Chapter 5
The young men had been allowed to put on light orange uniforms, presumably
because of the light snow that swirled down all around them, but they still
looked rather cold and miserable as they hauled in nets full of seaweed and the
occasional fish. Their overseer of the moment, a powerfully built woman with big
shoulders and a shaven head, paced up and down the gravelly beach shouting at
them in Gaelic and frequently lashing out with the wide leather strap she
carried. Soaked with seawater and melting snow, the men's uniforms clung tight
to the skin and seemed to provide only minimal protection. The poor lads
certainly yelped and cringed quite prettily when she hit them.
"Not looking at that thing again," called Connie Tipper's husband in a tone of
exasperation, and she turned away from the computer screen with mild regret.
"I'm looking for our Richie, dear," she explained a bit defensively. "He must be
on here somewhere. I'm worried about him."
Ronald Tipper, a stout man with greying hair, shook his head. "No, love, he
ain't on there. You can only see five of the training camps on the computer.
Here, if you just right-click out of the video stream..."
Connie looked at him in total bemusement. She had her talents, but computer
literacy was not among them. Ronald obligingly took the mouse and got the screen
back to a diagrammatic map of the United Kingdom, with the locations of the
training camps indicated by coloured dots.
"See, the green ones are the only camps with video feeds. One in Wales, one in
the Hebrides - that was the one you were watching - one in Northern Ireland, one
in Yorkshire and the big one just outside London. They'll have taken Richard to
Camp Thatcher, which is somewhere in here." He gestured vaguely over an area
near the Welsh border.
"Taken him," Connie repeated. "It sounds so ominous. And the ladies at those
places look awfully tough. I hope they aren't being too hard on him."
"They know what they're doing, love," Ronald replied reassuringly. "Your sister
Elsie works as a Conscription Officer, for heaven's sake, and Lenore from the
bridge club. It's not like they're brutes - just regular women doing a job. It
might even be good for the lads, like they say."
"Might be good for more than the lads," said Connie with a mischievous grin. She
poked her husband's sizeable belly. "I think they need to introduce conscription
for sedentary middle-aged men. You wouldn't think so kindly of those 'regular
women' after they'd made you trot around the prison yard naked a few times."
"Sounds a bit sexy, actually, with the uniforms and leather straps and all
that."
"Oh, really?" she rose to her feet, pulled down the blinds, and turned back to
her husband with a stern expression. "All right, then, conscript. Strip!" He
looked taken aback for a moment, but then grinned like a schoolboy and hastily
undressed as she looked on impatiently.
"Good. Come on then, get moving. Quick march!"
"March? Where?"
She looked quickly around the room. "To - to the fishtank and back." She
snatched up the nearest halfway suitable object, a copy of the Guardian, rolled
it up tightly and used it to swat his buttocks as he started across the room.
"Move, conscript! No dawdling!"
By the third trip to the fishtank they were both almost helpless with laughter,
their son's plight forgotten. After all, thought Connie, Ronald had to be right.
She didn't like to think of her only son being yelled at and beaten by the
hard-looking ladies who ran those camps, but it wasn't as though he was coming
to any actual harm. And perhaps (though she hated to admit it) a little rough
handling was just what he needed. He could be damnably lazy at times, and since
graduating from school his main interests had been football matches, alcohol and
that equally self-indulgent Nesbitt girl. Perhaps the Conscription Officers
could give him the motivation and discipline he'd need to make something of
himself.
* * *
Richard and the other nude conscripts of Unit 34 had dinner hall duty, which
meant waiting hand and foot on the officers as they consumed a meal that was
hardly gourmet fare but was still divine ambrosia compared to the cold stew and
stale bread that had formed their own diet since their arrival at Camp Thatcher.
Tonight, of course, they would eat only what individual officers decided to feed
them during the meal, which certainly encouraged them to be even more obedient
and attentive than usual.
His old school acquaintance Amanda Harris had somehow arranged to have him
assigned to the table she shared with the seven other officers of her unit, and
she'd been teasing him mercilessly throughout the meal. Now she beckoned him
over from where he stood with his hands behind his back and his head
respectfully bowed, a greasy piece of lamb between her fingers.
