Jen was awed by Brigadier Howard, too, but for a different reason. She found him extremely attractive with his untidy, wavy raven hair and the sexy stubble on his chiselled face—the result of five days of not shaving. She also liked his squinting blue eyes, and the confident, but not cocky air about him. The brigadier wasn’t overly tall, nor was he particularly muscular, but he was obviously in tiptop physical shape, as his lithe frame attested.
Myron had sensed the attraction straight away. It was the same look that she had given him, not so long ago. Nevertheless, he vowed to remain optimistic that she would be his once more, not letting her desire for the dashing young brigadier faze him.
Howard remained silent as he stared at each of the faces in front of him. Words escaped him for a brief moment, as he wondered where they had come from; they were not recognisable to him in any way. The brigadier knew every single one of his troop’s faces. He had, after all, worked closely with them for several months.
‘Who are you people? And what were you doing in the forest?’ the brigadier demanded.
Myron had to think fast. If he were to tell him the truth, what guarantee would he have that the brigadier would believe him? The best bet was to tell a slanted version of the truth, and see where it landed him. He was careful not to mention the fact that Jen was an escapee from labour camp five, being loath to take a chance with her life.
‘I can see you haven’t had much success with the task extended to you!’ Howard observed. He pointed at Jen. ‘Why isn’t the girl in uniform?’
Myron’s heart began to race, and Jen just froze and stared blankly at the brigadier.
‘Well, sir,’ Myron stammered, ‘she—’
‘Oh! Wait a minute!’ Howard interrupted. ‘She is a labour camp guard, is she not? If I remember right, they are clad in grey.’
Myron nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, sir, that’s right. She has been helping us try and locate the runaways.’
‘Well, that’s all well and good,’ said the brigadier, a little self-importantly. ‘But I reiterate: you’ve pretty much bungled your mission so far, eh?’
Myron said nothing, knowing he had already gotten away with too much already, what with one lie after another.
‘What is your name? And what rank do you hold? Are you properly trained for combat?’
Howard had asked so many questions of Myron at once that he didn’t know where to begin.
‘Your name, lad! Spit it out!’ the brigadier pressed.
‘My name is Myron Cutter, sir!’ Myron replied abruptly. ‘I am a squad leader at Tooting training camp—and yes, I am battle-trained, although I haven’t participated in one.’
‘Tooting training camp? How do you get on with Sergeant Major Deacon? He was one of my best men,’ the brigadier enthused.
Myron found himself having to tell another lie. He hated the sergeant major’s guts, but didn’t want to offend the Brigadier by telling him so.
‘He’s hard, but fair,’ were the only words Myron could find to describe him.
‘I would agree!’ was Howard’s reply, before turning his attention to the others.
‘Are you all as green as your squad leader?’ he asked. The four men shuffled their feet uncomfortably. ‘And you!’ The brigadier looked straight at Jen. ‘Girl, your eye is a bloody mess! You are no good to me if you can’t see what’s ahead of you.’ He paused and added nastily, ‘And I doubt you’ve ever seen battle in your life, either.’
Myron jumped to Jen’s defence, much to the Brigadier’s annoyance.
‘Experience in the camps has readied her for battle, sir,’ he said. ‘She is tough! I have seen what she is capable of.’
‘A real spitfire, is she?’ said Howard mockingly.
‘You could say that, sir,’ said Myron.
‘Sergeant Mason!’ yelled the Brigadier sharply. ‘Take these men—and this so-called spitfire—to the munitions wagon, and arm them appropriately!’
‘Yes, sir, right away!’ The sergeant turned to Myron and the others and barked: ‘You lot! Follow me!’
Chapter Nine
Myron had spent the best part of half an hour teaching Jen how to arm a grenade. When he told her how much damage it would cause on hitting its target, she threw a disbelieving look his way.
‘Rubbish!’ she snorted. ‘How the hell can something that small cause that much damage? I don’t believe you!’
