The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  They don’t like being called dolls. There are several scowls on the faces in front of me. I make a mental note to make sure they are clear on this point.

  I switch my attention back to the whipping boy. His eyes widen as he realises that this isn’t over.

  “Saunders! Step out here.”

  He slouches out from the line of recruits, still willing the universe to ignore him. He’s making it so easy for me to get them all quaking in their shiny new boots.

  “Stand up straight, Saunders!”

  He twitches his backbone a little. His shoulders still sag, and he looks as if he’d like the ground to swallow him up.

  “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.”

  He straightens his shoulders, and I realise that he really is trying. This is honestly the best that he can do. I roll my eyes and shake my head. We have some long, torturous months ahead of us.

  “It’s like working with fluffy kittens. Grow some backbone, recruits!”

  “Sir!”

  He gives it his best shot, and it’s a big improvement.

  “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.”

  He stands clumsily at ease, and puts his hands out to take the gun. He looks terrified. His grip is hopeless, and he moves his hands along the barrel, trying to figure out how to hold it. I’m about to grab his hands and put them in the right places, when he seems to get it. He grasps the pistol grip firmly, and cradles the barrel with the other hand. His sudden confidence takes me by surprise.

  “Not bad, recruit. Not bad.”

  I take his hands and correct his grip, just enough to make him doubt his own ability. His fingers are ink-stained, and his fingernails are chewed. He watches everything I do, making sure he knows how to get it right next time. His quick, shallow breathing is close to panic.

  I take his shoulders and turn him round to face the group. He really is tiny, compared to the rest of them. Tiny, and fragile.

  “This is a good grip. Watch and learn!”

  Miller and Jackson and the other Senior Recruits are waiting as I split the kids into teams. I assign each team a Senior Recruit and a gun, and take the last team myself. The fluffy kittens follow every move as I show them how to take the rifle apart, clean it, maintain it and rebuild it.

  As I work, I teach them the mantra.

  “Safety on. Unclip the magazine, put it down. Unclip the pistol grip. Slide the handguard off the barrel, unscrew the barrel from the gun. Slide the stock up and away from the central section. Slide and unclip the elements of the central section. Lay them out neatly on the table.”

  I demonstrate several times, taking the gun apart, laying out the individual pieces, putting them back together. Some of the kids are whispering the mantra, desperate to memorise the actions.

  I let them have a go. And it’s all I can do not to laugh.

  There’s the kid who gets everything in the wrong order. There’s the kid who knows the mantra, but can’t make his hands stop shaking to take the gun apart. There’s the smart kid who thinks she knows what she’s doing, but forgets to clip the stock back into the gun before she attaches the pistol grip.

  It’s like watching a troupe of clowns.

  Every time they get something wrong, I shout a little louder. By the end of the session, they’re all shaking, and they all know how much they have to learn.

  The whistle sounds for lunch. I call the recruits back into lines, and make sure they know how disappointed I am.

  “That was pathetic! None of you is capable of handling a gun. None of you is competent enough to maintain a gun. None of you should be anywhere near a gun.”

  And if I had anything to do with it, you wouldn’t be.

  “But the commander wants you out there, looking competent and scary. And to be scary, you need guns. We will train, and train, and practice, and practice until every last one of you can handle a gun. Maintain, clean, hold, and use a gun. Look after your own gun, and look as if you know what you’re doing with it.

  “We are a very long way from that point. You have a lot of work to do.”

  I can see their shoulders sagging. The despair kicking in.

  “Dismissed!”

  And they slouch off to the dining room like injured puppies.

  *****

  I left school when I turned 16, as soon as they’d let me out of the doors. I went straight to the indoor market and found a job, cleaning and doing the filthiest tasks at the butcher’s shop. Ken, the butcher, told me I wouldn’t last a day. All the other girls he’d hired walked out after an hour. But I’m not other girls.

  After a month of mopping blood and breaking bones and scooping chicken guts into bags, I demanded a pay rise. He was so shocked, he agreed – but it wasn’t enough to leave home. Dad still thought I was at school. Where he thought I was going at five in the morning is anyone’s guess. He probably never noticed.

  I worked, all the days I could. After work, I ran. I had a circuit of the park I could do in the dark, in the rain, in the snow, and it kept me sane. I’d end the run with a takeaway on a park bench with the other school dropouts, and when I went home to get some sleep I’d leave them there, drinking cheap lager and picking fights.

  I got into a few fights to start with, with boys who thought they could take advantage, and girls who didn’t like how I was keeping myself fit and holding down a job. We’d wind each other up, but most of the time we’d laugh it off, play-fight, and see who could swear the loudest to shock the passers-by. It was good to let go, and let off steam occasionally, but I would always be at work on time the next day. No point letting Ken down and losing my job.