"Keep your hands behind you," she ordered. "Lean forward - that's it." She
pushed the lamb into his mouth, and it disappeared instantly; Richard couldn't
remember the last time he hadn't been at least a little hungry.
"My fingers are still greasy," she said coldly as he started to draw back. "Lick
them." That did it. As he ran his tongue over her pale, smooth skin he felt his
penis begin to stiffen, and heard snickering from the other women at the table,
some of whom were old enough to be his mother. After nearly two weeks of
strictly enforced chastity, it didn't take much to bring him into a state of
humiliatingly obvious arousal. One of the other officers gave his swollen cock a
swat to get his attention, then handed him her second alcohol token for the
night and sent him off to the bar for a beer. More hands prodded and pinched him
as he passed other tables.
When he returned he found that Amanda and her friends had no more immediate
tasks for him, and went back to standing quietly in the required posture. At
least he wasn't the only one being thoroughly humiliated; at another table he
saw a kneeling conscript eating bits of bread off the bare hardwood floor, and
one man was shivering and squirming as an officer found creative uses for the
ice cubes in her water glass. By contrast, the high-ranking officers at the
neighbouring table were practically ignoring their naked servers, and seemed
intent on an earnest conversation of their own. Richard had never actually seen
the women who ran Camp Thatcher, but those elaborate uniforms and icily
dignified manners were a dead giveaway.
"I know we've been trying not to discuss business at dinner-time," a
bespectacled blonde was saying, "but there's been some urgent news from the
Central Intake Office."
"I thought that was all wrapped up," said the older woman at the head of the
table, in a voice that sounded oddly familiar for some reason. Her trim build
and short salt-and-pepper hair gave her a very military appearance. "We have
nearly all the men in custody-"
"Over ninety-seven percent, ma'am," the blonde put in hastily.
"Thank you, Margaret. Over ninety-seven percent in custody, and I thought the
Office had tacitly decided not to pursue the rest. Evidently the law of
diminishing returns applies even to boorish male miscreants." There was a murmur
of polite laughter around the table.
"Yes, but I understand this is something of a special case," the officer called
Margaret replied. "Apparently the press have got wind of the fact that one of
the missing conscripts - one Edwin Sanderson, I believe - is the son of Gerald
Sanderson the cabinet minister. They haven't done much with the story yet, but
if the lad isn't apprehended soon they'll be screaming nepotism - you know,
'they'd have rounded him up quick enough if he were the son of Gerry the Plumber
instead of Gerry the Minister of Foreign Affairs', or some nonsense like that."
Richard blinked in surprise. So Ed really had slipped through their clutches,
just as he'd always said he would. Richard remembered their last conversation.
Ed had been desperate, sure that he wouldn't be able to stand two years of harsh
discipline and hard labour, and had invited Richard to join him in what had
sounded like an absolutely ridiculous plan of evasion. Richard had of course
decided not to take the risk, and gone quietly to the local Intake Centre when
the time came. But Ed - shy, handsome, intelligent, and painfully sensitive Ed -
had apparently got away with it. Richard kept a careful ear on the conversation.
"And the lad's resident in our region, of course," the woman at the head of the
table said sourly.
"I'm afraid he is, ma'am."
"And you obviously haven't been able to find him so far."
"We took all the usual steps," said Margaret hastily. "I had a team search his
house, and speak to his parents. Mr. Sanderson - senior, of course - denies any
knowledge of his son's whereabouts, but it still looks bad. I'm sure you've
heard the rumours that he and the other men in cabinet were dead set against the
whole idea of conscription when it was first proposed."
"Indeed I have," she sneered. "That fellow could probably do with a week or two
in here himself." More laughter. "So how are we going to catch him? Have you
formulated a plan?"
"I have people arranging interviews with his friends and acquaintances right
now, and we're checking with airlines on the off chance that he went abroad and
didn't cover his tracks. Since conscription is a matter of British law we
shouldn't have any problem getting him extradited, if that's what's happened."
