The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  “But we’ll get our vote back, when the bombings stop.” Dan was sure of himself. This was his favourite subject.

  “Maybe. I hope so.” Dr Richards sounded uncertain.

  Patrol

  It’s Saturday night. We’ve had our final training before the concert tomorrow. The sense of excitement increases during dinner, everyone talking and laughing, anticipating the change of scenery and routine. I eat, and listen to the people I’ve been training with bragging about how good they’ll be at real work, how they’ll be great at keeping people safe. I wonder whether they’ve really understood what our role will be. Front-line dolls in fancy costumes, making people think they’re safe. Visible distractions from the real work – from the police and the army behind the scenes. Targets for terrorists. Disposable.

  I slip out of the room, and take a walk to the picnic area. Charlie is waiting, beer in hand, sitting on one of the tables. The sunset is disappointing this evening – shades of blue and grey – but we watch it anyway. She hands me a beer as I sit down beside her.

  “I hear you’re getting out of here tomorrow.”

  I nod.

  “Just for the day. We’ll be back in time for Lights Out. We’ve got the daytime shift.”

  “First time on active duty?”

  I nod.

  “Are you ready?”

  I think about it – about what we’ll be expected to do.

  “We’re not actually fighting terrorists – we’re there to make people feel safe.” I shrug. “So I guess we’re ready. We just need to look convincing.”

  Charlie laughs.

  “I reckon you’re just what they need. That armour of yours makes you all look like space-age ninjas. I think I’d be happier walking down the street if I had a space-age ninja looking out for me.”

  I can’t stop the grin that is spreading across my face.

  “Yeah. Badass ninjas. We’re gonna rock.”

  *****

  Up. Shower. Dress. Stuff my cargo pockets with anything that might be useful. I pull the armour crate out from under the bed and haul it down the corridor to the dining room, where most of the recruits are already standing round, waiting for their day off site.

  I drop my crate next to my usual table and join the queue for breakfast.

  Saunders lines up behind me. I’m surprised to see him here. He’s still limping, and he’s not doing any physical training with the rest of us yet.

  “You’re coming with us?” I ask, while someone fills my tray with food.

  He grins.

  “The Commander signed me up himself! He says he’s got something in mind for me to do. So yeah – I’m coming with you!”

  His excitement is evident. We all assumed that he’d be spending the day here alone. He’s thrilled to be part of our first assignment. To be a target, with the rest of us.

  I force myself to smile back.

  *****

  There are two coaches waiting at the gate when we line up with our crates and file out of the dining room. The Senior Recruits have handed us each a gun to pack with our armour, so we’re ready to start our first day on active patrol.

  We line up to stow our crates in the luggage section under the coach. Batman and Robin are overseeing the operation, and the sidekick ticks us off the list on his clipboard as we climb on board.

  I find a seat next to Dan, and we talk about school trips we’ve been on together: field trips in coaches like these, off to learn about the history of the industrial revolution, or the geography of coastal erosion. This feels different. There’s excitement in the air, but with it comes a sense of unease. We don’t know what to expect from our first day on patrol, but we all know the dangers that we’re there to protect against. In an hour or so, we’ll be on the front line, showing the public that there’s nothing to worry about. That we’re protecting them.

  The reality of our assignment is sinking in, and the closer we get to Birmingham, the quieter our conversations become. The novelty of leaving the camp is wearing off, and our attention is shifting to the dangers of the day ahead. I keep thinking about the Manchester bombing. About the recruits, pulling people from the wreckage.

  There’s silence on the coach as we pull into the backstage car park. Dan takes my hand, and I grip his fingers tightly. We look at each other.

  “We’re going to be OK.”

  I nod. “We’re going to be OK.”

  *****

  The next hour is crazy. We all help to shift the crates from the luggage space under the coach to our base of operations – a marquee at the end of the car park. I find my own crate, and follow the other female recruits to our changing area. Out of fatigues, and into base layers and armour. We pack our clothes into our crates and stack them out of the way, then line up in the marquee for the briefing.

  Batman and Robin are here, supervising our activities. The Commander’s briefing is short: follow orders from anyone in uniform. Be visible, be approachable, be well-behaved. Use our guns only if strictly necessary, and only in self-defence, or in defence of civilians. Report anything suspicious, but don’t investigate – that’s the army’s job. In case of emergency, save ourselves, save civilians, rendezvous in the car park.

  The sidekick consults his clipboard, and pairs us up for patrol duty. I’m with Amy, and we’re assigned to patrol inside the event, walking round the edge of the concert crowd and helping people to feel protected. Front-line dolls.

  On our way out of the tent, we’re sent to radio control for an equipment check. Jackson is running comms, sitting at a folding table with the field radio and headset, Saunders in fatigues next to him with a clipboard and pen. Jackson grabs my left hand, activates my radio, then motions for me to put the helmet on. He tests my receiving and broadcast status with minimal conversation, then moves on to Amy. I take off my helmet, and turn to Saunders.

