So they passed the Emergency Armed Forces Act, and they came to school. They took the registers and the student records. They called everyone who’d turned 16, lined us up, told us what to wear and what to bring, and they started us on our long march. More recruits joined the group as we marched, conscripted from other schools. The recruiters told us that we were the new front line in the defence of civilian life, and they thanked us for our service.
Caring
The morning is a mad rush. Most of us went straight to sleep after checking our uniforms, so the showers are packed before breakfast, and we’re all elbowing each other out of the way to get to the basins and the mirrors – no one wants to draw the attention of Batman and Robin this morning.
I get cleaned up, wash and brush my hair, and get dressed in my new, freshly pressed uniform. Camouflage and khaki with an RTS patch on the sleeve – nothing unexpected, but it takes away our individuality. It makes me feel awkward, and less like myself, but at the same time there is safety in blending into the group.
We’re unrecognisable as we line up for trays of hot food. We’re not the dishevelled marchers who sat here last night. We look like a fighting force, the protectors of the people, the defenders against terror. I keep looking around, trying to recognise the people I have come to know over our days of marching.
But there are more recruits with us this morning. People who have been here for longer, who arrived before we did. There are other dorms, and other teams with more training and more experience of the camp. We’re going to have to work doubly hard to avoid the commander’s notice.
I sit next to Dan, both of us smart and clean in our new uniforms. Dan’s even brushed his hair, but that’s not enough to tame it completely, and I can’t help smiling at his rolled-up sleeves. He’s exchanged a civilian shirt for a uniform, but they look the same on him. He looks as if this is what he aways wears – he’s completely at home and comfortable in the starchy fabric.
Saunders walks past our table, dragging his feet and yawning, and looking as if he hasn’t slept. His dark hair is a mess, and his bootlaces are untied. Dan and I beckon him over and he sits down next to us, propping his chin on his hand and staring at his breakfast.
“Bex”, I say, offering him my hand, “and this is Dan.”
He mumbles a greeting, shakes my hand, and looks as if he might fall asleep again. After last night, he can’t afford to make another mistake.
I give him a smile.
“Get some coffee into you. You’ll feel better.”
He nods, vaguely, and reaches for his cup. I pour coffee for him from the insulated jug on the table, and he drinks, grimacing. We haven’t spoken before, during the march. I think he joined a day later than we did, but I can’t recall. If he’s here, he must be at least sixteen, but his small frame makes him seem fragile, and he looks a lot younger. An easy target for the Senior Recruits, if they’re anything like the recruiters.
We eat in comfortable silence, refilling the coffee cups as soon as they start to look empty.
*****
I’ve been a carer all my life. Mum was injured in a car accident when I was a few months old, and looking after her became the glue that held our family together. Dad worked wonders when I was too young to help out, and when I graduated from riding on Mum’s lap in her wheelchair to walking with Dad, all I wanted to do was grow tall enough to push her myself. Dad was in charge of the wheelchair, and it was my job to make sure we had all the bags, medication, and equipment we needed for our days out. We made an amazing team, and I loved having such a responsible job to do.
But then Dad got sick, and for a while I was looking after both of them. I was missing days of school, and my priority in life was making sure their needs were met. Mum was so proud of me for juggling their care with living my own life, but when my grades started to slip, and Mum and Dad needed more care, she was the one who suggested boarding school.
I was torn. I didn’t want to leave them, but I wanted to concentrate on my education. I was so used to being on call 24 hours a day, I couldn’t imagine someone else taking care of them instead of me. But then Dad got worse, and Mum insisted that they move into a care home. She and I made all the arrangements together. We sold the house, and we found them somewhere to live where they would be happy and have carers and doctors on call when they needed them.
On the day the house was sold, I stood on the pavement outside, surrounded by my bags and boxes. A neighbour had driven us all to the care home, where I’d helped my parents to settle in, and said a tearful goodbye. Mum kept smiling, gave me a massive hug and told me she was proud of me. I knew I would be back to visit them, but I would never live with them again.
The neighbour drove me home, and helped me carry the last of my belongings out of the house. We called a taxi, and locked the door for the last time. I waited on the pavement, suddenly understanding that I was leaving, and that I wasn’t coming back. The taxi arrived, and the neighbour helped to pack my things into the boot. It looked like such a small amount of stuff to be taking to my new home, and that’s when I started to cry. The neighbour gathered me up in a huge hug, and told me that I’d be OK. That everything would work out. And she promised to visit my parents and make sure they were happy.
I climbed into the taxi, and set off for my new life. My home dropped back, out of sight, and my neighbour stood waving until we turned the corner. I dried my tears, and tried to think about the good things this would bring. I would be able to give my full attention to my education. I would be able to go to university, and get a job where I could help people. Maybe a doctor or a teacher.
I was fourteen years old.
Introduction
Day one is harder than any of us imagined.
The commander briefs us on our duties and on the training plan. As new recruits, we begin with a cross-country run. Out of the base, across the bypass where two Senior Recruits stop the traffic for us, over the railway bridge, and along the main road into town. Through an industrial estate and back across the bypass, returning through the woods and circling the camp’s outer fence until we’re back at the gate. Once again, I think they’re showing us off. Letting the public see the recruits who will keep them safe from the terrorists.
