-windows at either end. Shaded table-lamps cast a soft glow. Although it was a fine day, a log fire was burning in the large stone fireplace.  The wall opposite was lined with glass-fronted bookcases. Some of these contained books, including volumes on history, sport and military subjects; others displayed silver sports trophies and memorabilia. College and army crests, shields and sports team photos, especially rugby ones, decorated the other walls. Bob was in every front row, frowning, looking serious or grinning; legs manfully apart; shorts ridden up to display his powerfully muscled thighs and straining at the crotch to contain the bulge of Bob's genitals. A few photos showed Bob in a water polo team. Again, his Speedo looked dangerously strained by his package.This man is built like a brick shit-house and hung like a stallion! Richard thought. Other photos showed army groups; a few depicted climbing excursions in the Alps; in these Bob was shown standing beside a fair-haired young officer in a white roll-neck sweater, with almost film-star looks: square jaw, strong chin, neat ears, beautiful eyes, good teeth, big smile. In one photo they had their arms round each other's shoulders. Bob looked about as happy as it was possible for a man to look. Presumably “Rupert Brooke” was the Alpinist friend whose death had so seriously upset him. Others depicted a grinning small boy, who had to be Bob Junior. No surprise; Bob was, or had been, married. Meanwhile these questions exercised Richard:

Is Bob queer?

Whether he is or not, how does he view me?

Does he know about Kincaid's birthday party for me? 

Ditto, about McSpunk's role in it? 

Does he fancy me? 

If he does, is he versatile? 

While they waited for the hors d'oeuvre, Bob spoke about his course in the UK. He asked: “When's your next appointment this afternoon? I'll drop you there, of course.” 

Richard replied: “I kept my diary free until 1600 hours, when I have an unavoidable meeting, in case you wished to have a long conversation with me.”

Bob grinned once more and held Richard's glance a fraction longer than was strictly necessary. “Good”, he said. “Because I've done the same; we can talk and relax for the next three hours!” 

A few minutes later, speaking in German, he told Heinrich to take the afternoon off: “You can go as soon as you've put the dishes in the dishwasher. I shall be out this evening; I'm dining with an American General.”

"Jawohl!" said Heinrich disappeared towards the kitchen.

Richard listened to this exchange. Oho! Heinrich will be away shortly; then we'll be alone here, thought Richard. I'm the new subaltern, it follows that a lot of people in 4 Coy are keen to test-drive me; mainly out of curiosity, from the likes of McSpunk right up to – I'm guessing - the Company Commander himself! I'm flavour of the month, or I shall be until the next reasonably good-looking new young guy comes along! Well, I can live with that. Even so, I'm damned if I'm going to sleep with absolutely every officer and other rank in 4 Coy; that would be well beyond the call of duty!   

“What are you smirking at?” asked Bob. “Have you been listening to one word I've said?”  

Richard answered diplomatically: “I have! But you have just unintentionally supplied a piece of information that I've been searching for; the solution to a problem.” 

“Oh? What kind of problem?” 

“The... er, the final clue in yesterday's Times crossword puzzle.” 

“What was the clue?”

Richard improvised rapidly. “'Woodland deity carries the trays (anagram)': so it has to be 'satyr'. You  asked Heinrich to bring in the entree on a tray!” 

“I can never finish crosswords,” sighed Bob. “I can't imagine why you bother with those things.”

Richard replied “I read somewhere that it helps to keep the brain-cells active and in good order, like chess. - I see that you play, too - Unless, of course, if there is something more interesting and challenging to do...” 

Heinrich poured them some dry white wine.  

“Your health” smiled Bob, raising his glass. “Let's find you something more challenging after lunch.”

They then spoke about army matters, sport and Cambridge. The lunch was light and healthy. Richard paced himself carefully, drinking little wine. After Heinrich had departed and they were finishing their coffee, Major Bob said: 

“Are you up for a challenge?” 

“I usually am!” replied Richard. He had noticed an onyx chess set on a coffee table near the fire and suspected that Bob might be about to challenge him to a match. No problem; Richard had been a Chess Blue at Cambridge. However Richard was wrong: 

“Lunch digested?” 

