During my time in the army there must have been plenty of times soldiers wanted to punch me in the face having become exacerbated with a rash decision I’d made, my appalling map reading, general incompetence, etc.
I never came close to lashing out at a soldier, primarily because I knew they’d be more than capable of tearing me to pieces, apart from one night in Vasiliki.
The tempo at the Zeus Bar had turned rather raucous and one of the soldiers had thrown the switch and was out of control, winding up some local Greek lads and causing concern, both for the other soldiers and myself.
It ended with him prostrate on the floor and me commandeering one of the less drunk soldiers and the two of us carrying him–one grabbing his feet, the other gripping him under his arms–all the way back to the annex, which was about 2 kms away.
For the entire time he shouted and swore at us both, and as the sweat poured off my face and he tried to wriggle free, I nearly lost it. But we made it back without further incident and I left the other soldier to get him to bed.
I trudged to my room, past the swimming pool of the previous evening’s sonic ecstasy, thoroughly nonplussed.
Next morning I bumped into the miscreant looking sheepish at breakfast.
“Sorry about last night, boss.”