by A. S. Hames
I feel the pain of my love for my mother. It burns in my chest. She’s done everything for me.
I think of my brother too. Is Dub right? Is Ax dead?
“The Leader will be here in twenty minutes,” the colonel says. “That gives us a little more time to practice our drill.”
“May I go to the toilet?” a volunteer says. It sounds like a worried young boy.
The colonel mumbles something then says, “Right, two minutes only!” He looks at me. “Better take Von to do his business.”
I’m glad to do so.
“Well?” Dub says, leading me by the elbow toward a grassy fringe that should suit Von.
“Well what?”
Dub rolls his eyes. “What do you mean, well what? I’m talking about the suicide squad story, dung head!”
I don’t have time for this. “I don’t believe it, Dub, okay?”
“Oh, you think Von’s last handlers are still alive?”
I can’t answer that – and, anyway, Dub’s noticed Von sniffing me.
“Why’s he doing that?”
I take the guardian’s candy from my pocket and unwrap it. I give it to Von, who takes it, chews it twice and swallows it whole.
“I would have eaten that,” Dub says.
“Oh. Sorry.”
He grumbles but then brightens a little. “So which of us gets to present Wolfie to the Leader?”
It’s something I hadn’t thought about. But hold on! Presenting Von would be a big thing. Better than arrogant Mr Nine-Zero’s poster and better than the poem I’m due to recite. Especially if the Leader offered encouraging words no-one else could hear. Words you could report as anything you wanted. Would I lie about something the Leader said to me? Would I twist his words to save Ma? I think I would.
So it can’t be Dub presenting Von and not just because he’s yawning like a lazy dog. Although seeing him do so only makes me yawn too. I hope I don’t yawn in the presence of the Leader.
“You two!” the sergeant yells.
He’s waving us back, so I give Von’s leash a little tug and we return – with me ignoring anything coming from Dub regarding me handing him our wolf.
We’re soon back into ranks, with the wolf and me on the end of the front row. Now I have a little hope. Maybe this could turn out well after all. I can even think about my poem.
Wander down any road,
Until you find a town,
A number will present itself
Permanence abounds…
“Ten-shun!” the sergeant yells.
We do so, as best we can.
“A bunch of three-year-olds could do better! Stand easy! And… atten… shun!”
We snap to attention, but again it’s not good. Maybe some of us are just too young for this. But what do you do when this is all the town can offer? Certainly, it would be impossible to raise a fifth fighting volunteer group after we’re gone.
“Ten-shun!” the sergeant yells.
We try again and Colonel Five-Five smiles encouragement. And we try again. And again. And fifty times more.
Eventually, the colonel is either impressed or bored. Either way, he ends our practice. “Sergeant, bring out the prisoner.”
I’d all but forgotten about that. As I watch the unshaven criminal being brought out in his underwear with tape over his mouth, I feel bad. What sequence of events brought him to this miserable point? Did he have someone report him for money?
“Hey!” the sergeant cries. The prisoner is trying to wriggle free but he’s brought to order by three guards who tie him to the execution frame at the side of the town hall.
So – we are ready.
We wait another hour in readiness with me giving Von two walks to stop him becoming restless. And then, finally, it’s the moment that should have been the proudest of my life, but no longer can be.
The Leader’s dusty black car has a lively little Flag of the Nation attached to the roof, although it ceases to flutter once the vehicle stops, as there’s no breeze. A guard rushes to the rear door and pulls it open. He bows, as do we all. When we rise, the Leader of the Nation hasn’t stepped out. He’s sent someone in his place. A bald man in his sixties in a lightweight blue suit.
My heart sinks. Colonel Five-Five hurries over to the car.
Being on the near end of our rank, I’m probably the only one close enough to hear him ask about the Leader.
“His plans changed two days ago, colonel. How come you never seem to get the correct information up here?”
“With respect, sir, radiophone communications can be heard by the enemy. That’s why we rely on messengers.”
“Just get on with it. We have important matters to discuss.”
The colonel comes over and addresses us loud and clear.
“The Representative has spoken with the Leader of the Nation and shook him by the hand. We may not look upon the Sun but we do look upon the Moon reflecting the Sun. Who is overjoyed to see the Representative?”
“Me!” is the cry from the ranks. But my cry is quieter than most. My thoughts are more with Ma than the Representative. My hope is gone now.
A girl commences singing.
“The Leader is our guide.
His presence lights the way.
Without him, we’d be lost
O never come that day…”
I’m nervous. It’ll soon be my turn – except the Representative doesn’t wait for the song to end. He just hurries over to the execution viewing podium. It seems my poetry recital has been ditched.
The sergeant offers the Representative the crime sheet. The Representative waves it away.
“You are hereby found guilty of Crimes against the Nation,” he declares, very likely simplifying what was written down.
I’m grateful for the tape across the Enemy of the Nation’s mouth, but I wish they would cover his eyes, because they’re saying too much.
“Trooper Essie-Jon Three-Zero,” the sergeant says, “step forward.”
Essie does so.
“Trooper, raise your weapon.”
