It's so geeky, I know. and the ads and that woman doing all the contortions for fitness when you know the nerdy science guys are all just looking at her legs and ass. Hilarious. I mean, REALLY.... I love the ads as much as the content. It's hard to find things like this -- full color scans of original content with the ads.
And to that end (and this is the sort of thing, I'd need help with),
“Everybody dried out from the exercise?” Brotheridge asked. “Word is Generals Poett and Kindersely were just cock-a-hoop about it. General Gale commended D Company for our…” Brotheridge cleared his throat.
“Good looks?”
“Drinking, smoking, and chasing girls?”
“Tossing paras into canals?”
“For our dash and verve,” Brotheridge said, affecting a posh accent.
They all laughed. Except…
“That’s all to the good, isn’t it, sir?” Gray asked.
Brotheridge nodded. “The best. General Gale set out the exercise himself and the Commander of the 6th Airbourne didn’t do that for just one Company for the hell of it.”
They hadn’t even been made to march to the site. They were driven to three bridges over two canals about thirty miles from the Bulford Camp. The umpires made them wait until 2300 and then they pranged. There were paras defending the bridges but they’d managed to capture the bridges before the umpires declared them blown.
It had been a first class firefight and a cracking good time, even if they hadn’t been shooting with live. When it was all blanks, flashes, and bangs, fists were better. Peter had gotten a reputation in D Company over the last year as a man who never threw the first punch, but could be counted on to throw the last. He’d pitched three of the “enemies,” regular paras from the 6th Airborne, into the canals during the firefight.
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And to that end (and this is the sort of thing, I'd need help with),
“Everybody dried out from the exercise?” Brotheridge asked. “Word is Generals Poett and Kindersely were just cock-a-hoop about it. General Gale commended D Company for our…” Brotheridge cleared his throat.
“Good looks?”
“Drinking, smoking, and chasing girls?”
“Tossing paras into canals?”
“For our dash and verve,” Brotheridge said, affecting a posh accent.
They all laughed. Except…
“That’s all to the good, isn’t it, sir?” Gray asked.
Brotheridge nodded. “The best. General Gale set out the exercise himself and the Commander of the 6th Airbourne didn’t do that for just one Company for the hell of it.”
They hadn’t even been made to march to the site. They were driven to three bridges over two canals about thirty miles from the Bulford Camp. The umpires made them wait until 2300 and then they pranged. There were paras defending the bridges but they’d managed to capture the bridges before the umpires declared them blown.
It had been a first class firefight and a cracking good time, even if they hadn’t been shooting with live. When it was all blanks, flashes, and bangs, fists were better. Peter had gotten a reputation in D Company over the last year as a man who never threw the first punch, but could be counted on to throw the last. He’d pitched three of the “enemies,” regular paras from the 6th Airborne, into the canals during the firefight.