"I also want you to talk to Gerry Sanderson again, and make it clear that
there's the possibility of a scandal if his son isn't apprehended in the very
near future. It's amazing how much information that sort of thing can shake
loose, in my experience. And when I get my hands on the boy I'll make him wish
he'd never been born. If he thinks he can get away with -"
Richard's attention was rudely interrupted by the crack of a leather strap
across his naked buttocks. He yelped in pain and whirled around to see one of
the older women from Amanda's table glaring at him in exasperation. "Tipper!
What the hell do you think you're doing? Eavesdropping? I'm finished - get over
here and get rid of my plate."
"Just a minute," said Amanda thoughtfully. "Richard, you knew Ed Sanderson
pretty well, didn't you? I remember you were practically always together in
school." Obviously she'd been eavesdropping a bit herself. She didn't wait for
his answer, but rose instantly to her feet.
"Major Stevens, excuse, me, ma'am."
The woman at the head of the other table glanced over in annoyance. Major
Stevens? The head of the whole bloody camp? Richard swallowed hard and kept his
eyes on the floor.
"What is it?" she said curtly.
"I've known this conscript here - Richard Tipper - for some time, ma'am, and I
believe he's closely acquainted with the man you're looking for. He might have
some knowledge of his whereabouts."
"Ma'am, I don't know a thing," said Richard, a little desperately. This sounded
like real trouble. "Amanda, please..."
"Shut up, Tipper," said the major coolly, not even glancing in his direction.
"Officer, are you sure about this?"
"Quite sure, ma'am."
"Very well. I don't see any reason to question your information. Would you like
to interrogate him, Margaret?"
"Ma'am, please, as I said -" This time Amanda cut him off with a blow of her
strap, and shot him a warning look that spoke volumes.
"I don't feel entirely competent, ma'am," said Margaret. "I'll do it if you
want, of course, but I really would recommend one of our specialists. We could
probably have her here early tomorrow morning." She sighed. "It would be a lot
simpler, Tipper, if you were to just tell us whatever you know about your
friend's little vanishing trick. I happen to know the interrogator assigned to
our area, and I assure you that she won't be gentle with you. She's on loan, as
it were, from the Peruvian armed forces and she has extensive experience in
questioning communist guerrillas. Are you sure there isn't anything you'd like
to tell us?"
"I really don't know anything that would be useful to you, ma'am," he lied. "Ed
and I have known each other for years, and I can tell you that he hated the idea
of being conscripted even more than most of us, but I don't know where he might
have gone. Everything seemed normal last time I saw him, but that was three or
four weeks before reporting day."
"And he didn't say anything about his plans? Anything at all?" pressed Major
Stevens.
"Nothing, ma'am."
She sniffed. "Well, we'll find out for certain tomorrow. I apologise in advance
if you're telling the truth, but I'm sure you appreciate that we can't just take
your word on a matter like this." She smiled with a peculiar kind of cold
sympathy. "Officer, I think you'd better take Tipper to one of the special
holding cells for the night. Strict confinement, of course."
"Yes, ma'am." She touched Richard's arm. "Hands behind you. Come on."
Richard couldn't help but feel the first stirrings of panic as she handcuffed
him and led him unresisting out of the mess hall, into the cold night air. He
turned to her as soon as they were outside.
"Why the fuck did you have to tell her?"
"Because it's my duty, stupid," she snapped. "For God's sake, not to mention
yours, I really hope you're telling the truth."
"It's your duty," he repeated mockingly. "What a load of pretentious hogwash.
You just enjoyed- ow!"
"You watch it, Conscript Tipper. I know you're scared, but that's no excuse."
He opened his mouth for an angry reply, but then thought better of it. He
wouldn't have thought Amanda could be such a bitch. "Did you talk to Claire?" he
asked aloud.
"Of course. She laughed herself silly over your little masturbatory episode. And
she said she hoped we were all being strict with you, so that you'd behave
yourself when we let you out."
"I trust you told her that strict does begin to describe it."
"Oh, come on, Richard. We may be firm, but we're fair."
"Whatever. Look, Amanda, if you talk to her again..."
"Yes?"
"Tell her I'm all right, will you? And that I love her."
To Richard's surprise, Amanda stopped in her tracks, and turned to him
seriously. For the first time that evening she looked genuinely sympathetic.
"Richard, listen. She didn't want me telling you this, but I think you have a
right to know. She said she'd try, but she wasn't sure if she could wait for
you. Not for two whole years."
