Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  The recruits had finally reached the parade ground, and were ordered to a halt by the sergeant major. The five lines of fifty stood with their hands on their knees, trembling and coughing, wishing they could cry. Myron, much to the sergeant major’s annoyance, had managed not to lag behind, keeping pace with the other four squads. Each squad was colour-coded; Myron had been charged with the red squad, and each member was given an armband to signify that they were in that squad, as did the other four squads, represented by blue, green, yellow and purple.

  ‘About face!’ the sergeant major shouted.

  The recruits slowly turned to face the hulking, heartless brute of a man charged with moulding them into soldiers, pushing them to their limits and testing their resolve. They stood in silence for a seeming eternity, awaiting Major Burns’ arrival, and assignment to their designated areas.

  The major arrived just moments later, pulling up in a drab olive Army jeep. The sergeant major strutted over to the jeep, and opened the door, and stood at attention. Major Burns stepped down from the vehicle, barely acknowledging Deacon’s salute. The sergeant major was used to his commanding officer’s open contempt, but this did not deter him from showing Major Burns the respect that he had earned over the years. The sergeant major hankered for the chance to get back to the front lines to fight for his country, instead of training young men and women who really had no interest in defending the country of their birth. He often reminded recruits that without Army training facilities, they would have been forced into battle regardless of their training levels, and would have fared less favourably had they not been forced into conscription.

  The major faced the bedraggled mass of would-be soldiers in front of him, slouching and barely able to stand. What he couldn’t understand was: why were they so tired? It was only a three-mile march, a walk in the park in comparison to what lay in store.

  ‘Sergeant Major, this isn’t a holiday camp, is it?’ the major complained. ‘Have this riffraff fall in!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Deacon replied. He growled at the exhausted recruits: ‘All right, you bastards—line up properly and snap to attention! Cutter, show them how it’s done!’

  Myron stood ramrod straight; everybody followed his example. The major waited patiently in the background while his new recruits arranged themselves in an orderly fashion. Myron stood fast, waiting for what the major intended to share with the recruits. Impatience began to rear its ugly head among a few, who talked and joked amongst themselves. This hadn’t gone unnoticed—the look on the major’s face said as much. He turned sharply towards his sergeant major, and whispered in his ear. Myron watched their body language. He somehow knew their first night at the training camp would be one to remember, as the major and his subordinate conspired to find a suitable punishment. The major pulled himself away from the sergeant major and turned to face the recruits.

  ‘Each squad will be given a designated area from which to work out of,’ he said. ‘Once there, you are forbidden to encroach on any other area. The only areas you will share are the mess hall and the shower block. Before we assign you, you will all need to go to the supplies store to pick up your fatigues and any toiletries that you require. Fall out!’

  The major walked back the jeep and drove away, leaving Sergeant Major Deacon to continue with the kitting out and housing of the recruits.

  The 250 exhausted souls had reached the supplies stores, and were that much closer to the punishment that Major Burns and Sergeant Major Deacon had secretly discussed. The doors to the stores were opened, and slowly the recruits made their way over to either the male or female distribution counters. The fatigues came in one size, based on gender, and the jackboots would prove to be ill fitting. These were handed out to the recruits based on pure guesswork; sizes were never asked—just a glance over the top of the counter to determine the size given. Bed linens and toiletries were to be taken from a separate counter on a first-come, first-serve basis.

  Once the supplies were distributed, Deacon ordered the recruits to their designated areas. He gave each squad instructions to head towards the hut marked with their colour, around a hundred yards from the supplies stores.

  ‘As soon as you reach your designated areas,’ said Deacon, ‘you need to get into your fatigues and meet me on the parade ground. You have fifteen minutes!’

  The sergeant major’s remarks were relayed in an uncharacteristically relaxed manner, which made the recruits feel a little ill at ease. Why had his screaming stopped? What was around the corner, and why were they asked to put on their fatigues? Only Myron thought he had the answer, but chose not to disclose his suspicions for one reason only: the retribution that he and his squad might suffer for doing so.

