Shady Places

There you are again. I see you all the time.
We haven’t really met yet, but you know, I don’t mind
Cause I think today’s the day, I’m gonna go right up and say to you
Would it be alright if I called you up sometime?

– Kerri Noble

Queensland – July 1997

The company piled into the back of army trucks for the bumpy ride back to Canungra, the dust of the bush trailing behind them. Most of the soldiers slumped in their seats, drained from days of gruelling exercises, their faces etched with exhaustion. But Alison felt a spark of energy coursing through her, a lightness that made her heart race. They were finally leaving the wilderness behind, returning to a semblance of civilisation—tents, hot meals, and group showers, yes, but a world far more comforting than the endless scrub and sweat-soaked fatigues. More than that, Lt. Holland was seated just a few feet away in the back of the same truck, his broad shoulders occasionally shifting as the vehicle jostled along the dirt track.

Alison couldn’t take her eyes off him. For two hours, she watched him from a distance, her gaze lingering on the line of his jaw, the way his hands rested casually on his knees, and the faint shadow of stubble that had grown during their time in the field. She knew she was staring like an infatuated teenager, maybe even a creepy stalker, but she couldn’t help it. Her mind churned with possibilities—how to approach him, what to say, whether he’d even notice her in the sea of uniforms. Every jolt of the truck seemed to mirror the flutter in her chest, a mix of nerves and exhilaration at the thought of speaking to him. She rehearsed opening lines in her head: something casual, something clever, something that wouldn’t betray the fact that she’d been thinking about him nonstop since the night before.

When they finally rolled into the lines at Canungra, the company spilled out of the trucks, a collective groan rising as they faced the inevitable post-exercise ritual: cleaning their equipment. Rifles and radios were stripped, cleaned, and inspected under the watchful eyes of the sergeants. Alison worked methodically, her hands moving over her gear, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Every so often, she stole a glance at Lt. Holland, who was overseeing a group of soldiers with that calm authority she found so magnetic. Once the gear was stowed, the company moved on to themselves, shedding layers of grime in the group showers. The warm water was a luxury after days in the bush, and Alison let it cascade over her, washing away the dirt and fatigue. She felt renewed, her skin tingling not just from the heat but from the anticipation of what the evening might hold. Clean, warm, and back in a world that felt human again, she was ready to seize her chance.

With the training complete, the company was granted a rare evening of downtime before their return to Sydney the next day. The mess hall buzzed with chatter as they ate a proper meal—hot, hearty, and a far cry from the ration packs they’d endured the entire week. Word spread that the bar would be open later, a chance to unwind and celebrate the end of the exercise. Alison’s heart leapt at the thought. A bar meant informality, a loosening of the rigid military hierarchy, a chance to talk to Lt. Holland. She didn’t know what she’d say—her mind was a jumble of half-formed ideas—but she knew she had to try. The thought of standing close to him, hearing his voice directed at her, sent a thrill through her she couldn’t ignore.

While Alison was plotting her approach, Christian was grappling with his own turmoil. As soon as he had a moment alone, he slipped away to call Beth, his girlfriend—or his ex-girlfriend. The conversation was a last-ditch effort to salvage their crumbling relationship, but it ended in failure. The words stung, each one a reminder of what he’d lost, even if he knew deep down that the breakup was probably for the best. When he hung up, a heavy weight settled in his chest. He felt adrift, unmoored, with no sense of what awaited him back home. That night, he appeared briefly at the bar, his presence little more than a formality. The laughter and clinking glasses felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s life. His heart wasn’t in it. He exchanged a few words, forced a smile, and then slipped away to his tent, resigning himself to whatever fate awaited him in Sydney.

Alison, meanwhile, was in her element. The bar was alive with the energy of soldiers finally free from the grind of training. She chatted with her new friends, laughing at their stories of mishaps in the bush while adding her own, but her eyes kept darting to the door, waiting for Lt. Holland to appear. When he finally did, her breath caught. He looked tired, his usual confidence dimmed, but to her, he was still commanding. She watched him move through the crowd, hoping he’d linger, but he was gone almost as quickly as he’d arrived. Her heart sank. Was he sick? On duty? She didn’t know, and the uncertainty gnawed at her. As the night wore on, she kept up her conversations, but her thoughts were consumed by him. She scanned the room repeatedly, hoping he’d return, but he never did.