‘Believe me, you’ll find out—these little babies will be your only defence,’ Myron warned.
Jen held one of the nondescript, innocent-looking little devices and stared at it blankly.
‘Remember what I taught you,’ said Myron, addressing Jen as if he were talking to a child. ‘Throw it as far away as possible after pulling the pin.’
‘I’d rather throw it at you, you condescending prick,’ Jen told him.
Myron threw up his hands in exasperation and went to join the others.
‘Arsehole,’ Jen muttered under her breath.
*
Jen hadn’t followed Myron straight away; her curiosity had led her in the other direction. Her need to see if she recognised anyone from past encounters outweighed the desire to join the small group that she had unwittingly become a part of. The faces that she had passed by were so full of despair and dread for what lay ahead. Jen, however, had again resigned herself to the fact she might be entering into a fool’s mission with no chance of survival, and her face was a blank mask.
The further Jen advanced, the more experienced and battle-weary the soldiers looked. A few faces seemed familiar to her. From a distance she stared intently at a solitary group of three men, two of whom were polishing their rifles. Jen tried to picture where she had seen them before. It didn’t matter that she had lost fragments of her memory during the strike on the camp; there was something about the three men that she recognised—something in the back of her mind, trying to push its way through. She thought nothing more of it, turned herself around, and headed back to Myron and the others. She didn’t even look back over her shoulder. The fact that she did recognise them from somewhere was a good sign that she was slowly getting her old memories back.
*
Jen made her way towards the raging camp fire behind the makeshift fortifications that had been built up slowly during the day. She joined Myron and the other recruits for a cup of barely drinkable black coffee and a piece of toast made from stale chunks of bread. Rations were short, but even this fare was better than nothing at all. Jen was actually quite content with what she had. It had been several days since she had had anything to eat.
Myron stared at her while she ate—wondering what was going on in her mind. He could see she was deep in thought.
‘A penny for them?’ Myron ventured.
Jen stopped eating the toast and turned to face him, finishing off the mouthful that she was chewing on before answering.
‘I was thinking about a lot of things,’ she said softly. ‘Can we take a walk?’
‘Love to,’ Myron replied, setting his tin coffee cup down. ‘Follow me—I want to show you what’s up front.’
Myron was referring to the gathering of Scottish troops: the enemy in the distance. While Jen had been satisfying her curiosity, he had been watching every move across the field of the impending battle, thinking of how relaxed they looked.
They slowly passed by soldiers on either side of them. Myron tried not to look at their faces. Jen resisted the urge to seek out the three familiar faces again in the fading light of dusk.
Myron stopped just shy of the first tank and pointed toward the enemy fortifications across the field.
‘That is what we will be facing tomorrow, mirror images of ourselves,’ he said in a sad, faraway voice. ‘I can tell you this: they are victims just as we are. Oscar was right—there is more to this war than the government is letting on.’
Myron had been eavesdropping on a conversation, and had heard of a conspiracy. It was the same conspiracy that Oscar Saracen had tried to get acro
ss to his rowdy audience many months earlier: those who chose to laugh at him, and those loyal to the government’s philosophies.
Myron had more pressing things on his mind—namely, how he and the others were going to survive with the battle looming the next day.
‘You asked me what I was thinking before,’ said Jen, breaking into his thoughts. ‘I think I’m starting to remember little bits of memories from before.’
‘That’s great, Jen!’ Myron exclaimed. ‘But why do you think that?’
‘I seemed to recognise a few faces—faces from my past. I don’t know who they are, but I’m sure I have seen them before somewhere.’
‘That’s good,’ Myron said tactfully, but he wasn’t so convinced.
Little did Jen realise that the faces she had recognised were those of two labour camp guards and Dr. Simon Besson. They had been picked up in the fray after escaping camp five’s devastation.
‘I know I’ve seen them somewhere—maybe I’ll go ask,’ Jen said desperately. As she walked away, she suddenly felt a hand grab her right arm tightly.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Myron, his voice tight with concern.