“I think so!”

“Let's see how fit you are,” grinned Bob. “Come along to my gym and let's wrestle! 

Richard followed Bob to the gym.  It was very clean and tidy. There was no wrestling-ring as such; just a large padded mat in the centre. In one corner were shelves filled with pristine white towels and clean, Bob-sized gym kit: several pairs of boots and trainers, plus wrestling singlets, shorts, socks, jocks, sweat-shirts and track trousers, all neatly folded. Richard looked at a pair of boots; they were a couple of sizes too big. He held up a singlet against himself; it looked enormous. 

Richard laughed. “Bob, we'll have to do it some other time; you should have warned me in advance that you might want to wrestle. I can't wear your kit and have not brought any of my own. I'm wearing my best No 2 Dress uniform in your honour and I'm damned if I'm going to fight in that!” 

“No problem,” said Bob. “There's no-one else here. Just strip to your briefs. I'll do the same; you won't feel embarrassed then!” 

Won't I? wondered Richard. Bob might have something to say about the briefs that he happened to be wearing that day. 

Bob stripped quickly. Seconds later he was naked, apart from a pair of white briefs. He stood laughing, hands on hips, while Richard was still fumbling with the knot of his tie. He misinterpreted Richard's delay.  

“Come on Richard! Don't be shy, for fuck's sake. Soldiers shouldn't ever be squeamish about stripping-off!”  

Bob nearly-naked seemed even bigger than Bob in uniform. He looked like a young version of the Farnese Hercules, albeit with shorter hair and minus the beard. Broad rugby-forward's shoulders surmounted a torso with superb pectorals and a six-pack, above a still-narrow waist. Bob's biceps seemed as big as many men's thighs; his thighs and calves were massive.  Coarse, curly hair grew thickly on Bob's upper torso, starting at the collar-bone. Dark clouds of it bloomed in his armpits and, Richard assumed, at his crotch.  His skin was mostly pale and un-tanned. 

Richard was powerfully attracted. I've never seen anyone like him. This is a challenge and an adventure, he thought. I would not mind fucking with this guy. 

“Kit off, Richard! Hurry up, I'm waiting!”

Richard now stripped to his briefs. They were fashionably minimal: two small triangles of red cloth, powdered with miniature skulls-and-crossbones, contained Richard's genitals in front and partly-covered his ass. His dark crotch-hair curled above the low waistband; the rest of his body was carefully shaved. 

Richard fully-dressed radiated vitality and sex-appeal; Richard wearing only those briefs was bloody erotic. Bob's slight verbal impediment kicked in. He blurted out: 

“I d-didn't expect a chap like you to wear those!” Bob gestured at Richard's groin. 

Richard grinned at him. “My skants? A lot of younger men wear them; I like them. They don't show under sportswear. They can – just-about – pass for swimming trunks, which can be handy. Plus, they're  sexy!”

“You can say that again!” Bob continued to stare. “Do many young officers wear them? I don't think they would have, in my day.”

“It still is your day, isn't it, Bob? And yes, a lot of us do; the other ranks, even more so! You should get some!”  

Bob laughed and continued to eye Richard: “That is some body!” he said after a short pause, with genuine admiration. “You're really fucking strong; is it exercise, heredity or both?” 

“Both,” said Richard, “mostly boxing training and rugby.” He did a few stretching exercises. 

“Right,” said Bob. “Wrestle?” 

Richard said: “Let's wrestle bollock-naked, like the two guys in Women in Love!” 

Bob looked at Richard for a moment. “Okay” he said. “Let's do that.” 

They shed their briefs and did a few more stretches. Bob was powerfully drawn to Richard; he wanted him more than he had wanted anyone for years.  The strength of his desire alarmed him. Apart from that, he found Richard slightly intimidating.  On Richard's side, the feeling was much the same. Bob was a magnificent animal. His heavy sex hung below a dense bush of dark hair. Size does matter, Richard thought. He's awesome; just imagine having that inside me!    