The bar emptied as soldiers drifted off to their tents, and Alison’s frustration grew. She couldn’t let the night end without at least trying to find out where he was. Finally, in a moment of desperation, she turned to the few remaining soldiers and asked, “Where’s Lt. Holland? Is he on other duties tonight?”

The company’s second-in-command, who’d been nursing a beer nearby, overheard her. “No, he wasn’t in the mood tonight,” he said, his tone casual. “He’s just broken up with his girlfriend.”

Alison froze. The words hit her like a shock-wave, her heart skipping a beat for the second time in twenty-four hours. She hadn’t even considered his relationship status—hadn’t thought he might already be taken. But now, this unexpected revelation opened a door she hadn’t known was necessary. Her mind raced, possibilities spinning out like wildfire. She sat there staring into the distance, barely registering the surrounding chatter. The bar could have been empty for all she cared; her world had narrowed to the thought of Lt. Holland, single, and the chance that she might finally connect with him. It wasn’t until the bar closed and someone nudged her to leave that she snapped out of her reverie, her body humming with anticipation as she headed to bed.

The next morning, Christian woke to Scott recounting the previous night’s events. Scott bragged that Pte Benaud—Alison—had stayed late at the bar, sitting with him until last drinks. He grinned, hinting at her “positive body language” toward him. Christian barely registered the comment. His mind was already on the challenges waiting for him in Canberra, the emotional fallout of his breakup looming large. He nodded politely, letting Scott ramble, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Whatever was brewing between Scott and Alison was the least of his concerns.

After breakfast, the company began preparations to leave. As Christian watched, Greg set off for Penrith in the store’s truck, taking one of the three female soldiers to keep him company on the long drive. The rest of the company fell into the familiar rhythm of “hurry up and wait,” milling about as they awaited transport to the airport. For Alison, the clock was ticking. Once they reached Penrith, the medics, including her, would head back to Randwick that night. She had less than twelve hours to make something happen with Lt. Holland. The urgency fuelled her determination, but also her nerves. She couldn’t let this chance slip away.

Then, an unexpected opportunity arose. To pass the time, someone organised a game of touch football. To Alison’s delight, Lt. Holland joined in, his enthusiasm a stark contrast to his subdued demeanour the night before. Maybe the end of the exercise had lifted his spirits, or maybe he just needed to burn off some energy. Either way, Alison would not waste this chance. She watched him jog onto the field, his movements easy and athletic, the long lines of his body moving with unconscious power. Her pulse quickened. The way his shoulders rolled under the thin fabric of his shirt, the flex of muscle in his forearms as he clapped his hands and called for the ball—every detail of him drew her in. This was it—her moment to get close to him, to break through the barrier of formality that had kept them apart.

Christian admitted he wasn’t the most skilled player, but his enthusiasm was unquenchable. He threw himself into the game, his problems and malaise temporarily forgotten. Alison positioned herself strategically, making sure she was on the opposing team and standing directly in Christian’s path. 2Lt. Hochmann, true to form, opted to referee, strutting about with a coffee cup in one hand, blowing his whistle with exaggerated flair. Alison barely noticed him. Her focus was locked on Lt. Holland, every movement of his drawing her in.

When the ball finally came his way, Lt. Holland sprinted toward her, his eyes bright with the thrill of the game. Alison stepped into his path, her heart pounding as she braced for contact. As a touch player, she knew the rules—light contact to stop the runner—but nothing prepared her for the jolt of electricity when his palm pressed against her right breast. It was accidental, fleeting, the heel of his hand landing squarely over the soft swell, fingers brushing the lower curve through her shirt and the thin sports bra beneath. The contact was brief, yet the heat of his palm seemed to burn straight through the fabric. A sharp, delicious awareness shot through her, her nipples tightening instantly under the pressure. She reached for his arm, grabbed his sleeve, and held on for way longer than necessary, her fingers curling into the warm muscle of his upper arm. His hand pressed against her again as he tried to break free—this time more deliberately, the flat of his palm sliding across the sensitive peak of her breast before he pulled away. The second contact sent another wave of heat flooding low in her belly. She couldn’t help it—she smiled, her eyes locking with his. He paused just for a moment and smiled back, something knowing and slightly startled flickering in his gaze.

