Chapter 2
Sharon took her time strolling down the aisle to her seat at the back of the
bus. The air was heavy with the scent of male perspiration - quite
understandable, she supposed, under the circumstances - and the naked young men
that filled the seats were now beginning to look very meek and subdued indeed.
Other than a few scattered sobs and sniffles, they were almost perfectly silent.
It seemed that being stripped, chained, blindfolded, and placed under the
constant threat of corporal punishment was enough to break the spirit of just
about any bloke.
Some of the nude bodies that surrounded her were so well built that they could
have served as models for a Renaissance sculptor, and Sharon paused to
appreciate them as she passed by. Sometimes she reached out to feel the hard
muscles of a man's bicep or shoulder, or brush a stray lock of hair back into
place, or even pinch a small male nipple between her fingertips. That sort of
thing was actually encouraged; the poor lads were supposed to be made to feel
like property, like objects, and casual, possessive touching helped to drive
home the message. And besides, their toned masculinity felt so good underneath
her hands.
"Are the boys behaving themselves?" another officer asked as Sharon returned to
her seat. Rebecca was a plump, cheerful woman with masses of dark ringlets and
an impish sense of humour, but that morning she had terrorised the conscripts as
effectively as anyone. She wasn't afraid to use her whip, and she could yell
like a drill sergeant.
"Oh, they're being good," Sharon replied. "No talking or fussing or anything. I
think we put the fear of God into them after our little midday break." Sharon
had almost felt sorry for the miscreants as they groaned and pleaded under the
lash, but really, what did they expect to happen when they talked back to the
officers and refused to follow instructions?
"No wanking?" said Rebecca archly. Sharon looked at her in surprise.
"Would they really do that? Knowing that we're watching?"
"Oh, probably not yet. But just wait a week or so and see what happens. They'll
start to get desperate. They'll be doing it with themselves, maybe with each
other - and with us, in their imaginations. It's just the way their minds work.
We'll have to keep a close eye on them to make sure they don't get away with
anything."
"Well, if you say so. You're the one who worked in a prison for three years."
Rebecca laughed. "You were a bartender. I'd think you'd know all about lonely
men and their problems."
"Not many had problems that involved being locked up under guard for weeks on
end." She sighed. "Say, you don't think we're being too rough on them, do you? I
know they need a firm hand and all that, but some of those boys look absolutely
terrified. I don't like to think that we're traumatising them or anything."
"The average young man these days needs a little trauma in his life, don't you
think? Don't you dare feel guilty. We're just giving them the discipline they
need and deserve, and probably should have had all their lives. This only comes
as such a shock to them because they're used to having everything their own way,
day in and day out. It's really a wonderful opportunity for them to get a stiff
dose of reality. The tougher you are with them, the more grateful they'll be
five or ten years down the road." She smiled mischievously. "Besides, it's so
much fun. Did you notice those teenage girls waving at the bus and blowing
kisses, just before we got out of town? They loved what they were seeing, and
I'll bet it drove the men crazy. They know they're not going to get their hands
on a woman for a long, long time."
"But we can get our hands on them whenever we want, of course. It's wonderfully
unfair, isn't it?"
"Got something on the radio," announced another guard from the seat behind them,
pulling off her headphones. "They say that three hundred and seventy-two lads in
our zone turned themselves in on time, and another forty or so showed up late.
That means a hell of a lot of non-compliance - almost twenty percent."
"This is why they need to be conscripted in the first place," sighed Rebecca.
"No respect for rules at all."
"What are they going to do about it, then?" asked Sharon.
"They've got policewomen out looking for the silly sods right now. Apparently
they've already taken dozens of them into custody. A lot of them were just
sitting at home, hoping they'd somehow get away with it."
"So what's going to happen to them?"
"Same thing that happens to the rest of the conscripts. They'll be
strip-searched and transported to the camp in restraints. It's just that it'll
be lady coppers doing it, instead of us. But when they arrive I expect we'll get
to punish them."
Rebecca grinned. "Can't wait."
"You might not have to," said Sharon suddenly. "I think we've arrived. Time to
look tough again." She grinned conspiratorially, then squared her broad
shoulders and put on what she hoped was a cold, intimidating expression.
"Not for a little bit," said the guard with the radio. "I heard Sergeant Hallee
say we were going to wait a few minutes before unloading the lads."
"What for?" asked Rebecca.
