The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  There’s a wall ahead, and zip lines on the far side. I make it to the end of the rope line, and swing myself down onto the top of the wall, holding onto the rope for balance. I reach out for the zip line runner, and launch myself off the wall before I can think about it. The cold air rushes past and chills me through my wet clothes. The speed is exhilarating, but the cold is numbing my fingers. I focus on holding tight until my feet touch the ground, then I dig my toes in, ignore the pain from my foot, and start running.

  I dive to my knees in front of the barbed wire tunnels, and crawl, as quickly as I can, under the rows of spikes. The ground is wet and muddy, and it’s hard to move forward. I settle into a rhythm, keeping low, pulling myself forward with my frozen fingers. I can hear shouts behind me, but if I stop now I’ll never find the rhythm again. I keep crawling.

  I’m out. The barbed wire is behind me, and I’m nearly at the finish. Ahead, there are bars across the course – high bars to duck under, and low bars to jump over. I’m about to run ahead when I hear the shouting behind me.

  I slow down and glance back.

  Saunders and another recruit are standing on the top of the wall between the rope and the zip line. I can’t see the fourth recruit, but she must be behind the wall, still attempting the rope crawl. Saunders and her partner are shouting, encouraging her to keep going. I turn around and take a step towards them, adding my own shouts to theirs. I hear a whistle, but I’m focused on walking round the tunnels to get close enough to help. The whistle sounds again, louder, and suddenly Jackson is in front of me, shouting in my face.

  “Turn around, recruit! Turn around and get yourself to the end of the course! There’s no time for teamwork here. You are responsible for your own safety. Turn around and clear the course. Now, recruit!”

  I stop, and look past Jackson to where Saunders and the other recruits are finally together on the top of the wall.

  “You can do it!” I shout, as loud as I can. “You can do it! Don’t think about it – just jump!”

  Jackson kicks out, and I feel my leg pushed out from under me. I land awkwardly, sitting in the mud.

  “Get up, recruit!” he screams, his face red.

  I get up, slowly. I can feel a bruise forming on my shin where his foot made contact. I avoid his gaze, turn myself round, and jog to the obstacle bars. Under one, over another. Under, over, under, over – I focus on the actions until I make it to the end, and run across the finish line.

  I’m angry and I’m cold. I stand, shivering, while the others crawl through the tunnels and make it through the bars to the finish. I want to shout, I want to encourage them, but all I can think about is how cold I’m feeling, the blister on my foot, and the bruise on my leg.

  And then Ketty is behind me. I expect her to shout, but instead she leans in and speaks quietly in my ear.

  “Save your effort for where it matters, recruit. Leave the losers to lose.”

  I can feel her breath on my neck.

  I shiver, and try not to react.

  *****

  Jackson sends those of us who are wet and cold off for a run to warm up while the last recruits complete the course. There’s more whistle-blowing, and more shouting, but I’m concentrating on running without falling over. The recruits I’ve been helping catch up and run alongside me, talking in low voices.

  “Thank you,” says the female recruit. “You didn’t have to help us back there.”

  I flash her a brief smile. “I don’t think we’re getting through this alone, whatever Jackson wants us to believe.”

  “Well. Thank you.” We both run in silence for a while. “I’m Amy, by the way, and this is Jake.”

  “Bex.”

  We run round the training field, staying close to the fence and turning back past the dorms and the dining hall to the assault course. We make it back as the last group crosses the finish line.

  *****

  We’re given twenty minutes to shower and change, and then we’re back in the dining hall for a briefing. The rest of the afternoon is a theory session, explaining what they expect from us. Training in dealing with members of the public, training in defence scenarios, training in the message we are supposed to present.

  The message is consistent. We are the front-line dolls. We are weapons in the public relations war. We are not here to fight the terrorists, we are here to make ordinary people feel safe.