The game continued, but for Alison it became a dance, each collision carefully timed. She tagged him again near the sideline when most eyes were on the far end of the field. This time her hand didn’t merely touch his waist; it lingered, sliding briefly along the hard plane of his stomach before she stepped back. The muscles beneath her fingers were taut, warm, and shifting under her touch. His answering glance was quick and private. A few plays later he came past her at speed. What should have been a light brush became a firm, deliberate press of his hip against hers. She felt the unmistakable ridge of his erection—hard, thick, constrained by his trousers—drag slowly across her lower belly as he passed. The contact lasted only a second, but the solid heat of him branded itself into her memory. He wanted her too. Her nipples, already tight, ached against the fabric of her bra. Wetness gathered between her legs, a slick, unmistakable pulse of arousal that made her thighs press together as she turned to watch him run on.

When they fell together in a tackle near the centre of the field, their bodies tangled more thoroughly than the game required. His chest pressed fully against hers for a heartbeat too long, the firm muscle of his pectorals flattening her breasts, her nipples dragged across the hard planes of his chest as they slowly disentangled. One of his hands, bracing against the ground, ended up trapped between their bodies; the back of his knuckles brushed the soft underside of her breast, then deliberately shifted higher, grazing the stiffened peak once more before he rolled away. Alison’s breath caught. She could feel how wet she had become—her underwear clinging damply between her legs, the friction of movement only making the ache sharper. Their eyes met as they rose.

Again and again the contacts came. A hand on her waist that stayed a fraction too long, fingers splayed wide enough to feel the curve of her hip. His thigh sliding against hers in a scramble for the ball, his hard length unmistakable against her. Her own palm sliding down the flexed muscle of his forearm, then lower, deliberately brushing the front of his trousers when Hochmann’s whistle and the shouts of the others provided cover. Each deliberate grope, each accidental-looking collision, tightened the coil of tension inside her. Her breasts felt heavy and sensitive; every brush of fabric or hand sent fresh sparks to her core. The feeling become impossible to ignore—slick and insistent, her body openly preparing for something that the game itself could never deliver.

By the time the game ended, Alison felt dizzy. The residual heat of his palms on her, the solid press of him against her, the knowledge that he had felt her nipples harden under his hand and had chosen, more than once, to press closer rather than pull away. She was breathing harder than the exercise alone could explain, thighs damp, pulse still racing.

Soon after, the company boarded a cargo plane for the two-hour flight back to Sydney. Alison was determined to stay close to Lt. Holland, but she didn’t want to seem obvious. She manoeuvred through the crowd, letting others pass until she was near him as they boarded. Lt. Holland, too, seemed aware of her, his steps slowing as if to match her pace. By the time they reached the ramp, they were close enough to touch, and when they took their seats, they ended up across the aisle from each other. Alison’s heart soared at the sight of his smile, brighter now than it had been all week.

On the plane, his mood seemed to lift with the increase in altitude. He was chatty, his face lighting up as he spoke. Alison listened, hanging on his every word, prompting him with questions to keep him talking. When she asked about his job, he suggested they move to the cargo area once they were airborne, where the engine noise would give them some privacy. Her pulse quickened at the thought of being alone with him, even in the cramped, utilitarian space of the plane.

In the cargo area, they sat close, their knees almost touching. Desperate to continue the conversation, hoping an opportunity to extend an invitation would present itself, Alison asked about the rolled-up magazine in his trouser pocket. He pulled out a copy of Max, a men’s lifestyle magazine, and they flipped through it together, laughing at the articles. When he pointed to a piece about spicing up your sex life, Alison felt a flush of heat. He highlighted the “blindfold” suggestion, his tone playful but with an edge that made her stomach flip. She countered with “sensual massage,” her voice teasing, but her eyes betraying her desire. The air between them crackled. When he pointed to “shower stream on the genitals,” Alison’s heart skipped again, a rush of heat flooding her body. She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically, mimicking an orgasm, but they both knew it was only half in jest. The tension was palpable; her body practically vibrated with want.

If anyone was watching them, Alison didn’t care. She had a tall, handsome officer standing inches away from her, and she was telling him in no uncertain terms that she wanted him to put his hands all over her.