I’m gonna walk up to his gate
– Dinah Washington
and see if I can get this thing straight
Cause I want him and I gotta have him.
Sydney – July 1997
The sun was dipping low over Richmond airbase as the company’s transport vehicles rumbled away from the tarmac. The chill of a southern winter clung to the air, and Alison felt it settle into her bones along with a creeping sense of urgency. Time was slipping away. The medics, herself included, were slated to leave for Randwick that night, and Lt. Holland would be back in Canberra by morning. If she were going to act, it had to be now. But how? Her mind raced, grasping for a plan, but all she could think to do was seize the moment when it came—if it came.
The journey to Penrith, where the company would debrief and unwind, was a blur of fatigue and anticipation. Alison sat in the back of the troop carrier, her pack wedged between her knees, staring out at the passing lights. She’d spent the last two days of the training camp stealing glances at Lt. Holland, his easy smile and quiet confidence drawing her in. Their conversations had been brief but electric, especially after that impromptu football game in the field when he’d tackled her with a grin that made her heart stutter. Now, with the camp drawing to a close, the weight of missed opportunities pressed against her chest. She couldn’t let him slip away without at least exchanging numbers. But the army’s rigid structure—its ranks, rules, and watchful eyes—made even that simple act feel like a mission.
At Penrith, the company spilled out of the vehicles and into the mess hall for dinner. The air was thick with the smell of roast beef and gravy, and the clatter of trays and cutlery filled the room. Alison spotted Lt. Holland across the hall, his officer’s epaulettes obvious under the fluorescent lights. He was talking to Greg, her medical comrade, who’d driven back from Queensland with the company stores. Alison lingered near the serving line, pretending to debate between mashed potatoes and chips, her eyes flicking toward Lt. Holland. She wondered what Greg was saying to him, their heads bent close in conversation.
Greg had been holding onto a secret that nearly spilled out one night in the field. Under stifling dark, when the company had been camped out in the scrub, Greg had almost let slip something when Christian confessed to his breakup with Beth. Now, with the camp winding down, he finally confided in Christian. Apparently, Lisa had come to the camp with her sights set on a soldier, a lanky private who’d been injured in the first week and sent back to Sydney. Thwarted, Lisa had recalibrated her focus, zeroing in on Christian. Greg, during his nine-hour drive back with Lisa, had learned the full story: by the time the company had moved to the field training phase, Lisa wasn’t alone in her admiration. She’d told Greg that she, Alison, and another medic, Sarah, had been chatting one night and reached a consensus—Christian was, without question, the cutest officer in the company.
“There wasn’t, like, an official competition,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But Lisa was dead set on making a move on you that last night. She just… chickened out. Said she needed a few more drinks for courage, but you left the mess early.”
Christian raised an eyebrow, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Greg said, grinning. “And it wasn’t just Lisa. The medics were all talking about you. That corporal, Sarah? She was giving you puppy eyes all camp. You didn’t notice?”
Christian shook his head, genuinely surprised. He’d been so focused on the training exercises—leading his platoon, navigating through the endless briefings—that he’d missed the undercurrent of interest. The thought of Alison, though, lingered in his mind. She’d been different since that football game, her laughter bright and unguarded. He’d caught her watching him a few times, her hazel eyes darting away when he met her gaze. Was Greg’s intel right? Had she been part of that conversation?
After dinner, the mess transformed into a makeshift bar, a tradition where the officers served drinks to the soldiers as a gesture of gratitude for their hard work. Christian was assigned bar duty, while the company commander and others mingled freely. Alison’s heart sank as she watched Lt. Holland take his place behind the counter, pouring beers and passing out bottles of soft drink. The bar was a barrier, physical and symbolic, keeping them apart. She’d hoped for a quiet moment to talk, to exchange numbers, but now he was stuck serving drinks, surrounded by soldiers clamouring for refills. The army, with its endless rules and hierarchies, felt like a cruel warden tonight. No flirting on duty, no stepping out of line. Even a private conversation seemed impossible with so many eyes around.