  If something happens, we are to make the protection of bystanders our priority. We must not think about rescuing each other. We are expected to make autonomous decisions, to look as if we are helping, and to keep ourselves visible. The government wants uniforms on the streets, and a ready supply of heroes if the TV cameras happen to catch a terrorist incident. Teamwork and helping each other are not encouraged. No one wants to see the front-line recruits on TV digging each other out of the rubble of a bombing. We need to focus on the civilians, and make their rescue and protection our automatic reaction.

  They are making us expendable, and disposable. I wonder how many recruits and conscripts have been here before us – how many were sent out on patrols, and how many never came back.

  *****

  Dan’s enthusiasm was infectious as he showed me round the school, pointing out classrooms and labs and music rooms.

  “That’s my favourite place to hide if I don’t want to talk to anyone” he whispered, pointing up a steep flight of stairs to a deep window nook, overlooking the sports field. “There’s a curtain you can pull across, and if you take a torch you can sit there after dark and read a book, or work on an essay, and no one would even suspect that you’re there.”

  We reached the dining room, and he dragged me over to a table against the far wall. There was no one else around, but the table was set with bread, toasters, cutlery and plates, a kettle, and a pot of tea bags. Next to it was a fridge with sandwich fillings, fruit, drinks, yoghurt, and milk. He opened the fridge.

  “What do you fancy? We’ve got cheese, ham, salad, some sort of spread …” He held up a jar and squinted at the label, then put it on the table. “Peanut butter … ooh! We should have peanut butter and banana sandwiches!” He picked up the peanut butter, and two bananas, and handed me a plate.

  “The trick is,” he proclaimed, busy pulling slices of bread from a bag, “not to skimp on the peanut butter. You need it nice and thick, so it’s all sticky on your tongue”.

  He watched me scoop out the spread onto my bread.

  “Come on! You need way more than that!” And he slapped another knife full onto my sandwich.

  I started laughing. This was clearly the best sandwich I’d ever made, and I hadn’t even tasted it yet. Dan quickly peeled a banana, and lifted a knife over it. He paused, and in a booming voice declared “I sacrifice thee to the deity of snacks!” He stopped, and looked at me. “Come on – you’re killing the sacred moment!” He nudged my elbow until I peeled my banana, raised a knife, and declared the sacrificial ritual.

  He gave me a happy grin, and sliced his banana into neat circles. He watched, approvingly, as I sliced mine, and then arranged the slices on the peanut butter.

  We sat across from each other at one of the empty tables. He was right – it was a really good sandwich. We talked about him, and school, and what we wanted to do with our lives. He was in the same year as me, and we learnt that we both like history, and reading novels that grown-ups think are far too old for us. We were still sitting there long after we’d finished our sandwiches, and it was like discovering a crazy twin brother I never knew I had.

  Company

  After another hot meal, we’re given an hour until Lights Out. I leave Dan playing cards with a group of recruits we know from school, and take a walk round the camp. The sun is setting, and the sky is blazing red and orange, with streaks of purple clouds. It’s a beautiful evening, and so quiet after a day of being shouted at by the Senior Recruits.

  I walk past the dorms and over to the gate, where two soldiers are guarding the entrance.


  “Keep walking, recruit!” One of them shouts, and I wave, and move on. Close to the staff quarters and the kitchen, there’s a picnic area with tables and benches. I head towards it, past the lights and music coming from the staff building, and sit on a table with my feet on a bench. I watch the sunset, trying to clear my head and make sense of what we’re all doing here. We’re not the army. We’re not fighters. We’re the front-line dolls. We’re the cannon fodder and the government representatives on the street. We’re worth nothing to the government, except as a way to make people feel safe. No one cares what happens to us.

  It’s up to us to care. It’s up to us to look out for each other.

  Someone coughs, and I notice a figure in the twilight, sitting like me on the next table.

  “Hi,” I say, raising a hand in greeting.

  “Hi.”

  There’s a pause, while we both watch the sunset, then the figure stands and heads towards me. It’s a woman in her forties with close-cropped blond hair, wearing white kitchen scrubs and a purple fleece jacket.

