‘Take her for processing!’ the major ordered.
Again, the restraints were placed about Jen’s wrists and ankles with as much discomfort as the last time. The journey to the processing area was even shorter than the journey from the van to the major’s desk. Jen was beginning to wonder why the guard had insisted on making her wear the restraints for such short journeys, but couldn’t bring herself to ask.
*
Still shackled, Jen was taken to one side of the processing room to have her photograph taken for the records. She was then relieved of the restraints again and brought towards the desk of the camp’s administrator. He asked the same questions that he asked all the new inmates—relevant information, such as her full name and age, weight, and height.
‘Name!’
‘Jenara Celesta Cole.’
‘Age!’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Step on the scales, please!’ the administrator ordered, pointing to the floor beside his desk. Jen did as she was told.
‘What do they read?’
‘Nine stone, six ounces,’ Jen replied.
The administrator grabbed a tape measure from the corner of his desk, stood up, and made his way round to the front.
‘Lift your arms!’ he ordered, and then wrapped the tape measure round Jen’s waist. ‘Twenty-nine inches,’ he said, reading the tape.
The administrator walked back to his desk and sat back down, writing her measurements and weight on her record card.
‘You’re dismissed!’ said the administrator.
From there, she’d been taken to the showering area and made to strip from the grey regulation uniform Myron had insisted she wear. The uniform consisted of a pair of dark grey combat trousers, a light grey vest top, a dark grey dress coat, and an oversized pair of black jackboots, all synonymous with belonging to the lower classes.
Left standing in only her underwear, Jen was prodded into one of the shower cubicles to undergo the delousing procedure. The guard began to scoop white powder from the bag he held with a long metal spoon. First he covered her front, getting it in her eyes and hair.
‘Ow! That bloody stings!’ Jen groused, rubbing her eyes.
‘Shut up and turn around!’ the guard yelled.
Jen did as she was told, not having any real choice in the matter. Another scoop of the white powder hit her back. Jen was slow to turn back around, not wishing to prolong one of the worst episodes in her young life so far. The guard was growing inpatient with Jen, to the point of wanting to exact torment on her before she had been properly processed.
‘Come on! move—I haven’t got all bloody day!’ he bellowed menacingly.
As she stepped out of the shower cubicle, the guard grabbed her arm and led her towards the uniform dispensing area. She had been spared the shackles for that part of her journey, only because it was just beyond the shower area doors.
Jen was ordered to stand behind a white line, three feet away from the counter. She was shaking with cold and the temperature was falling. The guard took his sweet time getting Jen a uniform, making her pay for being so slow to exit from the shower block.
*
It had been five minutes since Jen had left the shower block, and the guard hadn’t given her anything to wear. She was finding it difficult to keep her mouth shut; her infamous redheaded temper was eager to show itself. It hadn’t escaped the guard’s notice that she was becoming agitated with the situation. He was waiting for Jen to do something rash, giving him an excuse to have a go at her in the physical sense. She so desperately wanted to put him in his place, but knew that she would suffer for it in the long run. She was in for a rough time, without escalating her situation further. As it was, she would be lucky if she survived her stay at the camp. For now, discretion was the better part of valour.
*
Finally, after ten more minutes of making her wait, the guard tossed a set of orange prison-issue overalls and a tatty pair of straw slip-on shoes in Jen’s direction. She picked up the overalls and scrutinised them. Spotting blood and the many holes it had in it, she felt around the collar—it was still slightly damp. Jen dropped the overalls, grimacing at the thought of having to wear them and not knowing what had happened to the previous wearer.
Random executions were par for the course in all of the labour camps, with no exception to the rules. The previous wearer of Jen’s second-hand overalls had been selected from an extensive list one night prior to her arrival. He had been dragged out of sight by two of the camp’s guards and repeatedly stabbed in the chest and back; they slit his throat to make sure that the job was complete.
‘I’m not putting this blood-soaked thing on!’ Jen protested.
‘Put them overalls on now, you finicky little bitch!’ the guard boomed, clearly annoyed. ‘Else I’ll stick you like a bloody pig!’
Jen stood fast, sticking to her principles and giving little thought to the consequences of her actions. The guard walked over to Jen, tapping his cosh against his palm. Jen knew his intentions and defended herself appropriately, bringing her arms up to protect her head. But she was protecting the wrong part of her body. The guard administered a swift blow to Jen’s sternum, forcing her to her knees. Jen wrapped her arms around her midriff and curled up into a ball on the floor. She didn’t want to cry for fear of being victimised; she tried to remain as strong as she possibly could.
‘Get up! Put your overalls on NOW!’ the guard screamed in her ear.
‘OK, OK, not so bloody loud—I’ll put them on.’ Jen slowly rose to her feet and grabbed the overalls, gingerly putting them on, and grimacing as she felt the dampness of the blood on the collar touching her neck. She then put the straw slip-ons on, which she didn’t mind. They were far more comfortable than the jackboots she had been forced into wearing.