  The others seemed happy with this life. No ambition. No running, either. Most of them couldn’t run for the bus, let alone keep up with me on a lap of the park. And I’d creep home at night, and hope that Dad was out, or already drunk enough not to care where I’d been. I’d had 16 years of practice, avoiding his shouting and his fists, but every night was a gamble. He could still hurt me if he wanted to.

  I paid the rent, and kept us in the house. Who he thought was paying it, I don’t know. Maybe he assumed he’d paid it himself.

  And then the bombings got worse, and the government advertised for new soldiers. Good pay, proper training, and a chance at a real career. Plus they didn’t care what exams you’d passed – they just wanted volunteers to fight their war. On my 18th birthday, I quit my job and signed up.

  Ken nearly cried. He’d got used to me turning up and doing everything he asked me to do, every working day for two years. He kept saying that he wouldn’t be able to find another helper like me, and asking what he was supposed to do now. I told him about the dropouts and their takeaways, and sent him to the park bench to find someone new. I don’t know who got my job, but good luck to them.

  I made the mistake of telling Dad I was leaving. I’ve never seen him so angry, and so afraid. We shouted and screamed at each other – 18 years of resentment and failure makes for a good fight. When he threatened me with a kitchen knife, I locked myself in my room and methodically packed my bag. I could hear him shouting and raging downstairs, but I knew how to stay calm, and concentrate on making sure I could carry everything I would need.

  When I came downstairs to leave, he’d dropped the knife. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, weeping like a small child.

  He begged me not go. He called me his ‘little girl’. He said sorry, more times that I could count.

  It wasn’t enough. I walked out, caught the bus, and never looked back.

  Assault

  We have a recruit with a mother complex.

  One of the posh kids thinks she’s here to look after everyone else. Wipe their noses, tie their shoelaces, cheer them through the assault course as if they’re in kindergarten.

  We need to tra
in these newbies into a proper fighting force. The Recruit Training Service exists to turn kids into soldiers who can take their guns into high streets and shopping centres and hospitals and schools, and command respect. This is my shot at a real promotion, and I’m stuck with Mr Sleepy and Mummy Ellman.

  Give me strength.

  Jackson’s not happy either. We’re putting the recruits through the assault course together, and most them can’t climb the wall, can’t run, and can’t figure out what they’re supposed to do next. They’re all flailing arms and legs and no sense of balance.

  Jackson’s putting the fear into them every time they fall, or give up on an obstacle. I’m making sure they get to the end, and making sure they know that we’re watching.

  The third team sets off, and I see that Jackson is sending me a gift. Mr Sleepy and Mummy Ellman are running together, alongside two more hopeless recruits. I jog back from the finish line to watch their progress.

  This is the worst team yet. Sleepy and Ellman manage to get past the cargo net and the water, and get each other onto the wall, but then they turn round and help the other two up. They don’t seem to understand that this is a timed exercise. That their performance matters.

  Jackson shouts at them to hurry up, and Ellman’s off, getting herself across the rope line, jumping straight onto the zip wire, and crawling under the barbed wire. She’s actually not bad, and not too slow, but her team is struggling behind her.

  Jackson tracks her through the obstacles, jogging alongside the course, so he’s on hand when she realises she’s left her friends behind. She’s about to run through the last obstacle when she turns instead, and starts shouting encouragement. She even starts moving back towards her team, shouting at them that they can do it, that they just need to keep going.

  She doesn’t seem to hear Jackson’s whistle as he charges over to where she’s standing. She’s still walking back towards the others, still shouting at them. Her shock when she’s suddenly face to face with Jackson is comical. She jumps, and her whole body stiffens.

  “Turn around, recruit!” He bellows in his best parade-ground voice. “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!”

  That should be enough. That should give her a clue that her behaviour is not appropriate. She should turn around and run towards me, and towards the finish. But she doesn’t. She plants her feet, squarely in front of Jackson, and yells at her friends over his shoulder. I can’t help putting my head in my hands for a second. I know Jackson too well to think that he’s going to put up with this.

  His reaction is quick. He aims a swift kick at her shin, catches her just below her knee, and down she goes into the mud. She looks up at him, indignant, while he screams at her to get up.

  This is it. This is where we need to take the fight out of her. Go on. Give him a reason to hurt you, Ellman.

  But she stands up, turns round, and jogs through the last obstacle towards me, favouring her leg where Jackson’s kick landed. She reaches the line, and turns back to watch the rest of the team planting their faces in the mud under the barbed wire. I expect her to shout, to encourage them again, but she’s silent. She’s shivering, and she wraps her arms around herself as she waits for them to finish. Her clothes are soaked from the water obstacle, and she’s covered in mud. She looks pathetic, just standing there.

  Does she get it? Is that all it took? It can’t be that easy. She stands a chance of being good at this, if we can pull her away from this need to mother everyone else. I need to reinforce Jackson’s lesson, let her know that her friends aren’t worth the effort.

  I walk up behind her and keep my voice low. She jumps as she feels my breath on her neck.