Despite practicing, Essie is still unsteady and uncoordinated.
“Take aim…”
Being a busy farmer, Ma is much fitter than most of the men in Forbearance. I reckon she’s among the trees in the forest over the river by now. And there are plenty of trees there.
“Steady, boy, steady…”
There’s a silver birch on the far side of the square. Last year, I saw two little birds in it. I think they were squabbling.
“Fire!”
Krak!
The bang draws a gasp from the crowd and scares my imaginary birds from the tree. The prisoner has lost an elbow and I’m guessing any birds visiting Forbearance this year would have become somebody’s dinner.
“Reload!”
Who started the war? There would have been a moment. An incident. Why haven’t we been told the details?
“Fire!”
Krak!
A miss.
I bet the Representative knows the actual moment the war started.
“Step closer, boy! And blow yer nose before you reload!”
The town square hasn’t seen this many people before. Not even when we’ve gathered under the specially-lit street lamps on the eve of New Year to sing in praise of the Leader.
“Now ready yourself, boy!”
I look away. I don’t want to watch. In fact, I reckon you could divide the crowd equally between those watching and those not watching. Although… there’s a third category. About one in ten are watching with extreme interest. And here’s a thing. The group not watching is two-thirds women, while the group watching with extreme interest is almost all men.
I suppose it could prove to be useful statistical knowledge should I live to be a schoolteacher.
“Fire!”
Krak!
“The Enemy of the Nation is dead!” the sergeant cries. “Long live the Leader!”
The crowd applauds. Essie looks ill. I don�
��t want to see the damage, but I can’t help a quick glimpse. The tape over the prisoner’s mouth has been punched through. There’s blood coming out and I feel sick.
After the Representative departs, most agree that it has been a great day for the town and for us new troopers. I try to share in that warm glow, but I feel separate. Even so, young Essie is buoyed by all the back slaps he’s receiving.
“Next, he’ll be having himself a woman!” one volunteer jokes. “You’d better watch out, Jay!”
It’s not the kind of wit I appreciate and I’m glad to see none of the other boys laugh out loud, even if some fail to suppress a smirk.
Dub nudges me, which I dislike.
“As soon as we get to camp, I’m off,” he says, “It’ll be easier to slip away once we’re with the other volunteers.”
“What are you talking about, Dub?”
“I’ve seen you thinking the same thing. At least, that’s what I thought. Actually, forget what I said.”
He cannot seriously intend to escape.
“I’m going to wait by the trucks,” I tell him, keen to get away.
By the open-back troop trucks, I find the third wolf-handler, Taff-Son Four-Four – Taff to most of us. He’s a trusting, inexperienced fourteen-year-old boy from school with thick ginger hair and a habit of communicating through questions.
“How long before we leave?” he asks.
“Soon,” I say.
He takes Von from me and quickly has his leash off. Before I can caution him, he throws a stick for the wolf to chase, like it’s a game. Just as I’m thinking Von’s no stick-chaser, our wolf goes off to retrieve it.
The game doesn’t last long, though, because we’re soon being issued with small survival backpacks and loaded onto the trucks. Two trucks for the volunteers, one for the regular soldiers. The officers, sergeants, and a couple of administrative people go in the cars.
While me, Von, Taff, and a kid called Obie sit quietly by the tail gate, Dub leers at a couple of girls on the truck alongside. Some of them laugh and leer back. I don’t like that kind of thing so I adjust the straps on my backpack and admire the lightweight design. We’ll be carrying them everywhere, so it’s good they hardly weigh anything.
The truck engines thunder into life and we begin to move out. Slowly at first, but then we gradually pick up speed. I can only marvel at the air-filled tires taking away all the bumps and thumps. It’s a pity such vehicles are made and used mainly in the south, and are so rarely seen this far north.
With the townsfolk waving, we wave back and most of the girls break into a high-pitched chorus of The Leader is an Eagle (He hovers on the Wind of Truth). I’d normally join in, but not this time.
It’s strange watching my old life shrink into the distance. The people, the buildings, the river, and the painted sign:
Welcome to Town 117
(FORBEARANCE)
Population 5,055.
I think of Ma, either hiding in the forest over the river or about to be brought in for execution after we’ve left. I have a vision of gunfire shattering her elbow and smashing her teeth through the back of her head.
“Take one last look,” Dub says.
I do and I fear I might never see my mother or my home again. And I’m not alone in that – I can actually sense dozens of minds feeling the same way. To the east lie the mountains. Beyond them, Heroic Battles and Never Ending Glory await us.
At my feet, Von is settling. I stroke his head and he looks up at me, worried, like he knows the truth of what’s coming.
“It’s okay,” I say, and I give him half a cookie from his ration.
As he crunches down on it, I take my rifle and study the slight dent in the barrel… and I become lost in thoughts concerning the Front and its dangers, and Dub’s suicide squad story, and what became of Von’s previous handlers.
8. The 117-309 Group
BEN
A six-hour drive has given us various cramps, pains, and headaches. With just a brief stop at a regional store for fuel and to use the foot pump to put more air in the tires, we were unable to fully stretch and move around as normal. But now our discomfort is at an end. A long way south-west of home, we’re alongside a gushing river in a green valley.