"I guess I can't blame her," he said in a tight voice. "Hell, I've got worse
problems - that Peruvian cunt, for one. But tell her - tell her anyway, okay?
"All right, Richard, I'll tell her. Look, we'd better go get you locked up. And
behave yourself once we're inside. I can't let you take any liberties in front
of the other officers."
"Yes, ma'am," he sighed.
She took him to a nondescript little building in the central cluster, which
turned out to be a kind of miniature prison with only a dozen or so cells, two
of which were already occupied. Amanda identified him to the guard on duty but
led him to a cell herself, and herded him briskly inside. It turned out to be a
bare concrete cube, maybe eight feet on a side, with a barred metal door and no
furnishings whatsoever. She locked him in before reaching through the bars to
take off his cuffs.
"Richard, the major put you under strict confinement, which means no food, no
water and no sleep. She probably wants to wear you down a little for the
interrogator. There'll be an officer coming down the hall every half hour or so
to check on you. When she comes by she'll expect you to stand at attention, or
else you'll get the strap. If you need to go to the loo just point at your penis
when she comes past, but granting the request is completely at her discretion.
Understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Richard, you've got yourself into one hell of a mess. Please just tell
them the truth right away, okay?"
"I've told you the truth already."
Amanda sighed. "I hope so, Richard. I really do." She moved off down the
corridor. Richard shuddered and bowed his head the moment her back was turned.
The idea of facing a professional interrogator made him almost physically sick
with dread, but on the other hand he wasn't going to betray Ed without a fight.
If only the bastard hadn't told him!
* * *
Carl waited only a few minutes after settling into bed before prodding the man
in the neighbouring cot. Being crowded together like this might be a bit
uncomfortable, but it certainly made it easy to conduct illicit conversations
when the dormitory officers had their backs turned.
"Hey, Neil," he whispered. "Richard's still gone. Did you notice?"
"Yeah. What the hell have the bitches done with him?"
"According to Simon, they dragged him off to some kind of holding cell. Simon
didn't hear why - he was licking applesauce off some officer's boots at the
time."
They fell silent for a moment as an officer came tramping past. After nearly two
weeks, the survival skills were pretty well ingrained.
"So what do we do?" asked Neil when she'd moved on.
"About Richard? I don't think we can do much. I hate to say it, but he's turning
into a bloody officer's pet anyway."
"About raising hell and getting out of here, then," whispered Neil in his deep,
insistent voice.
"Just like we've been discussing. But if they've started hauling chaps off and
locking them up, it had better be fucking soon. We're on for tomorrow night -
pass the word." He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling of the
tent. He could hear the patter of light rain, which meant mud on the exercise
yard tomorrow. Wonderful. "And if Richard comes back with cuts and bruises all
over him, or something," murmured Carl almost to himself, "so much the better.
It'll give the lads something to get properly angry about."
* * *
Richard had lost all track of time. His eyes were bleary with exhaustion, his
throat aching with thirst. He'd fallen asleep briefly at some point, but true to
Amanda's word the officer on duty had woken him up with her strap and beaten him
until he was in tears. Every time she came by after that she'd given him a cold
little smile, just daring him to slip up once more. But the welts on his back
and buttocks reminded him to stay wide awake.
He heard the harsh echo of booted footsteps again, and dragged himself wearily
to his feet. But it took him only a moment to realise that something was wrong -
it sounded like there were three or four people out there, this time. Were they
finally coming for him? His head spun with visions of vicious females in ornate
military uniforms, savagely thrusting electrodes against his tortured flesh as
he moaned and writhed in agony.
But the woman who came into view really looked quite ordinary. She was much
younger than he had expected, probably not even thirty, and less
fearsome-looking; she was wearing civilian jeans and a leather jacket, for one
thing, vaguely shocking after seeing nothing but uniformed women and naked men
for days on end, and her build was almost petite. But there was just the
slightest hint of cruelty in her sharp, swarthy features and severely braided
black hair, perhaps something about her flat dark eyes or the hard set of her
mouth. She looked Richard over with a quick, professional eye, her expression
inscrutable.