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

  She doesn’t react, and waits there, shivering, until the others have crossed the line.

  *****

  “I don’t want to hear this, Ketty. You know that.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “We need these recruits to be independent. Autonomous. Concerned about the TV cameras and the civilians they’re on show for. I do not need to hear about good recruits throwing their skills away to help the ones who won’t even try.”

  Commander Bracken sits back from the desk in his private office. I’m standing at ease in the middle of the small room, listening to a lecture I’ve heard a hundred times before. I’ve just delivered my report on the new arrivals, as requested, but the commander doesn’t like my conclusions.

  “It’s your job to sort this out. I’m relying on you to get these kids trained and ready for front-line work. I don’t want to hear about kids who aren’t up to standard. Get them there. I don’t want to hear about kids who would rather be nurses, or nannies to the others. Make them understand. I don’t want teams, Ketty. I don’t want Kumbaya round the camp fire, and hugs, and BFFs. We’re not making happy memories here. I need individuals who can go on patrol with anyone, look out for anyone, and behave professionally for the cameras.”

  I’ve heard all this before, but I’ve also learned that it pays to keep the commander in the loop, even if he thinks he doesn’t want to know what goes on here. It pays to make sure he knows how hard this job is. It pays to make him see how hard we’re working.

  I try to remind him every week that training clueless recruits is tough, and challenging – and that I’m up to the job. It was bad enough when the trainees wanted to be here, but the new kids are so much harder to motivate.

  “Prove that you can get me trained, interchangeable robots, and I’ll move you up the chain of command. Get these kids in shape, and I’ll recommend you for promotion. Fail, and I’ll happily leave you here to run assault courses and shout at incompetent recruits forever.

  “Don’t bring your problems to me. Sort them out. I don’t have time for every bruised knee and every sticking plaster. If you’ve got kids who want to be kind and helpful, make sure they know that’s not what they’re here for.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Dismissed.” He waves his hand towards the door, and I spin on my heel and leave him to his work. I’m smiling as I leave his office. That promotion is within reach, even working with these schoolchildren. I just need Jackson to back me up.

  Iron fists and steel toe caps. We make a good team.

  *****

  Jackson rocked into camp the same day as me, totally sure of himself. Expensive jeans, expensive trainers, and an attitude that earned him a reprimand before the commander had even finished his introductory briefing.

  After dinner on the first night, he found me in the corridor. He slammed my shoulder into the wall and tried to steal a kiss. He got the benefit of 18 years of my learning to defend myself, from my knee and my fists. I left him lying in the corridor, and went to bed with a clear conscience.

  The next day, after breakfast, he found me again. I was ready for another fight, but instead he held out his hand.

  “I’m Jackson. And I’m sorry. Can we start over?”

  “Ketty”, I said, bracing for another attack. I didn’t shake his hand.

  He looked uncomfortable, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “Do you have something to say?” I looked him in the eyes, challenging him to answer. By the look of his face, I’d given him a black eye the night before.

  He couldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Yeah. I’m … sorry. I shouldn’t have done that last night.”

  “You’re right. You shouldn’t.”

  “I’m not used to …”

  “To what? Treating people like human beings? Being civil? Asking permission?”

  “… to girls who know what they want.”

  Girls?

  “Women, Jackson. Women. There are no girls here. And yes, if we’re here, we know what we want. We’ve signed up to train and fight. You want another black eye? Then lay a finger on me
again. Are we clear?”

  He nodded, looking at his feet, and brushed his fingertips over his bruised face.

  “Yeah. We’re clear.”

  “And don’t let me catch you hassling anyone else, either. No one needs your creepy, entitled attitude. We’ll all need to fight together, when the training’s done. Don’t be the guy we leave behind.”

  He nodded again.

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  I turned to walk away, but turned back when I realised what he’d said.

  “And a girl who doesn’t know what she wants? That’s fine. But trust me – you really don’t know what she wants. So keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Okay, okay!” He lifted his head and finally looked at me, his velvet brown eyes meeting mine, hands out of his pockets and held up in mock surrender. “You’re something else, you know that? I’ve never met anyone like you.” He touched his face again. “I think I’m going to enjoy training with you. I think you’re going to make this place interesting.”

  He held out his hand again, and this time, I shook it. His grip was firm and businesslike. Respectful. He nodded, dropped my hand, and walked away towards his dorm room, glancing back over his shoulder and smiling as he went.

  Test

  One week into training the new recruits, and there’s a change to the briefing session. The commander’s been sent a video file for the recruits to watch, and they want everyone to pass a test on it afterwards. I don’t know what happens to any recruits who fail, but that’s not my problem. I’m just running the briefing.

  The recruits are all waiting in the dining room when I walk in and switch on the TV. Sleepy and Ellman have formed their own little crew, and they’re sitting together, as usual. The others seem more flexible about who they sit with, but everyone’s paired up, or grouped together at their tables. We need to train them out of this habit.