  “May I?” she indicates the table, next to me.

  “Sure.” I nod, and move over to make space for her. She climbs up and sits down.

  “One of the recruits, then?”

  I nod.

  “So did you sign up, or did they kidnap you?”

  I laugh. I haven’t thought of it that way, but the realisation takes my breath away. I’ve been thinking of myself as a recruit, alongside the kids who volunteered.

  “I guess I was kidnapped,” I say, and my voice is a whisper.

  She nods. “That’s happening more and more. So where did they find you? School?”

  My turn to nod, and look down at my hands while I process this idea – that I’ve been kidnapped and held against my will. I’m shaking, and I’m angry. There are tears in my eyes, and I can’t hold them back.

  My companion puts a hand on my shoulder, and lets me cry for a while. All the anger and frustration I’ve been carrying since they took us from school, all the tiredness and physical exhaustion – everything rolls over me in a wave, and I can’t stop my reaction.

  I’ve been kidnapped, and no one can rescue me. I’m disposable, and no one cares.

  It takes a long time to calm down and catch my breath. I blink away tears, wiping my face with the sleeves of my sweater. Her hand is still on my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. They have no right to grab you from school like that, and it’s not right that you’re here.”

  She reaches into a pocket, and brings out a can.

  “Beer?”

  I laugh, through the tears. She opens the can and hands it to me, pulling out another for herself.

  “Is this allowed?” I ask, savouring the flavour of my first sip.

  “Course not, for you. But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  We sit and drink together as the sky fades to an inky blue.

  “I’m Charlie, by the way.” She holds out a hand for me to shake. I take it.

  “Bex.”

  “Good to meet you, Bex.”

  “You too.”

  “You need anything, I’m out here most nights. I can’t stand the noise.” She jerks a thumb in the direction of the staff quarters.

  “Thanks.”

  A whistle sounds from across the camp: ten minutes to Lights Out. I swig the rest of my beer, jump down and look around for a place to leave the can. Charlie holds her hand out.

  “Leave it with me. And get back to your dorm – don’t get locked out!”

  I thank her again, turn, and run back across the camp.

  *****

  It was the start of term before I met Margie. She arrived early in the morning, just in time for the start of lessons. She took the last bed in my dormitory, as I was picking up my books and tablet for the day. Tall and slim, with long, dark hair, she radiated an air of relaxed confidence, as if this was her home, and we were the guests in it.

  Dan met us at the bottom of the dormitory stairs, a stack of books in his arms, his uniform shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “Oh great – you’ve met. Margie, Bex; Bex, Margie. Margie’s in our study group. Margie! Where have you been?”

  Margie gave Dan a hug, slipping her books under one arm.

  “Africa. The usual. I got back yesterday, but my Aunt’s been holding me hostage. She wanted to make sure I got a shower and a decent meal before she brought me back to school.” She looked over at me. “It’s as if she thinks they don’t feed us or give us proper beds to sleep in. She won’t stop fussing.”

  We headed out into the corridor, Margie in the middle.

  “So you’ve found us a new friend, have you, Dan? Don’t tell me – he recruited you with one of his famous sandwiches.”

  I nodded, smiling, and she laughed and elbowed Dan in the ribs. “I knew it! So – what are you doing here?”

  I explained, and she listened. Outside the door of the classroom, Dan stopped.

  “Can she join the study group? Can she?”

  Margie looked me up and down, and made an approving face. “I think so. Want to join us for study and occasional insanity?”

  “I do, thank you!”

  “You’re in.”

  And I walked into my first lesson, already in the company of friends.

  Armour

  The next morning, we start again. Cross-country run, weapons training, lunch, assault course, theory, dinner, bed. The repetition is like hypnosis, keeping us distracted, making sure we don’t think too much about what’s happened to us and why we’re here. By the end of the first week, we can all maintain a rifle, hit a target, complete the assault course, and perform basic public protection and interaction tasks. This is what they need us to do, and we’re given no choice but to learn and train, and turn ourselves into their front-line dolls.