Alison perched on a stool near the bar, nursing a lemonade she didn’t want, her eyes tracking Christian’s every move. He was good at this—charming without trying, his smile disarming even the gruffest sergeants. But every time she considered approaching, someone else leaned in to order a drink, or 2Lt. Hochmann barked a joke that drew Christian’s attention. Her stomach twisted, a mix of frustration and longing. She tried to chat with the others, but her heart wasn’t in it. All she could think about was how little time she had left before the bus to Randwick arrived.
Christian, meanwhile, wasn’t blind to Alison’s presence. She was always just within his line of sight, hovering near the bar, but never close enough to talk. It was like she was waiting for something—for him. The thought sent a jolt through him. Since his breakup with Beth, he’d despaired at the future, but Alison’s energy was infectious. Her quick wit during the football game, the way she’d teased him about his tackle, had stuck with him. Now, knowing what Greg had told him, he couldn’t help but wonder if she felt the same spark.
As the night wore on, the mess grew louder, the air thick with laughter and the clink of glasses. Alison’s hope was fading. The medics’ bus was due any minute, and Lt. Holland was still tethered to the bar. She felt like she’d been punched in the gut, the anticipation of the past two weeks collapsing into despair. Then, just as she was about to give up, a corporal passed around contact sheets—printed lists with everyone’s names and numbers. Alison’s eyes scanned the page, landing on “Lt. Christian Holland.” Christian. The name felt like a gift. She clutched the paper, her pulse quickening. This was her lifeline.
Christian noticed the sheets circulating and caught Alison’s eye as she held hers up, a small smile breaking across her face. He wanted to talk to her, to say something real before she left, but the bar was relentless. Soldiers kept coming, their orders piling up.
Finally, he saw an opening. “Scott, I’m stepping out for a sec,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. Scott waved him off, too busy pouring a pint to care.
Christian wove through the crowd, his eyes locked on Alison. She stood as he approached, her expression a mix of nerves and determination. “Hello,” he said, his voice warm despite the surrounding chaos. “What time are you leaving?”
“Any minute now, unfortunately,” Alison replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wish I could stay longer, talk with all my new friends. But we’re leaving tonight because I’ve got to work at 4 a.m. tomorrow.”
Christian winced. “Four in the morning? That’s brutal.”
“Yeah,” she said, her laugh tinged with resignation. “Every Sunday in a bakery. I just wish this time I had tomorrow off.”
“I’m sad you have to go,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice made her heart skip. He glanced at the contact sheet in her hand. “But look, you’ve got my number.”
She grinned, holding up the paper like a trophy. “Exactly. I’ll have to remember to call you Christian from now on.”
“Excellent,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “If I’m ever in Sydney, I’ll call you. I’ve got a bunch of leave to take, and I was planning to visit a friend here soon. We could go out somewhere.”
“For sure,” she said, her voice brighter than it had been all night. “You’d better call.”
As expected, the call then came for the medics to board the bus, Alison feeling a pang of reluctance but also a spark of hope. They’d made a connection, fragile but real. Christian watched her go; his contact sheet safely tucked into his pocket.
Later in the sergeant’s mess, a small group of officers and senior NCOs gathered for a final round of drinks. The company sergeant major pulled Christian aside, a knowing glint in his eye.
“You know, Holland, I saw Pte Benaud following you around like a puppy dog this whole camp. And that medic corporal? She was ripe for the picking if you’d made a move.”
Christian blinked, surprised. “You’re saying…?”
“I’m saying I put you behind that bar for a reason,” the CSM said, smirking. “Didn’t want anything happening in Penrith tonight. But those contact sheets?” He shrugged. “Guess you’ve got her number now.”
Christian laughed, shaking his head. If Greg hadn’t spilled the beans earlier, he might’ve been blind-sided. As it was, he felt a quiet thrill. Alison was no longer just a face at the company. She was a possibility—one he intended to pursue.
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