  Myron gathered his squad and made his way towards their designated hut rather tentatively—much to the annoyance of the sergeant major, who had made it quite clear he wasn’t happy.

  ‘Move it!’ he bellowed, his voice echoing among the huts. The pace was quickened to the sergeant major’s liking, and with that, he made his way towards the parade ground again to await the recruits’ return, a secret smile playing upon his ugly face.

  It didn’t take long for the recruits to get themselves situated. Bed linens and toiletries were placed on chosen mattresses, and fatigues replaced the recruits’ civilian clothing, which they placed into assigned footlockers.

  Myron rallied his subordinates, briefly demonstrating the leadership qualities that were expected of him. He was determined to get his squad to the parade ground on time, so as not to incur any further retribution; they were already going to catch hell for the insolence of a small few. Myron’s tone was almost frantic. Some of his new charges were far from willing to hurry along.

  ‘Who died and made you king?’ one of them snorted.

  ‘Look, you guys,’ Myron shot back, ‘I didn’t ask for this job, but I’m going to give it my best shot. I’ve got a feeling that sadistic sergeant major and Major Burns have something cooked up for us, and I damn sure don’t want the red squad to get even further on their bad side by being the last stragglers at the parade ground. You with me?’

  As much as it pained them, they did as they were asked.

  The red squad made their way out into the open air to find they were still the last ones out. All the hurrying and frenzy had counted for nothing, but made it to the parade ground within the fifteen minutes given.

  *

  Myron couldn’t afford to show leadership weakness. He wanted to keep hold of his newfound position as long as he could. As for the supposed punishment that the recruits faced, his charges did not expect Myron would participate as a squad leader. But he didn’t hold out much hope of exemption.

  Sergeant Major Deacon stood fast, waiting for everybody’s attention and the anticipated arrival of Major Burns. Although the major had originally expressed his wish not to participate in the punishment detail, his curiosity had dictated a change of mind. He wanted to see how his new batch of recruits would hold up on a five-mile route march at quick speed—followed by a lap of the assault course. It was a testament to what they could expect on the remainder of their training: to test their mettle—and weed out the weak from the strong.

  *

  The major arrived in his jeep to greet the unsuspecting recruits, snubbing the sergeant major as he always did. He looked out at recruits, and then called for the squad leaders to step forward. Myron wasn’t sure what to expect as he made his way towards the major. The other squad leaders hadn’t grasped the fact, as Myron had, that the recruits were in for a long night.

  ‘Upon your arrival, it didn’t escape our notice that a select few of you were not happy with the wait. Talking in the ranks and general insubordination will not be tolerated!’

  Major Burns then gave the recruits a stern lecture on the importance of being precise—and how the selfish actions of a few would lead to untold deaths on the battlefield.

  The major had devised a punishment that would force the recruits to work as a tea
m. He had reiterated again and again the importance of teamwork, and had warned them that he would make them carry out the exercise again if he didn’t see what he wanted to see on that night.

  ‘Sergeant Major Deacon, you know what has to be done!’ Major Burns returned to his jeep and waited patiently for the sergeant major to begin the route march.

  ‘Right, you lot—about face!’ Sergeant Major Deacon barked. Myron and the other squad leaders stood and watched as the recruits did nothing.

  ‘Come on—move!’ the sergeant major bellowed. The recruits responded in a rather nonchalant manner, to Deacon’s great annoyance. Major Burns watched the scene from his jeep, the corners of his mouth twitching. Deacon glanced nervously over at him, then back at the recruits.

  ‘You lazy bunch of arseholes!’ he screamed as the veins in his neck and forehead popped. ‘Your five mile route march just became eight!’

  The 250 recruits groaned as one, never considering for one second that even one more mile would be added. The eight miles that lay ahead would certainly be a test of endurance for most of them. More than half would no doubt fall along the wayside; but failure was not an option. If they did fall, they would have to pick themselves straight back up for fear of repeating the exercise.