‘But you don’t know who they are!’ Jen protested.
‘Well, you’re going to have to point them out, then, aren’t you?’
Myron pulled Jen back the way they had come, still gripping her arm tightly.
Jen squinted, trying desperately to distinguish the three men from the rest. Suddenly, she pointed.
‘Look! Over there,’ she said in a frantic whisper.
Myron glanced in the direction of her finger, to see three men in deep conversation.
‘Wait here!’ Myron let go of Jen’s arm and strode casually towards the trio. Jen just stood in the shadows and watched.
Besson and the two guards from camp five looked up at once, as Myron approached.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Besson barked. ‘Get out of here!’
Myron was taken aback by Besson’s surliness and, at the same time, wondered where Jen had met him and the two unkempt, unshaven men in his company.
‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ Myron enquired on Jen’s behalf.
‘I doubt it! Not unless you’ve had a stay in one of the labour camps!’ Besson snarled.
Myron had all the information he needed from that one statement, but dare he tell Jen? He concluded it would suffice to tell her to stay clear of them, without providing any details.
‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time,’ Myron apologised. ‘You just looked familiar, that’s all.’
Myron backed away slowly, keeping his eyes firmly on Besson, and he on him, almost burning holes in each other, until Besson turned to talk to his minions. Myron made his way back over to Jen.
‘Keep away from them! Ask no questions, just trust me!’ Myron said forcefully.
Jen glared menacingly at him, but didn’t argue with him as they made their way back towards the campfire and the others to get some rest before morning.
*
The sun rose over the brow of the hill behind the Scottish encampment. The low fog that had rolled in overnight began to disperse. The scene was set. The battle lines were drawn. The battle for the forest was set to commence.
The English encampment was bustling with preparatory activity. A sense of trepidation engulfed the minds of every single person, none more so than Jen, who had never been in a situation like this before. Yes, there was camp five, but that was different: She knew where she stood in the camp. The uncertainty of what lay ahead vexed her mind. Although she did her best to appear unfazed in front of the others, Myron saw past the façade Jen had built up to hide her fear.
‘Jen, a moment?’ he said. He pulled her out of earshot of the others to a place where they could talk freely without being disturbed.
‘I know I don’t have as much experience as some of the others,’ he said sincerely, ‘but if you do as I do, you’ll be fine. I will protect you. I promise.’
Myron gave her a reassuring smile. Jen felt a growing sense of relief wash over her after Myron’s promise. One thought rushed through Jen’s mind at that moment: I wish I could remember him, but I can’t—but maybe in time. He really seems to care for me, and I’d like to care for him.
Myron took hold of Jen’s hand, and they walked and talked a bit more before heading back to the arms wagon.
*
The general mood around the encampment had changed to one of quiet reflection. Fear had almost been replaced by the excitement of what lay ahead. Brigadier Howard’s forces watched the Scots take their positions on the field of battle, as they readied themselves. The order to attack would come from Lieutenant Colonel Stuart MacAulay, Brigadier Howard’s bitter rival in the contest for most battles won.
Emerging victorious from countless fierce battles, Stuart MacAulay was also regarded as a national hero by his fellow Scotsmen. His leadership had given a renewed sense of freedom to the Scottish people, who had been victims of the English government’s oppression for so long.
Unlike the brigadier, MacAulay was an older man whose biological clock was winding down, and his burning need and desire for glory far exceeded that of Howard’s.
The battle about to take place was well balanced strategically, and each leader desired the same outcome: victory at any cost. This would be Stuart MacAulay’s final battle before retirement, and his need for victory would prove to be greater than his thirty-five year old counterpart’s.
*
Sergeant Mason streaked past the troops, screaming at the top of his lungs: ‘Weapons at the ready!’ Adrenalin starting pumping and troops began to rally, picking up their chosen weapons and making their way forward in battle formation. Myron had kept Jen and his team back, loath to rush headlong to their impending deaths. An air of impatience had settled over the English as they waited for the brigadier to give the order to attack.