"Why, to see if any of them are stupid enough to yell out questions about what's
going on. If they do, they'll have to be punished."
***
Richard was miserable by the time the bus shuddered to a halt. His legs were
cramped and stiff from hours of being made to sit still, and the hard seat -
considerably less comfortable than the padded ones he'd seen at the very back
and very front, where the guards were clustered - made his buttocks ache. It
hadn't been so bad on the motorway, but eventually they'd passed onto uneven
dirt roads that made the bus constantly rock and bounce. Despite the hunk of
stale bread and half-cup of water he'd been given at lunchtime, he was hungry
and thirsty, and he was beginning to feel the need to urinate again. The air
stank of nervous sweat, the temperature felt uncomfortably warm despite his
nudity, and he didn't like the way the narrowness of the seat forced his body
into contact with that of the equally naked black conscript who sat chained
beside him. And he was terrified. At lunch some of the men had rebelled; he
hadn't found out whether it was the meagre rations, the fact that they'd only
been allowed to go to the toilet in full view of their female overseers, or the
blindfolds they'd had put on when it was time to re-board the bus. They'd been
thrown down right there on the side of the road, about half a dozen of them, and
flogged mercilessly while passing motorists slowed down to get a better look and
even in one case snap photos. Everyone had been very well behaved after that.
The bus was no longer moving, but he sat where he was, waiting for instructions
or a firm hand on his arm. From outside he could hear barking dogs, women
shouting, the occasional crack of a whip. During the ride Sergeant Hallee, a
middle-aged officer from Bangladesh who had said she would be acting as their
overseer during the "entry phase" of their conscription, had told them they were
going to some sort of training camp. Apparently they had to learn to be good
slaves before actually being put to work. Thanks to the blindfold, he had no
idea where they were. It could be anywhere within a few hours' drive of
Birmingham. Were they ever going to get moving? His legs ached more than ever.
Finally the doors of the bus creaked open, and Hallee's firm, lightly accented
voice broke the silence. "We have arrived at Camp Thatcher," she announced,
unnecessarily. "The officers will be coming by to remove your blindfolds. When
yours is off, you will rise and exit the bus." Richard heard the clank of chains
from near the front, accompanied by the occasional chivvying slap and
exasperated "Move along, lad." When one of the officers - the big one, with the
dark curly hair - freed him from his blindfold he immediately got to his feet,
ignoring the sudden pain in his cramped thighs, and shuffled toward the front of
the bus. Strong hands helped him down the stairs and out.
He was seized at once and marched over to where the rest of the naked conscripts
from his bus stood in a sodden, unhappy cluster under the steadily falling rain.
An officer began unfastening his restraints, a welcome surprise.
"Stand still and stay quiet once these are off," she said warningly. "Just take
a look around before you even think of doing anything stupid. You couldn't get
out of here in a million years." He nodded meekly and followed her suggestion,
letting his eyes sweep slowly around Camp Thatcher.
What he saw overwhelmed and frightened him. The camp seemed to consist of an
enormous open space surrounding a small central cluster of buildings. Everywhere
he looked were more buses, more conscripts, and more officers - dozens and
dozens of them, maybe hundreds, shouting and cracking those damned whips as they
herded their naked charges from place to place or directed them in any of a
dozen different tasks. Richard saw men unloading supplies, setting up enormous
white tents, and digging holes and trenches; others were disappearing into the
central buildings. It seemed they were being required to build their own prison
camp from the ground up, and none of the officers was lifting a finger except to
direct the straining conscripts or encourage faltering men with a sharp crack of
the whip. The whole nightmarish scene was surrounded by two concentric fences
that had to be ten metres high, and topped with cruel barbed wire. There were
towers of some sort along the perimeter, and the space between the fences was
patrolled by pairs of officers with German shepherds whose deep, menacing
barking provided a savage counterpoint to the human sounds all around Richard.
There was only one gate, heavily guarded and flanked by two of those towers.
More buses were lined up outside it, and there had to be well over a thousand
conscripts in the camp already. Richard didn't need a second look to know that
the woman's advice had been absolutely correct. He would never, ever, succeed in
escaping from this place.
The whole busload of forty men had now disembarked, and stood uneasily under the
close scrutiny of their eight officers.