  “So this is what the Commander signed you up for!” Saunders grins.

  “Isn’t it great? I’m right in the middle of everything that’s going on, but it’s an indoor job with no walking. Plus you guys can tell me what it’s like out there, so I won’t miss anything.” He seems genuinely happy.

  I smile, tip my head a fraction towards Jackson, and whisper “Good luck!”

  Jackson gives Amy a thumbs-up signal, then assigns us our own private channel so we can walk and talk with our helmets on. Amy flashes a quick thumbs-up to Saunders, who smiles and waves.

  “Brown! Ellman!” Commander Bracken waves us over to the door of the marquee. He straps a broad fabric band round the armour on my upper arm, slips a security pass into the windowed pocket, and does the same for Amy. “You’re up. Through the security gate and round to your left. You’ll come in at the back of the arena. I want you patrolling the perimeter every half hour. Keep up a steady pace, walk all the way round; keep going until we call you back.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Helmets on. Guns in your hands.” We obey, and he inspects us before waving us out of the door.

  This is it. This is what we’ve trained for. I will myself to stay calm as we march out into the car park.

  *****

  Dr Richards continued her explanation, speaking softly in the quiet library.

  “The government recruited and trained new soldiers, and gave them the job of policing the country. Unlike the police, the soldiers carried guns. We were told that the good guys had nothing to worry about, and that the soldiers would allow us to carry on with our lives without fear.”

  “Well – the good guys don’t have anything to worry about. Why would the soldiers pick on someone minding their own business?”

  Margie rolled her eyes at Dan. “Why wouldn’t the ‘good guys’ want to protest about something they can see is unfair? Why can’t the ‘good guys’ make a stand against things they think are wrong? And how do the soldiers know who the good guys are? You could be standing next to a bomber, and it could be you who gets shot! But you think you’re a ‘good guy’, right?”


  Dan rolled his eyes in response, and Dr Richards put her finger to her lips.

  “Keep your voices down!”

  “So how did we get here?” I whispered, glancing round at the empty library. “How did we get to the government asking us – asking sixteen-year-olds – to sign up and join their army?”

  “Well, first the language started to shift. We’d all been sure that the attacks were coming from foreign groups – extremists, people with grudges against the UK. The government cracked down on immigration, and restricted foreign trade and foreign travel. But the news began to talk about attacks by British rebels. People who wanted an end to austerity, an end to fat cats and bankers’ bonuses.”

  “So we’re fighting ourselves?”

  “This whole country is a battle ground,” said Margie, her voice grim. “It’s civil war. Anti-austerity, pro-Europe, anti-government.”

  Dr Richards gave Margie a stern look. “You know we can’t use that term. Whatever this is, the government will never allow it to be called a civil war.”

  Margie sighed.

  Public

  The arena is empty when we’re waved through by civilian security. It’s a wide expanse of grass surrounded by tall metal fences on two sides. There are buildings on the side next to the car park, and at the far end, a stage with racks of speakers and giant screens. There’s a large sound control booth close to the buildings. The audience hasn’t arrived yet, but we’re officially on patrol. We start our slow, measured walk around the perimeter of the field.

  “What are we doing here, Bex?” Amy sounds baffled. “What are we supposed to be doing?”

  I look around at the empty field. I can see some activity on the stage – teams of people are setting up equipment – but there’s no one else here. Everything seems safe. Everything feels normal.

  “I guess this is an easy first assignment. They’re breaking us in gently.”

  Then I notice the camera crews. There are people with cameras on the stage, and another camera crew on the roof of the building next to the field. I look up at the sound booth as we pass, and there are two more cameras here, tracking our progress round the arena. The camera crews should be testing their views of the stage, but as I look around I notice that they are all trained on us, tracking us as we patrol. It’s uncomfortable, knowing that we’re being watched.

  “We’re on display, Amy. They’re filming us for news broadcasts. They want people to see that we’re here, protecting them. That it’s safe to come out and enjoy themselves.”

  Amy straightens slightly, and walks a little taller.

  “Let’s put on a good show, then!” She says.

  *****

  We’ve been patrolling for about an hour when the first people start to arrive. There’s a queue forming along the outside of the long fence, and the concert-goers are watching us through the metal mesh. We’re not the only people on patrol – three more pairs of recruits are slowly making the circuit of the field, spaced apart so that we are always covering a different section of the arena. The people in the queue are taking photos and videos of us as we walk. More recruits patrol up and down the queue on the outside of the fence, and there are more outside the park, making sure they are visible on the approach to the concert.

  Screaming guitar chords from the sound check are loud enough to make me jump, and Amy raises her gun before we both realise that we’re safe. The people in the queue cheer loudly, and the sound check continues. Most of the cameras turn to the stage, but a couple are still trained on us, following our steps around the arena. I can’t forget that we’re on display.