Brigadier Howard summoned Sergeant Mason to his side while he took a final look at the battle strategy. The outline was simple, and it was a strategy that he used every time he went into battle.
‘We need to break them down quickly by pushing the heavy artillery up the central line,’ declared Howard, running his finger along the map for emphasis. ‘We can then move the troops forward to take the left and right hand flanks, thus hemming the Scottish in—making them, in effect, sitting ducks.’
Sergeant Mason found himself agreeing for the umpteenth time. Five times he had been told the strategy, and all that same morning. The brigadier liked to be clear with his intentions to the point of tedium, an idiosyncrasy which Sergeant Mason had learnt since the beginning of his command.
‘Are the men ready?’ Howard asked as he folded the map back up.
‘Yes, sir—they’re ready when you are!’ the sergeant replied.
‘Excellent! Inform them I will be giving the order to move out shortly.’
*
It had been nearly an hour since the sergeant had relayed the brigadier’s message, and the air of impatience had grown fit to bursting.
The more they thought about it, the more they champed at the bit to join the fray—especially Jen, who had always hated waiting for anything. Her gung-ho streak was beginning to push its way past the fear. This streak could make her do something reckless: something that would cost her the life that she hated so much—the life that, so far, had not been worth living.
Myron could sense Jen’s intentions by looking at the expression on her face.
‘You’ve got a wild look in your eye, Jen,’ he observed. ‘Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to jeopardise your life, or the lives of those around you. If you carry on down this path, you’ll die!’
‘Bollocks, you coward!’ she hissed, stalking away from him. ‘Just try and stop me.’
He lunged at Jen and wrestled her to the ground from behind, placing his whole body on top of hers, making it impossible for her to move. He relaxed his body and became dead weight lying across her chest and stomach
.
‘Get off of me, you bastard!’ Jen roared, squirming under his weight.
‘Not until you come to your senses.’
It didn’t take long for the out-of-breath Jen to succumb under his pressure.
‘You will wait for Brigadier Howard’s command. Is that clear?’ Myron growled into her ear.
‘OK, OK! Now let me go!’ she huffed.
Myron rolled away and released her. Still mad as a hornet, Jen scrambled to her feet to confront him with her hands balled into fists.
Myron grabbed her arms and screamed, ‘Why can’t you just do as you are bloody well told for a change? You will wait for the order to attack, or I will shoot you myself, is that clear?’
Jen was taken aback by Myron’s fierceness, and shuffled backwards awkwardly to rejoin the others. Deep down, Jen knew Myron was only looking out for her best interests. After all, he had promised to protect her.
*
The English troops were fully focussed and ready to do battle with their formidable enemies. All emotion had been eradicated from each individual mind as they stood poised to surge forward. Brigadier Howard raised his right arm in readiness. No sooner had he done so, he dropped his arm to his side and gave the troops the anticipated signal to attack. In response, the battalion let out a collective whoop and sprang into battle, splintering off to attack opposite flanks. They paved the way for the armoured division to complete the objective, and left a trail of death and destruction in their wake.
A few overzealous novices had pushed their way to the front amongst the veterans, who knew what they were up against from past experience. It was a brash act that would prove costly, as the veterans would be looking out only for themselves and especially not for a bunch of fledglings with inadequate training. Strategically, the new recruits were grossly under-prepared and wouldn’t last five minutes in battle. Had Myron not stopped her, the same would have befallen Jen.
*
Torn off limbs, decapitated and bullet-riddled bodies littered the battlefield—a grisly sight made even more disturbing by the unsavoury crushing of the dead or dying beneath the heavy artillery lumbering relentlessly through. Small groups of enemy soldiers were rifling through the pockets of the English dead, looking for anything that might be of any importance to their cause, or of any monetary value—anything that could be bartered with after the war.
Going Underground Page 12