  I try to take a walk every evening, just to clear space in the relentless schedule to do something for myself. Charlie and I make a habit of watching the sunset on clear days. I tell her about school – about Dan and Margie and Dr Richards. I tell her about Mum and Dad, and what it felt like to leave them behind. She listens, and tells me how brave she thinks we are, following orders and not making trouble. She always brings something for us to share – beer, chocolate, whatever she can smuggle out of the kitchen.

  *****

  Day eight, and the schedule changes. We’ve finished breakfast, and we’re lining up at the gate for our run, waiting for the Senior Recruits to join us. Instead, Commander Bracken arrives.

  “Recruits!”

  “Sir!” We hurry to stand to attention.

  “This morning’s run is postponed. Follow me.”

  He leads us to the training field, where Robin and his clipboard are supervising the Senior Recruits as they lay out piles of grey plastic shapes. Batman blows his whistle and we line up, standing smartly to attention as he consults with his sidekick.

  “At ease!”

  We relax.

  “This morning we are moving to a new stage in your training. HQ has sent us your armoured suits. Made to measure, and made to protect you when you’re out on the streets. You’ll be trying them on, and starting to train in them. Once again: your suit is yours. Look after it. Report and sort any damage. No changing it, no personalising it. Keep it clean, keep it functional. Keep it ready for use at any time.”

  Robin steps forward with his clipboard, calls us forward one by one, and sends us to a Senior Recruit. My turn, and he sends me to Ketty, who scowls at me and hands me a pile of lightweight plastic pieces, a set of tight-fitting black clothing, and a helmet with a tinted visor. I head back to my place in line, wrapping my arms around the armour and letting the helmet hang from my fingers.

  I try not to think about what this means. How soon they’ll be able to send us out on patrol. How quickly we’re turning into their front-line dolls.

  When
we’ve all been kitted out, the Commander calls out a list of names – all female – and sends us to the dining room of the Senior Dorm. He sends the male recruits to the dining room in our dorm. We follow our Senior Recruits across the field.

  Ketty is waiting when we reach the Senior Dorm. She watches us file in and line up, a sour look on her face.

  “Recruits! Pick a table, put your armour down. Change from your fatigues into the fetching skin-tight thermal layer, put your boots back on, then wait for assistance. Now!”

  We all rush to find a table, and begin to strip down. The base layers for the armour are lightweight and stretchy. I pull on the high-necked long-sleeved top, and sit down to take off my boots. There are gloves in the bundle, too, so I put those on, and the leggings. I put my boots back on and wait for a Senior Recruit to help me with the armour.

  Ketty and three other women are working their way through the group, showing the recruits how to put together the armour from the pieces on the tables. They’ve started at the far end of the room, so I sit and wait for them to reach me. I watch the other recruits as they strap elements from the piles onto their legs, arms, and torsos.

  The armour is sleek and shiny. There are panels for our shins and thighs, front and back; our forearms and upper arms, and front and back of the torso. There are additional, stretchy sections for our hips, knees, and shoulders; gloves with plastic sections over the backs of the hands; a utility belt with clips and loops; and a locking neck section that allows the helmet to click into place. There’s a small canister that clips into the waist, and a series of clips and sliding fasteners in diagonal lines across the back. With the helmets on, the recruits already in their armour look anonymous and sinister. I guess that’s the point.

  I sort through the sections on my table while I wait. Leg pieces, arm pieces, torso, neck. The front torso section has my name printed on it in large letters, visible from a distance. The upper arms are printed with a Recruit Training Service logo. The left and right forearm sections have rectangular holes, surrounded by clips. I check the table, and the other recruits, but we don’t have anything here to clip into them. The canister has a narrow, flexible pipe running from the top, which connects to the bottom of the torso section. The pipe runs up through the torso, and ends in a rubber seal, which matches a rubber seal in the neck section. Is this an air supply? What are they sending us to do that would need us to have an air supply?