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Coming Out Party

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H

E sat on the edge of his cot-mouth cotton dry, hands tremblingstill shaken by the experience. On any other day, his round of duty ended, Pvt. Hibben would have been out of the scarlet tunic and the broad-striped trousers and into his more comfortable “regulations”. But now, drained of any will, the guardsman sat alone in Wellington Barracks submerged in shame, shame and perplexity. He sat untouched by the London spring that sang outside. Disgrace had overtaken him only an hour earlier and Kenneth Hibben must explore, must find explanation for the lapse that would make him the laughing stock of the entire regiment. There would be punishment too, no doubt of that, but he preferred not to speculate on that eventuality. The "whys" behind his ridiculous breach of tradition and discipline were more urgently important at the moment than any possible consequences.

He rubbed a clean-shaven chin and tried methodically to recapture the moment of his undoing. Moment? Less! Say rather a second. And yet, however intent the focus of his feelings on this day's humiliation, his thoughts would not be marshalled. Instead, they carried back obsessively to the evening before. Absurd! As if yesterday's events had any bearing! There was no connection. But the recollections would not be denied.

Last evening! It had started out like any other of these late April twilights ... a stroll up Piccadilly with Lance-Corporal Jeffreys and Private Tate. Good chaps, both! . . . there had been "fish and chips" up the Tottenham Court Road... a quarter hour at a shooting gallery . . . then...

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