  Major Burns had waited a short time before following the recruits, from the comfort of his jeep—on their exhausting punishment detail. His only wish was for each recruit to succeed on the first attempt: to show that they could work as a team. The same would be expected on the assault course. If someone were to fall behind, the others would go back and help them carry on—he wouldn’t ask for anything more than the utmost best that they could give.

  Myron, along with the other squad leaders, had kept to the side, watching as his squad was being run into the ground. He was quite relieved that he had been spared the humiliation of having to prove himself. It was his duty to encourage them: to make them continue for their sake, as well as his own. In between the shouting and screaming, all Myron could really think about was Jen, as he pulled from his jacket pocket, the photograph that she had given him nearly six weeks earlier. He gazed upon her lovely face and smiled, but behind that smile was a sense of regret for the grim situation at hand. The only thing he could think about was her well-being, taking his head out of the game for a few brief, blissful moments.

  Sergeant Major Deacon noticed Myron’s lovelorn expression as he gazed at Jen’s face in the photo.

  ‘Mr. Cutter, pay attention—or else!’ Sergeant Major Deacon screeched in his ear, forcing him to leave his one happy thought.

  Chapter Six

  Jen woke from her violence-induced slumber—her face and head throbbing in pain. She remembered how she had broken her nose while being thrown inside the hut. Her vision was weak from the swelling surrounding her nose, which she felt gingerly and winced. Someone had applied a crude bandage and ointment to try to reduce the swelling while she lay unconscious, although this had helped very little.

  There were only two inmates who had taken any real notice of Jen on her arrival. One would be somewhat familiar to her, and the other an unfortunate victim of circumstance. Jen was trying desperately to focus on the figure that sat looking over her, but was finding it difficult.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked with some apprehension.

  The blurry figure sat silently for a moment, revelling in the beauty that shone through, despite the ugly swelling. Jen was more frightened than agitated by his lack of response.

  ‘Please—answer me!’ she begged.

  ‘Calm down! I will answer, but first I need you to focus,’ replied the mysterious figure. Jen sat up on her metal slatted bunk uneasily, still feeling the effects from the guard’s sadistic blows to the sensitive backs of her knees.

  She gently wiped the congealed matter from her eyes, trying to focus as she had been asked.

  Jen could now see the person that sat in front of her, and she tried to place where she had seen him before.

  ‘I know you from somewhere,’ she said softly. ‘Why were you sent here?’

  ‘My name is Oscar Saracen,’ the young man said, a trifle haughtily, ‘and I was sentenced to this camp for the crime of sedition.’

  Jen was in awe of the fact that the notorious Oscar Saracen sat on her bunk. He informed her that he was in his tenth week at the camp, and Jen could see from the scars that covered his arms and chest that it was taking its toll on him.

  Oscar summoned over Gunnar Bailey, his only friend within the hut. Nobody else had the courage to talk to him for fear of retribution. Gunnar had been placed in the camp after being caught trying to cross the north-south divide, and had been branded a traitor for his efforts. His wife had been banished to the north at the beginning of the war for being Scottish, and he yearned with every fibre of his being to see her again after a seventeen-year separation.

  Gunnar had already been marked for death on his arrival, and like countless others before him, his death would come swiftly and without warning. His body was a testament to the torturous regime that had been adopted at the camp. Jen was curious about the many marks on Gunnar’s body, asking him all manner of probing, personal questions. He could tell Jen was the type of person who would not relent until she had received answers to all her queries, and it was making him feel uneasy. He explained to her how things worked around the camp without sugar-coating the facts.

  ‘Victims are selected at random to be experimented on and tortured,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Sometimes, they flay you to the point that your skin falls right off your bones.’

  Jen felt a shiver run down her spine.