"Welcome to Camp Thatcher," Sgt. Hallee said briskly. "You will be sharing this
regional training facility with about three thousand other conscripts, but the
forty of you will remain under my direct supervision. We are Unit 34 - do not
forget that number. Because you belong to my unit, I run your life. I am
responsible for overseeing and disciplining you, and when the initial training
period is over I will decide whether each of you is ready to move on or needs to
be held here for further instruction. I also have a great deal of influence over
where you'll be sent afterwards, so I suggest you try to stay on my good side. I
expect orderly behaviour, strict adherence to the rules, and unquestioning
obedience at all times." Her gaze swept over them imperiously.
"What unit do you belong to?"
"Thirty-four," they chorused, grudgingly.
"Thirty-four, ma'am! Always address me and the other officers properly. I don't
tolerate disrespect. What unit?"
"Thirty-four, ma'am!"
"Right. Any questions, boys?" One man actually raised his hand, a little
nervously.
"Yes?"
"How long is the initial training period you mentioned, ma'am?"
"You don't need to know that. What you need to know is that you don't get out of
here until I say you do. Anything else?" There was a long silence. Men shuffled
uncomfortably.
"Good. While you're here you can expect hard work, drill and discipline,
starting now. You don't get to shower and eat until the camp is set up, so I
suggest you work diligently." She glanced down at some sort of document.
"Horton!"
"Yes, ma'am!" a tall blond officer near the back replied instantly.
"Get ten of these maggots in work boots, and take them to dig latrine pits." The
woman immediately began pulling men out of the crowd, seemingly at random.
"Desalle, take ten others to help unload the supply lorries, wherever they're
needed. The rest of you, over there to help with your dormitory tent. You'll be
sharing it with units 31 through 40."
Richard ended up with Desalle, the stout dark-haired woman who had removed his
blindfold on the bus; that is, he was one of the ones she grabbed and began to
herd toward the part of the camp where the white supply lorries were parked in a
tidy row. He exchanged glances with the other conscripts as they marched
together under her watchful eye. Everyone had to be thinking the same thing. No
matter how big and strong Desalle was, she was just a woman, and they were ten
to one. But there were more guards everywhere, some with dogs and tranquiliser
guns, and of course they'd be sure to come down hard on any sign of rebellion
before it could spread. Better to endure the indignities of being shouted at and
marched around naked, and maybe whipped occasionally - and wait for a better
opportunity.
"Start them at lorry sixteen," called the officer who seemed to be in charge of
the unloading operation as they approached. "We're running a little behind, so
hurry them along."
"You heard her!" Desalle roared. "Move, you useless male parasites!" One man
yelped in pain as her whip found his buttocks, and they broke into a shuffling
trot across the muddy grass. Another officer was waiting at lorry sixteen to
direct them while Desalle encouraged them in their efforts with creatively
abusive shouting and liberal use of her whip. Richard found himself lifting what
seemed to be bags of potatoes and onions down from the back of the lorry, and
passing them on to other sweating men who relayed them to the central buildings.
The bags were heavy, and with Desalle cracking her whip and screaming "Faster!
My grandmother could do better than that!" he didn't dare stop for a moment. So
this is slavery, he thought grimly, as the burning ache in his arms grew worse
and worse. Despite his best efforts, he knew he was slowing down, and he wasn't
really surprised when he felt a sudden, stinging pain across his buttocks.
"Pick up the pace, Tipper!" Desalle boomed from behind him. "This isn't a bloody
vacation at the seaside."
"But ma'am, I'm exhausted," he pleaded.
She snorted. "Nonsense. Exhausted is on your knees, vomiting and seeing stars.
Just you wait till we really put you to work. Now get on with it, you little
wanker!" She hit him again, casually, across the shoulders. Blinking back tears,
he turned back to his task.
The rest of the afternoon was a nightmare of sore muscles, stinging welts from
the whip, and seemingly endless physical labour, all played out against a harsh
background of shouted insults and orders and the incessant barking of the dogs.
After lorry sixteen there was another to be unloaded, and then another. Richard
didn't fall to his knees and vomit, but once or twice it seemed like more than a
remote possibility as the merciless Desalle kept working them at the same
relentless pace. The woman was a slave driver - quite literally, come to think
of it. The only time her stern overseer's face relaxed into a smile was when
they lifted four large steel cages down from one of the lorries, stoutly built
things that looked large enough for a man to sit or crouch in but too low for
standing up and too narrow for lying flat. Desalle laughed as they were lifted
down.
"Hoping those are for the dogs, boys? Don't worry - if you behave yourselves
this is as close to them as you'll ever have to get." There were about a score
of cages in all, emerging from several of the lorries, and they ended up in a
grim row facing the line of white dormitory tents.
