Milá Sally…

Dear Sally,

Sometimes I’m lucky enough to hear a true story that completely defies reason. So unbelievable that even the wildest imagination couldn’t dream it up. Only life itself can write stories like that. After all, some pretty unbelievable ones have happened to me too.

But this one isn’t about me.

It’s about a young soldier. Back then, he was a corporal. And it’s about one of his assignments. Of course, this was still during the days of the strict socialist regime in the Czechoslowakia, when military service was mandatory. “The army isn’t your nanny,” they used to say. It supposedly turned boys into men. Well—unless they accidentally got shot during training. Then there wasn’t much manhood left to prove.

In the army, bonds were forged between men—bonds of life and death. We girls might have something similar, maybe in maternity wards. But our friendships aren’t about life and death—more about life and shared joy with babies born at the same time. I have two such friends thanks to my two kids, but that’s another story. Back to the army.

The corporal was given a task: to procure 500 condoms. He was serving as a young chemist in a battalion preparing to test probes somewhere deep in the Soviet desert, and each probe required precise protection against the fine desert sand. And by shape and function, condoms fit the purpose perfectly. Plus, due to the nature of the tests, the protection could only be used once—so every new measurement required a new one. Hence the large number.

So imagine this, dear Sally: hardcore socialism, a drugstore—definitely not self-service (those hardly existed). Behind the counter stood a plump lady with a generous bosom, wearing a polka-dot nylon apron, the unofficial uniform of saleswomen at the time. Her hair was permed, her eyes heavily made up, lips brightly colored with lipstick.

Opposite her: a young corporal, clean-shaven, short haircut, in uniform. On a mission. A line of people before and behind him. He whispered his request and blushed. The saleswoman raised an eyebrow in silent surprise and repeated his request out loud, just to be sure:

„Excuse me?! What did you say you need?“ Then even louder, to the embarrassment of the shy soldier:
„500 CONDOMS?! Are they all for you?! Or are you planning to share with your friends?!“

She burst out laughing—and others in the line joined in. The poor corporal blushed deep red, down to the roots of his hair. No, the army definitely wasn’t a nanny for him. But an order is an order, and he completed the task. He pushed the limits of his resilience.

And that wasn’t the only task meant to toughen him up.

One night on duty—just days before the probe-and-condom expedition—he experienced something even more unbelievable. It was a dreary November night, rainy and cold since morning, and now the downpour drummed on the window ledge. The corporal was dreaming of warmth and sun, and honestly, he was beginning to look forward to the exercise. Time dragged slowly, the building was quiet, save for the rain.

Then he heard footsteps in the corridor. Sharp, decisive. He immediately came to attention, ready to properly report to a superior officer in case of a night inspection. And yes, the steps came straight toward him. Suddenly the door burst open—and there stood a captain. In uniform.

She was a woman in her prime, around 50, with a reputation as a hellish officer who could make life miserable for any soldier. Many a young man had extended his service because of her punishments.

Let me remind you, Sally—I’m 50 myself now. So I dare say she was a woman in her best years and likely in great shape. But from the soldier’s point of view, she was a somewhat worn-out, older lady. Still—a captain on duty with a fierce reputation… the corporal grew nervous. You didn’t mess with this woman. He had no desire to give her any reason to punish him.

She scanned him from head to toe, listened silently as he reported in with a sweaty palm at his temple, worried about whether all his buttons were properly fastened and what she might find fault with. She gave him the order to stand at ease and observed him quietly, eyes narrowed. A full minute passed—him standing still, under the x-ray gaze of a hungry cobra… He didn’t know what to say or do, so he did nothing—just waited.

The room was quiet, only the rain continued its relentless drumming.

Then, finally, she broke the silence. Still staring out the dark window, she said in a firm, commanding voice—used to issuing orders:

„Corporal… in weather like this, there are only two things worth doing…“

She paused for effect, as if to emphasize what was coming next:

„You can either play chess… or fuck

Another brief pause. Then she added, still in that same unyielding tone:

„And I don’t play chess, corporal. That’s an order!“

And you ask, dear Sally, what did the young corporal do?

Well—rank is rank, and the order was clear… He said he carried it out quickly. At the desk. From behind. He just lifted the uniform skirt, unzipped his trousers, gripped her hips tightly…

Afterward, the captain straightened her skirt, looked him in the eyes again, and said, with that same firm voice:

„Corporal… I trust you understand what military secrecy means. And what the punishment would be for breaking it!“

And because the corporal was a smart boy and had no desire to break any secrecy, he kept silent. For a very long time. He didn’t even tell his best friends—the kind bound by life-and-death military loyalty—or his family. He told me about it only some 30 years later, saying it had surely passed the statute of limitations by now.

I must admit, dear Sally—military service really did have the potential to turn boys into men, shape their character, push their comfort zones, let them grow up and toughen up. But I’m also incredibly grateful that my son never had to serve. Although… who knows