As we run through the gates, camp staff hand us bottles of water from stacks of crates, and we run past the dorms to the training field. Five minutes to drink up and fall into ordered lines. Then weapons training.
I’ve never held a gun, and looking at my fellow recruits, I don’t think many of them have, either. A Senior Recruit called Ketty runs the training. She swaggers out in front of us, holding up a futuristic-looking rifle.
“Can anyone tell me what this is?” She barks.
We’re all still catching our breath from the run. We all stand, silent, hoping that she doesn’t pick on us.
“Come on. Anybody.”
I stand completely still, ignoring the blister on my foot, hoping that I’m not the one she’ll pick on. She looks along the lines of recruits, and strides over to someone in the front row.
“Saunders! Mr Sleepy himself. Can you tell me what this is?” She’s shouting, right in his face.
“A gun, Sir”, he replies, quietly.
“Louder, Saunders!”
He pauses, takes a breath, and shouts, “A gun, Sir!”
“Thank you, Saunders.” Ketty begins to pace up and down the space in front of us. “This is a gun. But this is not any gun. This is a prototype next-gen power-assisted rifle, firing armour-piercing bullets. Under normal conditions, you lot wouldn’t get to see one of these until you’d been training for years, if ever. You’d have to pass tests, and show that you’re big enough to use one of these. But these aren’t normal circumstances. This is war, and this is war on our home territory, and the decision makers have decided to let you worms loose with their favourite toys. You’ll be starting off with training bullets. We’ll see how good you are, and whether you deserve to progress to armour-piercing ro
unds. Don’t be fooled – training bullets will still kill you, so don’t be stupid.”
I concentrate on staring straight ahead. I’ve never been spoken to like this before, and Ketty is clearly enjoying the effect her speech is having on us.
“Make no mistake. You are getting your paws on these because the government wants to see them in use. The people in charge, they want you out there, waving these around to show Joe Public that we’re protecting him. This isn’t about you. This is about public confidence. About stopping panic and protecting people from themselves. While they can see you, and your guns, they’ll be happy to get on with their lives and leave us to get on with ours.
“You are not fighting this war. We have a real army for that. You are showing the people that the war is being fought. You are the government’s action figures. The front-line dolls. And public-facing dolls get the best weapons.”
Front-line dolls. Not people. Not individuals. I glance at the recruits around me, our matching uniforms turning us into clones. No one cares about what happens to us, as long as the people out there feel safe.
Ketty stops pacing and turns to face us. I stare past her, keeping my face as blank as I can. Hiding my fear.
“Saunders! Step out here.”
I’m standing as still as I can, but I realise that I’m clenching my fists because I’m worried about Saunders, and what Ketty is going to do. He walks out to where she’s standing.
“Stand up straight, Saunders!” She barks. “Straighter! You’re the line between life and messy death for those civilians out there. Try looking as if you could protect them from a bomber.”
Saunders stands up straight, comes to attention, and looks dead ahead, past Ketty. She shakes her head. I’m holding my breath now, willing Saunders to get through this.
“It’s like working with fluffy kittens. Grow some backbone, recruits!”
“Sir!” We all shout, as Saunders makes a final effort to stand tall.
She nods. “Better. Now, Saunders. At ease. I’m going to hand you the gun. Show me how you’ll be holding it when you’re on patrol.”
Saunders stands at ease, and reaches out to take the gun. Ketty hands it to him, and he looks uncertain. My fingernails are digging into the palms of my hands, and I’m waiting for Ketty’s reaction. He shifts the gun in his hands, then grips it firmly – one hand on the pistol grip, the other cradling the barrel.
“Not bad, recruit. Not bad.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Saunders is OK.
Ketty spends several minutes adjusting his grip on the rifle, then takes his shoulders and turns him round so we can all see what he’s doing.
“This is a good grip. Watch and learn!”
Saunders isn’t even trying to hide his relieved smile.
*****
We break into smaller groups, and one of the Senior Recruits brings each group a rifle. They’re lighter than they look, with a tough plastic casing that makes them feel like something out of a sci-fi film. There are clips and toggles along both sides, and space for a large magazine of ammunition. At the moment, none of them is loaded – we’re just getting used to handling them.
By lunchtime, the Senior Recruits have demonstrated how to take a rifle apart, clean and maintain it, and rebuild it. We’ve each had a turn, trying to copy their actions, and most of us have failed. The Senior Recruits have enjoyed shouting at us, and pointing out all the mistakes we’ve made. It’s frustrating, and we’re all ready for a break.
At lunch, I sit with Dan and Saunders. Their groups were like mine – entertainment for the instructors, while we get to feel inadequate and struggle with simple tasks.
“We’ll get good at it. We’ll be able to do it one day”, says Dan, between mouthfuls of sandwich and gulps of water.
Saunders nods.
“We’ll be training the next lot they bring in,” I point out, “So we’d better learn fast.”