But finally their task seemed to be complete, and shortly after sunset the
conscripts of unit 34 were assembled and led over to the trenches that served as
lavatories (none too soon for Richard) and then paraded to the middle of the
camp for a shower, a very close haircut, and a bowl of cold and congealing beef
stew. Ordinarily it would have revolted Richard, but after a day of hard work
and almost no food (he'd risen too late for anything resembling a proper
breakfast) he wolfed it down and was sorry there wasn't more. The water in the
shower block was actually fairly warm - probably just a detail they'd
overlooked, he thought sourly. Everything was done in a spirit of brisk
efficiency, leaving no time to appreciate the comfort of being fed, clean, and
in out of the rain. Five minutes in the shower, five more for a sour-faced blond
girl to shave most of his hair off (he was almost glad there wasn't a mirror in
the room), ten for dinner, which they had to shovel into their mouths with their
bare hands, and fifteen for washing up, toothbrushing and shaving. Sergeant
Hallee herself gave most of the orders, in a calmly assured tone that was
nothing like Desalle's bellowing outside, and when two or three bearded men
protested about being made to shave it was her whip that stung them back into
obedience. But the other officers were always ready to back up her commands,
herding the men through the whole vaguely humiliating process and hurrying them
along with shoves or well placed slaps. Richard wished more than ever for
something to wear. Being kept naked under the scrutiny of fully clothed women
was bad enough, but when they touched him - prodding him along, grabbing his
wrist or elbow to guide him through a doorway, or sometimes just reaching out to
fondle his shoulder or bottom with shockingly casual intimacy - he felt twice as
ashamed and vulnerable. And when they were led outside, still a little damp from
the showers, the evening chill made gooseflesh rise on every inch of his bare
body.
"We're putting you to bed early today," Hallee announced. "You're all sore and
tired, and we'll be waking you up before dawn tomorrow for calisthenics, so try
to get some rest. Does anyone need a last trip to the toilet?" Richard decided
he was fine, but a few of the men raised their hands. Sergeant Hallee grinned in
cold, unpitying amusement. "Then I hope you can hold it," she almost sneered.
"The dormitory overseers will punish you severely if you wet your cots. Come on,
boys - over to the tent." It had stopped raining, but the damp grass was cold on
their feet and ankles. As they moved past the row of punishment cages toward
their tent - number four, apparently - Richard was amazed to see that two or
three of them were already occupied. He got a good look at one of the prisoners,
a pudgy man who sat cross-legged with his hands cuffed behind him and some sort
of dark mass crammed between his parted lips to keep him silent, and turned
hurriedly away at the expression of abject suffering on his florid face. The
young brunette standing guard gave him a cool smile.
Bed turned out to be a narrow little cot, one of hundreds lined up in rows
within the enormous tent. Hallee and the others went off to dinner, leaving them
in the charge of another set of officers who would apparently be guarding them
as they slept. They endured a sharp lecture from a thin, humourless-looking
woman with a faint moustache - keep your cot tidy, you will be watched at all
times so don't think you can get away with masturbating or whispering to your
neighbours, when told to rise in the morning you will get up at once and stand
at attention at the foot of your cot, etc., etc. - before being led to the cots
assigned to their unit and finally allowed to crawl under the shelter of the
coarse sheets and thin blankets that had been provided for them. There were no
pillows, and because adjacent cots were actually touching one another Richard
found himself sleeping only inches from the two men flanking him, but
nevertheless he felt warm and almost comfortable for the first time since
entering the Intake Centre that morning. He was starting to think like a slave
already: cold stew made an acceptable dinner, an adequately warm shower was a
pleasant surprise, a cramped cot in which he could cover his nakedness with a
threadbare blanket seemed luxurious. His warm bedroom in his parents' house in
Birmingham might have been on the other side of the world. Two years of this, he
thought wretchedly. Two bloody years. Why couldn't I have been born a girl? He
wanted desperately to sleep, dreading the moment when he would be hauled out of
bed and marched outside for undoubtedly strenuous morning exercises, but a kind
of muted panic kept him wide awake. How on Earth was he going to survive in a
place like this, naked and subject to the lash? Terrified and sleepless, Richard
lay in the semi-darkness, listening to the snoring of the other men and the
ceaseless tread of the dormitory officers as they patrolled the aisles between
the rows of cots.
