"So, you've been a police sergeant for five years now. Why do you want to join the RAAF?"

"Partly because I want to learn to fly, and I discovered that my qualifications entitle me to join the Officer Training School. I'd like to become a pilot, as my brother has a fleet of small planes, and I'm unable to fly any of them yet. The pay is better than a policeman's pay, and the retirement benefits are much superior. At the age of 31, I have to start thinking of the future."

The Recruiting Officer leaned back in his chair, and said, "Fair enough. You'll need to fill in a whole sheaf of forms, take a battery of tests, both physical and psychological, and sit a series of entrance exams. You're a little older than the usual recruit, but that shouldn't be a problem. If you survive all that, you'll do alright" He smiled the smile that the sergeant came to know as RAAF smarm. "I suspect a large reason for your career change is your name. After all, it can't be easy answering to Sergeant Pepper!"

"Well, I never did come up with an answer to the perennial question, 'Where's your lonely heart's club band?'" the applicant grudgingly conceded.

Eight months later, Flying Cadet Pepper looked back on that interview, and reflected grimly that the Recruitment Office hadn't told him that everybody who joined the RAAF wanted to enlist in flying school and that he'd be way down at the bottom of the list. They also hadn't told him that there were very few volunteers to work in the Catering Division, so that's where he would spend part of his apprenticeship while awaiting transfer.

He walked into the galley on the RAAF base, never having so much as cooked a piece of toast for breakfast. As a raw rookie, he was a prime target for the head chef Sergeant Rimmer, known to one and all as Sarge. Though technically, as an Officer Cadet he outranked the chef, as a lowly kitchen hand he was subject to the whims of a practiced sadist. Pepper reckoned Rimmer would have done well as a crime boss out on civvy street.

On the Thursday Rimmer would have him working the late shift, then on Friday morning he'd be in the kitchen again at 5am, after about 4 hours sleep. If there were potatoes or onions to prepare, he got the job. If he created any kind of normal mess while working, he'd get a clip around the ear. It was obvious his new boss resented him bitterly, and the other workers in the kitchen relished having the boss's eye fixated on the newcomer, leaving them to skive off in relative peace.

It all came to a head on a morning when after only 3 hours sleep, Pepper was carrying a stack of egg cartons across the kitchen, and in his stupor, never noticed the deliberately placed foot of the dish washer, Jones. He went sprawling among a cascade of twelve dozen broken eggs. Rising instantly when the laughter broke out, he turned on Jones and felled him with a punch that would have done credit to Mohammed Ali. "Clean that bloody mess up, Jones," he barked, with all the authority of ten years Police service in his voice.

Jones wilted, but not for long. "What have we here?" demanded the smooth, dangerous voice of Rimmer.

"Officer Pepper dropped all those eggs," claimed one of Jones's cronies, a well practiced boot-licker to the chef.

"You're on report, my lad," declared Rimmer, "and them eggs will be deducted from your pay. And clean them up yourself!"

Seeing red, Pepper told him to practice an obscenity upon himself, and started to walk out of the kitchen.

"'Ere! Where the 'ell do you think you're going?" came the truculent yell from Sarge.

"To request a transfer. I didn't join up to serve under rubbish worse than the crims I had the pleasure of putting behind bars."

Enraged beyond all reason by this retort, Rimmer took an almighty swing at Pepper, who slipped on the broken eggs and fell against the pot of boiling oil that contained the potatoes frying for breakfast. After a split second of searing agony such as he'd never known, Pepper mercifully lost consciousness, and knew nothing more until he woke in the infirmary swathed in bandages and racked with pain.

"What happened?" he asked the nurse hovering over him.

"I'll get the doctor, and he can explain everything. It's nice to have you back with us, Sir."

"Back with you? How long have I been out of it?"

"Now settle yourself down, and Doctor will be here soon." Pepper could hear the unspoken "There's a good boy," and thought to himself that nurses didn't change much over the years.

***

"Four weeks? I've been unconscious for four weeks?" Pepper stared at the doctor in horror.

"You're badly burnt and needed lots of intensive care. Still do," said Dr Barnes. "It's kinder to the patient to keep him in an induced coma for the first few weeks after such an accident."

"Accident? What happened to me?"

"It seems like you were in a fight and fell against a pot full of frying potatoes, which spilt over you."

Pepper closed his eyes and thought back to the last thing he could remember, Sarge's voice screaming at him in the kitchen. "He was going to put me on a charge for breaking some eggs, but it was that guy Jones's fault. He tripped me, but Sarge had it in for me because I'm an officer cadet, so I got the blame, as usual."

"Yes, we know. One of the men in the kitchen came clean, and admitted what had been going on. We know Sergeant Rimmer hit you so that you fell against the pot. He's under close arrest for assaulting an officer, and various other disciplinary charges. He's not got much of a career in the RAAF now. For a time there, we thought we were going to be charging him with your murder too."

"Sorry to disappoint you," said Pepper sardonically. "So, how long am I going to be in here? A couple more weeks?"

Dr Barnes took off his spectacles and made a show of polishing the lenses with his handkerchief. "Well," he began. "I'm afraid it's going to be a little longer than that. You need a few more skin grafts, and then you'll be in a pressure suit for some time. You'll be looked after by the service, but it'll be some time before you can get back to your duties, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, but these things do take time."

"Some time? How much time exactly?"

Dr Barnes took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but it could be as long as two years, and then only light duties. But a bloke as fit and strong as you are should bounce back quite nicely, given time."

"But I'm waiting for a place on the Officers' Flight Training Programme. The cut off age for starting the programme is 34." Pepper was aghast. "I can't wait that long. I don't have time. You must get me up and about in less than 18 months or I'll miss out! Doc, you must!"

"I'm sorry son," Dr Barnes was aware that every sentence he uttered was beginning with an apology, but how else could he say it? "I'll do the best I can for you, but I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker. Time can heal you as well as I can, but he's not a miracle worker either."

But Pepper had stopped hearing what he was saying. A dense rage was boiling up inside him. Rimmer. Rimmer had had it in for him since the day he had walked into his kitchen. Rimmer had made his life in the RAAF a misery. Rimmer had put him in this hospital bed with his bullying. Rimmer had killed his hope for a better life. Rimmer had shattered his dream of learning to fly. "Rimmer. Rimmer. Rimmer" The name echoed through his head like a death knell.

Through the long night that followed, Pepper sifted through his options. His future in tatters, he was unable to think of any career move that would have been as advantageous as that of a flight officer. He supposed that he'd find it difficult to connect with girls for some years to come, and was thankful that he wasn't married. No girl should have to put up with the physical wreck that he'd become.

No, his personal future was looking bleak, but some time shortly before dawn he concocted a plan of sorts. During his time with the Metropolitan Police, he'd come into contact with quite a few villains. With an eye to the future, he'd turned a blind eye to some of the minor misdemeanours, and built up a little goodwill with the local Mr Big. He decided to call in some old favours. After the Military had finished with Rimmer, he'd arrange for a couple of local hoods to give him a welcome home party. With a few words in the right ear, he'd make sure that Rimmer would spend the rest of his miserable life in a wheelchair.

"And after that, Sarge," he vowed silently, "I'll be waiting at the gates of Hell for you."

© Sandy Parkinson, October, 2006. Word count 1570