  ‘You’re a pretty young thing, but I’m afraid that won’t stop the damn butchers,’ Gunnar added sadly. ‘Your time will come. There’s no escaping the camp’s barbarism. The guards usually make their sweeps for the doctor’s next victims just before lights out —’

  ‘Shut up, Gunnar!’ Oscar hissed. ‘Can’t you see you’re scaring her to death? Leave the poor girl alone.’ he turned to Jen. ‘Don’t worry, there’s no reason to think you’ll become a victim on your first night.’

  But Jen was not reassured. She hung her head and wept.

  *

  Jen paced nervously as darkness fell over the camp. Oscar had spent what seemed like an eternity trying to get her to calm down. Gunnar excelled at alienating himself from her and the others; he remained removed from the general population, not speaking to anyone. His philosophy was not to make too many friends or allies (Oscar being the exception), as he knew there was a good chance he or they would be dead the next day. He knew on arrival, two years ago, that his life hung precariously in the balance—and every day, he prayed that the guards would finish him off. He preferred death to the continual experimentation that he had been subjected to. But no, they preferred to exact retribution on a daily basis. They regarded him as being lower than any other prisoner due to his reputation as a rebel spy.

  *

  Hut lockdown was approaching, as was the screening for Dr. Simon Besson’s next conquest. A handful of minutes remained before the unsuspecting victims would be chosen. Upon hearing the first protesting scream of the night, silence shrouded Nissen hut number five as its inhabitants stared at the solid oak door in trepidation. Sometimes, the guards would have to choose one inmate from each hut, but on that night the doctor had given the guards photographs of the three people he wished to see.

  Jen had placed her hands over ears to drown out the screaming of unwilling volunteers, her eyes still fixed on the door that separated her from the outside world. Without warning, the door swung open, slamming against the wall. Fifty terrified souls tried to will themselves to disappear. Two guards strode heavily into the Nissen hut. They looked at each of the fifty faces staring back at them, sensing the fear within. One of the guards held the photo of the doctor’s next victim in his hand. He glanced briefly at it and then pointed towards Jen, saying nothing. Jen started to back away, trying to find something or someone to hide behind,
but she found herself with her back against the wall. She was white as a sheet, her mouth agape and lips trembling as the guards approached with slow, menacing steps. All Oscar could do was watch helplessly as the guards dragged her away from the wall, and back towards the front. Jen looked over her shoulder at him, mouthing the words ‘Help me—please.’ Oscar bowed his head in despair, knowing full well the consequences of trying to help her.

  Oscar had only ever helped one person in the ten weeks that he had been at the camp. He had been taken from Nissen hut number five into the compound for his efforts, where he had been beaten unconscious and left face down in a puddle of his own blood. He woke the next morning to find that the guards had tied his wrists and ankles to four stakes, leaving his wounds open to the elements for nearly a week. It was more than his life was worth to help another.

  Jen stared forlornly at him as the guards dragged her outside and shut the door on the other inmates, who breathed a collective sigh of relief. She found herself at the mercy of the guards manhandling her, trying to pull away as they dragged her towards the infirmary with vicious intent. Her futile attempts to escape their grip would not bode well for her. The guards’ patience had worn paper-thin and the superior guard signalled his subordinate to halt.

  ‘Hold the bitch’s arms behind her back, Derek,’ he said. Facing Jen, he whipped his cosh from his utility belt and viciously plunged it into Jen’s stomach. Her body slumped, exposing the back of her head, which the guard struck with a sickening thwack.

  ‘She’s unconscious now, Nigel,’ observed the junior guard.

  The senior guard lifted her chin. ‘Not a bad-looking bird, eh, Derek? Wouldn’t mind dipping my wick in this one.’

  ‘Aye, mate, but the doc’s waitin’, ain’t he?’

  ‘You’re right, mate,’ Nigel agreed with a sigh. ‘But we’ve got time for a little feel.’

  *

  With his other victims secured in separate rooms, the doctor made his way towards the entrance to the infirmary, preparing to greet his final victim.