Our training camp is one of four strung out alongside the river at roughly one a mile. Ours is Camp 117-309, although I’ve never heard of Town 117 (Forbearance). That’s no surprise though – the Nation is made up of a thousand towns.
I suppose my biggest thought was about me and Kim, and what we might do once we were allocated a tent – but I needn’t have concerned myself as we were quickly separated.
With that consideration removed, I’m stuck with the disappointment of setting eyes on the Forbearance group. They don’t look any older or any more deadly than us. Frankly, I don’t see any of us putting fear into the enemy.
JAY
A three-hour drive has taken us through the mountain passes and dropped us eighty miles east of Forbearance. It’s now just after seven p.m. and I’m in a stupidly small tent with Dub and Taff. To make things worse, we have to share with three boys from the south side of Forbearance who seem to enjoy nothing more than farting and using intimidating language.
Why am I stuck in a tent with five males? Because some captain decided each tent needed a senior, and I’ve been appointed as such. The sergeant said, “if any of them tries to touch you, stab him in the balls.”
They taunt each other endlessly. Right now, they’re laughing about their kit containing a shaving blade, and joking that the smallest of them won’t need it for a few years yet – when, in truth, none of them have anything to shave off.
Trying to ignore my junior charges, I think of Ma hiding many miles away in the forest over the river. And I think of Mr Nine-Zero and our farm. I feel I’m in the wrong place.
“Too clever to talk to us?” the tallest of the southsiders says to me.
Seeing as they’re sitting facing Dub, Taff, and me across the cramped tent, it feels like a challenge.
“I’m not too clever,” I say.
Tallboy jabs a finger in my direction.
“Don’t think because you went to school, you’re better than us.”
“I don’t.”
“Good. I’m glad we got that straight.”
“Jay’s a prize-winning poet,” Taff says.
Oh great. Thanks Taff.
“Poetry is pointless and useless,” Tallboy says.
“Yeah, well I can drive and fix a tractor, too,” I tell him.
“Careful,” the smallest of the southsiders says, “she’ll be an officer before long.”
“I’m bored,” Dub says. “Everyone shut up before I punch some faces.”
It goes quiet. Dub’s threats always carry weight.
I think of him working on our farm, and the wind blowing through his blond hair. And I think of Ma. Then I realize that the smallest of the southsiders is staring at my breasts, even though I’m wearing a blouse and bosom binding.
“Take your eyes of my chest,” I tell him, “or I’ll report you to the sergeant.”
As far as I know, Ma is alive. So why let myself be constantly distracted? It’s not like I can go into battle worrying about her. I’ll have to stay alert to survive. Only then will I be able to go home and put everything right.
The tent flap is pulled open. It’s a sergeant-clerk armed with blank forms.
“Okay, who do we have in here?”
“Jay-Ruth Two-Five, sergeant.” I get the feeling it was only ever going to be me or Taff to respond first.
The sergeant repeats it as he jots it down. “Jay Ruth Two Five. Town?”
“117. Forbearance. North side.”
The southsiders sneer.
“Educated?”
“Yes, sergeant, and I’ve been asked to act as the senior trooper here.”
Now it’s Dub sneering.
The sergeant hands me a circular badge – a leading trooper’s badge, no less.
>
“Next of kin?” he asks.
“Mrs Tam-Ruth Two-Five, Farmhouse Two, Forbearance.”
He takes a small white card from a pack and writes on it with a black marker. Then he hands me the card. It’s marked 117-25-JR.
“Keep it in your top left pocket. Do not lose it.”
“Is this in case we get shot?” I ask.
He ignores me and looks at Taff. “Name?”
“Taff-Son Four-Four…”
Once he’s finished taking everyone’s details and left for the next tent, the southsiders laugh.
“Is this in case we get shot?” Tallboy says in a squeaky voice. This provokes more laughter.
“It’s to prove you’re not a spy,” Dub says. “Look at the holes.”
We examine our cards. There are two small holes punched into the bottom edge.
“We probably get a new one every few days,” Dub says. “If we live.”
I follow his logic. “So if someone turned up with the holes in the wrong place…”
There’s a silence now. Holes in cards might sound like a game but we all know this is serious.
“See the way that little kid shot up that EN?” Tallboy says.
“Yeah,” the third southsider says, his eyes coming alive, “amazing how his elbow splattered everywhere. Bits of bone and stuff.” He then stuns me by taking out a small piece of bone from his pocket. “A piece of elbow,” he says.
“You can’t keep that,” I say.
To my surprise, he leans forward and yanks my ear. “It’s a keepsake, so keep out of it.”
There’s a silence while he resumes his position opposite. My ear hurts but I’m determined not to show it. I’m just disappointed in myself for letting him do it.
“They shouldn’t make little kids shoot people,” Dub says.
“I woulda done a better job,” the southside bone collector says. “You wouldn’t see me hitting the roof behind the target.”
There’s a banging on our tent.
“Go get your food.”