They were pretty evenly matched: Richard was younger and faster; Bob was bigger, heavier and more experienced. They skirmished briefly, then closed together. Twice Bob brought Richard to his knees and twice he fought back. They were soon polished with sweat. The only sounds were thuds on the mat, grunts, groans and muttered curses. Richard quickly realised that, although he was an exceptionally strong man, Bob was stronger still. He would have to do something drastic if he were to win. He decided on the suspended surfboard; one of the most painful wrestling moves known to man. To impose that, you have to get your opponent face downward on the mat. Richard managed this by tripping-up Bob. 

Richard stood on the backs of Bob's knees and bent his legs up, hooking his feet over his own shins. He then grabbed Bob's wrists. Falling backwards, Richard raised his opponent's body above him, pushed upwards with his feet and pulled Bob's wrists in. In doing so he hauled Bob high above himself, putting the maximum strain on his spine and joints. All his joints were now working to inflict pain, caused by Bob's own considerable body weight. Now totally at Richard's mercy, Bob bucked around in agony with no hope of escape. Richard stretched Bob's spine even further back on itself; the pressure was now taken off Bob's arms altogether and switched to his neck. As a dominating move this worked well. Richard looked into his now screaming opponent’s upside-down face.

“Christ Almighty!” shouted Bob. 

“Is that a submission I hear?”  was Richard's response. 

Richard rocked himself and Bob back and forth a few times. For Bob this was excruciatingly painful. 

“Fuck off!”

“Okay, I'll rock you some more!” Richard did so.

“Aaaargh! I'll get you for this!”

Bob's body now arched back, as he cringed from the extreme pain in his neck and shoulders. His sweat was dripping over Richard like a shower-bath. 

“Do you submit?” said Richard patiently.

There was a long pause. Then: 

“Yes, I do, fuck you!” 

Richard now dropped Bob on his shoulders for a pin. That knocked most of the remaining fight out of him. Richard was exhausted, too. He rolled Bob over onto his back, then lay on top of him, holding his wrists down, to prevent any sudden attempt at revenge. Their sweat mingled. Bob's eyes were closed and his breathing was laboured. He opened his eyes and looked into Richard's, a few inches away.  

“Jeepers, that was a horrible move. Where d'you learn it?”

“Wrestling in the back-rooms of pubs in the East End,” said Richard. “What now?” 

“Up to you. Whatever you like.”

“Well, let's see...” 

They sat up and got into the male-bonding position: legs wrapped round each other; hugging; hands exploring; searching each other's eyes. 

“It's been so fucking long,” muttered Bob. 

So fucking long since what? Since he fell off the North Face? 

Intuitively, Richard felt Bob's ache and loss. Presumably it was while he had been emotionally involved with that younger officer that Bob had first felt, or at any rate acknowledged, his own attraction towards his own sex; not necessarily a joyous discovery for such a manly fellow. And then the other guy had been killed. Poor Bob.

Richard's face was a few inches from Bob's. It grinned boyishly-mischievously at him. (Hey, let's go and raid Farmer Fattenham's orchard! His apples are the yummiest! I dare you!) The tip of Richard's tongue suddenly appeared between his lips.  It was rosy pink, like the head of his cock. Bob found this very erotic. He seized Richard's head in both hands and kissed him passionately on the mouth. Their arms and legs tightened around each other. During the fight they had had strong erections; now their cocks, pressed against each other, were stiffening again.  

“I want to fuck you,” said Richard quietly. 

Bob looked at him silently and with a serious expression. After a pause he said “I've never been fucked in my life. I'm not sure I could handle it. I might flip; get violent, even. Does it hurt much?” 

Richard answered “Of course it fucking hurts the first time but you're a brave man. If you've done counter-interrogation training, you can handle it. But done properly, it can also be the most marvellous feeling; mind-blowing! 

“And so...?”

“And so we can play it as you like: rough, sweaty and brutal – like my own introduction, aged about fifteen - or gentle seduction. It'll be the same in the end.”  

After a pause Bob said “Rough, sweaty and brutal.”

Later, in the shower  Richard thought Well, well! Bob seems to be smitten with me! This will require tactful handling; i do after all have another boyfriend or two. Equally, it could come in handy!