  When the gates open, the crowd comes running in, and Amy and I are forced to stop and wait for the stream of people to clear before we can continue our patrol. Someone in the queue notices us standing there, and stops, throwing his arms out to hold back the people around him, and nodding to us to continue. Holding my gun in one hand, I wave a thank-you to him with the other, and we walk through the space, feeling like superheroes in a movie.

  “That was awesome!” squeaks Amy. “It’s like being famous!”

  “I think it helps that we’re the ones with guns.”

  “True. But they really seem to like us.”

  “They’ve been told that we’re here to protect them. Of course they like us. They think we’re going to save their skins. And we are wearing the coolest armour.”

  “We really are.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and I notice the swagger in her steps.

  The crowd flows through the gates, pushing up to the front of the arena, jostling for the best view. At the front, we patrol on the empty side of the barrier that keeps the crowd at a safe distance from the stage. As we walk in front of the crowd for the first time, we notice the noise, but also the looks we are getting from the people in the front row. There’s a woman with her hands pressed together in a gesture of thanks. A man who takes his baseball cap off and holds it to his chest as we pass. People who shout or mouth ‘thank you’ at us as we walk.

  They think we signed up for this. They think we’re volunteers. They are confident in our ability to protect them.

  I think about Manchester, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  As we continue to circle the field, people step out from the crowd to thank us, to shake our hands. Someone tries to give me a hug, over my gun. People reach out to touch us on the shoulder and the arm as we walk. I shouldn’t feel threatened – I’m the one with the gun and the helmet – but I’m feeling overwhelmed by the attention, and the incredible number of people in the crowd. I realise that I have probably never seen so many people in one place. On television, maybe, but never in a place where I’m standing. I can feel my breathing getting faster, until I’m fighting panic. More and more people reach out to thank us, and I have to focus on what I’m here to do. I look straight ahead, clasp my gun tightly, and keep walking.

  Amy’s voice in my ear is a constant stream of whispered ‘thank you’s as people approach us. Her voice sounds choked, and I realise that she’s in tears.

  “Amy? You OK?”

  “I never knew, Bex. I never knew. What do they think we can do for them?”

  “We’re here for show, Amy. Walk tall. Keep walking. Give them what they want.”

  They want protectors, and they want to say thank you. They’ve been told about the brave young people who signed up to defend them, and they want to thank us for putting ourselves in harm’s way. For allowing them to continue living their lives. They’ve probably seen films of recruits in training, and major cities are constantly patrolled by people in armour like ours. They’ve also seen the same atrocities we have on the evening news.

  I tell myself to keep walking – tell Amy, too. We keep going, the centre of a moving crowd of grateful civilians.

  When the music begins, it’s a relief. The crowd turns its attention to the stage, and we’re left in peace to walk and patrol the edges of the space.

  “They’re just having fun.” Amy says eventually, wonder in her voice. “They don’t have to worry about anything. They get to come out and listen to music and dance and scream. They’re not thinking about the next attack.”

  I look around at the crowd.

  “They can only do this because we’re here. We are the ones who make this possible. It sucks for us …”

  “It really does!”

  “… but this is what we do, Amy. This is what we’ve been training for. And one day, we’ll be able to go back to this ourselves.”

  I almost believe it.

  *****

  It was dark outside the library windows as Dr Richards continued her private lesson. We huddled round the table, listening carefully to her insights, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “The rebels changed their tactics. The attacks on politicians became personal, with terrorist groups targeting well-paid ministers and demanding that they stopped taking rights and benefits from the poorest in society. There were some kidnappings. Some nasty stuff happene
d, and the government needed an excuse to crack down on everyone. Good guys and bad guys – they just wanted to take control.

  “The Crossrail bombing was the trigger. After the bombing, the government declared a state of emergency. They put themselves in power indefinitely, with the permission of the King. No more elections, no more votes. They brought back the death penalty for terror attacks. They took away civilian mobile phones, private Internet access, social media. I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but to anyone a little older than you are, that was like losing the air we breathed! They claimed that their role was to protect us until the emergency was over, but their aim was to shut down any communication that they couldn’t monitor. They tapped all the landline phones, they started reading private mail.

  “They took away our freedom, but they did it gradually, and they sold it as a good thing at every stage. No one doubted that the new terrorists were home-grown, and that it was the job of the government to stop them.”

  “So why don’t we know about any of this?” I was trying to figure out what I knew already, and how Dr Richards’ explanation fitted with my experience. I was too young to remember most of this, and I realised that before I met Margie and Dr Richards, I hadn’t been paying attention.

  “They don’t want you to know. Do you know what would happen to me if anyone overheard this conversation? The government took precautions to make sure you only ever hear their side of the story.

  “Quietly, at the height of the panic, the government took over the news. So now the Public Information Network is the only news service allowed to broadcast. We used to have dozens of news channels, and radio stations, and they all had their own views on what the government was doing. But the government couldn’t control their message if there were people out there challenging it. They sent censors to all the newspapers to make sure their news was pro-government. There are still rumours of journalists disappearing, and reporters being arrested while researching stories.”