With the overalls on, Jen was placed back into her shackles for the long journey to the Nissen huts, which lay the other side of the encampment. Again, Jen could only move as fast as the shackles would let her, taking pigeon steps. The guard was not happy with the progress they were making, pushing Jen to go faster. I can’t say anything for fear of retribution, Jen reminded herself. I suppose I am going to have to ride out the storm—and I can’t appear weak!
The camp’s standard routine was to break each inmate down, both physically and mentally, and what was in store for Jen was nothing more than a flagrant act of hatred, stemming from Sir John’s mind itself. He wanted her to live through every moment of the hell that had been set aside for her.
‘Get that arse of yours moving!’ sneered the guard, still not satisfied with their snail’s pace.
‘Bollocks to you, you stupid ape!’ Jen shot back.
The guard swung his cosh once, twice, three times at the back of Jen’s knees. Screaming in pain, she crashed to the ground and rolled over with a mouthful of dirt, her eyes smouldering with hate. She spat out the dirt and quickly sprang back to her feet before the guard could take advantage of her vulnerable position.
‘Lucky for you, we’re almost there!’ snarled the guard.
The Nissen huts loomed in front of Jen, making her grateful for small mercies. She was taken towards the last hut in a row of five. Barely able to move from the beatings, she had to be dragged the remainder of the way.
The guard had brought her to the solid oak door—to the place that would become her home indefinitely. The shackles were removed, and Jen fell to the ground. The guard pulled an oversized key from his utility belt and proceeded towards the door.
On the other side, forty-nine faces stared intently as the door was swung open ferociously. Jen was picked up and thrown into the hut face first, hitting the floor hard and causing her nose to break across the bridge—the shock of which forced her into a state of unconsciousness. That was just the beginning of what lay ahead, but her fear would not be for her own well-being—it would be for Myron’s.
Chapter Five
Myron was lying in the back of the white transit van, still feeling th
e effects of the chloroform. The van had come to a stop outside the Tooting Army Processing and Training Facility, where Myron would be forced to undergo a rigorous regime of combative and survival training. From there, he would be forced into fighting in a war that he couldn’t comprehend, nor wished to participate in. To him, this was the ultimate punishment for his deception.
Myron had begun to stir as he heard the van doors swinging open. The first thing he noticed was the tremendous headache the chloroform had left in its wake. He cupped his head in his cuffed hands and groaned. Nobody had taken much notice of Myron since they picked him up from behind the Chinese restaurant. The governmental henchmen had a job to do, and the orders were that he was not to be harmed in any way. Sir John was widely regarded as a barbarian, and he did not want to be blamed for any accidents that befell his son. But if Myron were to get himself killed in action, it would exonerate Sir John from any guilt. In effect, he had sentenced his own son to death, knowing that there was a high turnover of troops in an overly bloody war.
Myron was given the time he needed to reorient his senses before the governmental henchmen took from the van into the administration area of the training facility.
*
A few minutes had passed before anyone approached Myron, who remained in a daze as two men pulled him out of the van with such force that he fell to his knees.
‘Come on! Get up—we need to get you processed as quickly as possible!’ one of the henchmen squawked. Myron rose to his feet sluggishly, and headed towards the main building of the training facility without protest.
The henchmen followed behind to make sure that he didn’t deviate from the path. Myron looked upon the many faces he had floated past—haunted faces, bled of all colour and emotion. Their grim expressions and lifeless eyes made it horribly clear they preferred to take their chances on the battlefield than be faced with the prospect of an indefinite stay in a labour camp.
The irony was that however Myron looked at it, he would probably die anyway. It didn’t matter that it wouldn’t be in one of the camps—it would be on the battlefield, which could be construed as being worse than suffering the torturous delights of the camps. At least you knew where you stood in the labour camps, and death was a natural conclusion—but on the battlefield, you didn’t know what would happen from one day to the next—death could come quick and blessedly in the guise of a surprise attack, or death might stalk you from battle to battle, the shadow of the Grim Reaper’s scythe always hovering over your shoulder. Myron, although fearful for Jen’s welfare—knowing full well where she had been taken—was envious of the fact that she would see death coming.
*
Escorted by the two henchmen, Myron entered what appeared to be an old school building and joined a long queue of people, both male and female, waiting to be processed for combat training. That was one thing Myron knew something about, and it would help him upon his entry into the training program. The commanders were always looking for experienced military personnel in any capacity, be it academy or combat experience. It wasn’t only the conscripted that had been forced into taking up arms. The veterans from battles past, all within the same war, had welcomed the chance to fight for their freedom again—knowing exactly what to expect on every turn. They had no need for the training, happily signing another three years of their lives away to gain another scar or two to go with the others they had accumulated over nearly eighteen years.