*****
It was Dan who saved me on my first day at boarding school. We had both arrived early, before the first day of term. I was settling into an otherwise empty dormitory, and he had a boys’ dormitory to himself for a few days as well. When I walked into the common room, the other girls sat together in giggling circles, leaning in, backs to the world, unwelcoming. Dan was the only person sitting alone, a dog-eared novel in his hand, feet propped on the chair in front of him. Even out of uniform, he was smartly dressed. Black trousers, a smart pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, untamed sandy-coloured hair framing his face.
I stood, uncertain, in the doorway. The girls in their groups didn’t notice me, or if they did it was with a quick, dismissive glance. Dan, always interested in new people and new opportunities for discussion, looked up. He took his feet off the chair, and waved me over.
“Hey! Newbie!”
I gave him my best brave smile, and walked over to join him. It seemed like such a long walk to the far side of the common room, with everyone watching.
“Sit down,” he said, indicating the chair opposite. I did. He held out his hand.
“Dan Pearce. Pleased to meet you.”
“Bex Ellman. You too.” I shook his hand, and sat back in the chair.
“So what brings you to our esteemed institution?” He waved his hand to indicate the wood-panelled room, the imposing fireplace, and the horrible orange-upholstered chairs that wouldn’t look out of place in a doctor’s waiting room.
So I told him my story, and he listened. That’s what I needed, and that’s what he gave me. At the end, he gave a whistle, and told me that I’d come to the right place.
“They’re all about the education, here. You want to be a doctor? They’ll love that. You’re staying here all year? Even better. Bet you can pick up some extra tutoring in the holidays, too. Homework’s a killer, but we have a system for that. You can join our study group, if Margie agrees. We’re a man down since Ameen left last term.”
I felt overwhelmed, but I nodded. It sounded good to have a support system – people who could help me, and people I could care for.
He leaned forward, his blue eyes sparking. “Do you want a sandwich? I want a sandwich. C’mon. I’ll show you how to scavenge around here.”
And he jumped up, took my hand, and practically skipped out of the room. The groups of girls glanced at us as we passed, and the giggling grew louder. I was only too pleased to be leaving.
Training
After lunch, the leaders march us to the other side of the camp, just inside the tall security fences. There’s an assault course laid out, with walls to scale, water to run through, and barbed wire tunnels to crawl along.
Two of the Senior Recruits line up at the start, and a third, Jackson, explains the activity. He sets the recruits off, and narrates their progress through the course. By the time they reach the end, the recruits are soaking wet, muddy, and hardly breaking a sweat.
Then it’s our turn. Group by group, Jackson sends us through the course, blowing a whistle to start us off, shouting instructions, and loudly shaming anyone who fails at any stage. After three attempts, we’re allowed to walk round an obstacle and continue on the other side, but the leaders are keeping a close eye on all of us, and they know which of us needs extra training.
My turn. I walk up to the starting line with Saunders and two other recruits. We exchange nervous glances, and I look over at Dan, waiting to run in the next group. He gives me a well-concealed thumbs up and a grin. I grin back.
The whistle blows. My whole body aches, and I’d love to spend the afternoon sitting down and playing cards, but I need to forget the pain and concentrate on completing the course. I run to the cargo net and start to climb, fighting against its movements as the other recruits climb with me. At the top, there’s a drop into a water-filled ditch, and I realise that I need to jump, right now. If I stop to think, I’ll be stuck.
I jump, land in the ditch, and start to run. The water is freezing, and the shock takes my breath away. The blister on my
foot is burning, but I focus, and push on. On the far side of the ditch, there’s a wall. We’ll need help to scale it, so I turn round and wave to Saunders. He’s fighting the water with every step, but he acknowledges my signal and heads towards me. The other recruits are stopping, thinking about climbing the wall. I put my hands together into a stirrup, and offer Saunders a leg-up. He steps onto my hands, and I lift him until he can throw his arms over the top. He pulls himself up and over, and for a second I think he has jumped off the other side. I’m starting to shiver, and I don’t want to admit defeat so early in the course.
There’s a shout from above me, and I look up to see Saunders’ head and shoulders over the top of the wall. He reaches down, and I jump up and grasp his hand. He drags me up until I can reach the top of the wall and pull myself over. There’s a platform at the top, and all I want to do is lie here while I catch my breath, but I know I have to keep moving.
“You OK?” Saunders asks. I give him a nod, and a thumbs-up, and we both stand up. The recruit next to us is having trouble dragging his partner over the wall, so we reach over and drag her up. For the first time, I notice that Jackson is shouting as we head through each obstacle. He’s shouting at us now.
“This isn’t kindergarten! This isn’t touchy-feely share time! Get yourselves through the course! Stop hanging around!”
I give the recruit we helped a quick encouraging squeeze on her shoulder, and reach up for the rope line above me. I swing my legs up, feet crossed over the rope, head towards the next obstacle, and start to drag myself hand-over-hand towards the other end. Behind me, the recruits in my group see what I am doing, and start doing the same, pulling themselves across the gap. There’s more water below us, but I’m trying to concentrate on keeping the motion going, keeping my feet locked over the rope, and getting myself to the other side.
The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3 Page 2