Myron’s time in the queue grew shorter. It was getting to the point where he welcomed the fact that he was about to sign away three years of his life for the sake of saving others—putting aside his insecurities about death and dying. He was of the notion that he would be well-looked-after by the men who had fought to preserve what remained of the realm. In truth, he was naïve to think the veterans would be looking out for anyone but themselves, but it was the only thing taking away his fear—and he would rather remain ignorant.
Myron came face to face with the administrations officer, whose gruff voice and gung-ho demeanour were at odds with his baby face and his skinny frame; Myron guessed that he couldn’t have been much older than himself. The no-nonsense sergeant asked the same two questions of Myron he had posed to all the new recruits.
‘Name?’ the sergeant grunted.
‘Myron Cutter.’
‘Age?’
‘Nineteen.’
He was then passed a form to fill out and give to the training camps coordinators. Myron took the document and grabbed a pencil from a tray on the desk, as he had seen the other recruits do.
He followed the crowd towards one of the back rooms, leaving his father’s henchmen to get back to their daily routine after they had released him from his cuffs. Myron had resigned himself to his new life and had no desire to make his situation worse by trying to escape his forced duty.
Upon entering the back room, Myron beheld a scene of utter bedlam. There were no orderly lines, and the noise was deafening. One of the camp’s commanding officers had entered from another part of the building, followed by his subordinate, Sergeant Major Deacon, who swiftly put an end to the chaos.
‘Qui-et! Come to order for the major!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs.
The 250-strong rabble fell silent, standing in expectant awe as the major strode regally to the centre of the room.
‘I am Major Burns. I am your mother, your father, your brother, and your sister for the next six months of your lives!’ he addressed the batch of new recruits. ‘You show me the respect that I deserve and you will be looked on in the same regard—but if you defy my sergeant major or me in any way, I will make your lives miserable. Is that understood?’
The crowd remained silent.
‘I think the words you are looking for are YES, SIR!’ the sergeant major barked. Simultaneously, the 250 voices replied with a resounding ‘YES, SIR!’
*
Instructions were given for each new recruit to pass their completed paperwork to the front for Sergeant Major Deacon’s perusal. He thumbed expertly through the thick pile, reading each name. When he came across the name ‘Cutter,’ he brought his find to the major’s attention. Major Burns’ eyes roved round the throng of recruits in front of him, their eyes downcast in fear.
‘Recruit Myron Cutter, show yourself!’ the major ordered.
Myron was a bit apprehensive to say the least, and chose to remain where he was.
‘Cutter! Front and centre!’ the sergeant major barked.
At that point, Myron was more afraid of what would happen if he didn’t step forward. He tentatively made his way to the front for his unexpected audience with the major. Myron was familiar with Army etiquette in the presence of a senior officer, and proceeded to stand to attention and salute.
‘At ease, Mr. Cutter,’ the major ordered, as he glanced down at the form that Myron had filled in. ‘Your father wouldn’t happen to be Sir John Cutter, by any chance?’
Myron only nodded, then realised he had best follow protocol. ‘Yes, sir!’ he almost shouted.
‘Good, very good,’ said Major Burns, his eyes gleaming. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
It was fortuitous for the major to have Myron among the many new recruits. He had been looking for someone like Myron to assume leadership as a squad leader, as the last person to hold that position had been a victim of foul play. Rumour had it, he had voiced his opinion on more than one taboo subject, and therefore had to be disposed of—but that was only hearsay. Another theory was that he had been shot dead by a sniper on an exercise. Myron jumped at the chance of an easy life, making the punishment that Sir John had dealt feel more like a holiday. All that Sir John had done was condemned him to the training facility.
*
Once all the formalities had been dealt with, the recruits were led away from the assembly area and taken on a route march to their new home—the training camp barracks, situated three miles away. Everyone was tired to the point of giving up completely, including Myron. They were already
scared witless from the day’s events, and the long march was designed to break whatever spirit they might have left in them.
‘Come on, Cutter—move!’ the sergeant major screamed into Myron’s ear, letting him know he wasn’t going to receive any favouritism.
Sergeant Major Deacon was a veteran of the wars, and he was respected for it. The recruits were visibly frightened of him, and chose not to defy even the simplest of his orders. Myron had been told to start leading his designated squad and to maintain a quick pace throughout, or his fifty-strong squad would be made to suffer. The position of squad leader wasn’t looking so rosy at the moment, making Myron wonder if he had made the correct decision in agreeing to take up the mantle. In reality, he had no choice but to do as he was told. He was the Army’s possession now, for the next three years, and the only way he could get out was by dying in battle.
The barracks were looming. A look of relief appeared on Myron’s face, as cramps began to set in. His waning strength hadn’t escaped the constantly-lurking sergeant major’s attention.
‘I don’t care if your father’s Sir John or John the Baptist, you’re my bitch now,’ hissed the sergeant major through gritted teeth. ‘Step it up, you little faggot, or you and your whole squad will wish that you had never been born!’
Myron stood up straight and continued at the same pace, heedless of the crippling pain gnawing at his stomach and the backs of his calves.
Going Underground Page 7