"Bring him," she said curtly over her shoulder, and proceeded down the hall. Two
of the biggest women Richard had ever seen, wearing the ordinary grey uniforms
of conscription officers, came forward to unlock the cell door and swing it
open. They were both taller than him, one by several inches, and solid with
muscle besides. They grabbed his arms, not bothering with handcuffs, and hauled
him roughly out into the corridor. The other woman - presumably his
interrogator, he thought with an inward shudder - was already disappearing into
an elevator. Richard went meekly where he was led, thoroughly intimidated by the
two guards' cold professionalism and the ease with which they handled him. He
was sweating freely and literally trembling by the time they herded him into a
small room on the lower level of the building. The interrogator was already
seated at a heavy wooden desk, and seemed to be looking through the contents of
her briefcase. She motioned toward another chair, and Richard was only too happy
to collapse into it despite the ominous straps attached. One of the guards
remained standing behind him, her heavy hand firm on his shoulder.
"Richard Tipper, isn't it?" The woman behind the desk said suddenly. He nodded
warily.
"My name is Theresa." Her voice was heavily accented, but quite comprehensible.
"Your file says there have been a couple of discipline problems with you
already." She glanced up from her papers and looked him in the eye. "Are you
going to give me any trouble today, Richard?"
"Of course not, ma'am."
"Please, just call me Theresa. We don't need to, ah, stand on ceremony here.
Okay?"
"Sure, Theresa."
"Good!" She turned to the other officer, who was standing off to one side. "Hit
Richard, will you? Right in the belly."
"What?" He started to rise, but the woman behind him immediately grabbed his
arms and jerked them back behind the chair. The other one stepped forward and
drove her fist into his abdomen with considerable force. He groaned in pain and
would have doubled over if it hadn't been for the iron grip on his biceps.
"You're not going to throw up, are you?" she said doubtfully. "Such a mess. Now
listen, Richard, that was just a tiny little example of what will happen if you
are not fully cooperative. I'm not just a disciplinarian, like the regular
officers. I like hurting people, especially young men, and I'm very good at it.
I have a certificate from the special operations school. Hit him again."
"Ow! Oh God! Please ma'am - Theresa -"
"Nothing like driving home a point. So do you want to talk about your friend
Edwin?"
"I've already told everyone I don't know where he is," said Richard sullenly.
She shrugged. "Who asked where he is? Just tell me a bit about him. Describe him
to me." Richard was sure he'd read somewhere that interrogators were always
supposed to distract their subjects with irrelevant questions before getting to
the point, but he was only too happy to play the game so long as nobody was
going to punch him for the time being.
"He's about my height, I guess. Kind of thin, long dark hair, glasses."
"What about his personality? I understand he is a polite, reclusive young man.
It's surprising that he would have the nerve to try to avoid conscription, don't
you think?"
"He was terrified of it," said Richard, almost eager to be discussing something
relatively harmless. "He was sure he wouldn't be able to take it, and he was
trying desperately to think of some way of getting out of it, some excuse. I
know he applied for exemption."
"And was rejected, like over ninety percent of such applicants. Yes, I have that
information. Time for another punch." This time he did throw up, all over the
front of his body. The pain was awful.
"Please," he whimpered through his tears. "I'm cooperating!"
"Yes, and we want to make sure you keep cooperating," she explained patiently.
"No more belly punches, though. We don't want anything to rupture at this
point." She glanced around the room. "Interrogation cells should always have
spray hoses," she muttered to herself. "Wipe him off, will you?" She pulled a
rag from her briefcase and tossed it to the guard who'd been hitting him. "Good
thing I came prepared."
When the worst of the vomit was gone she moved around the desk and took him by
the chin, forcing him to look up at her. "All right, Richard. You're in pain,
you know that I'm a sadistic bitch, and you're terrified of me. You know how
easily I can hurt you. Right?"
"Jesus, it hurts. Yes, Theresa. Right."
"So why don't you tell me where Edwin Sanderson is?"
"Because I have absolutely no idea. How often do I have to keep repeating
myself?"
She stroked his brow almost tenderly. "You're sure? Absolutely certain? Think
hard, Richard." He felt qualified relief.
"Yes, I'm sure."
She sighed. "Richard, I know you're lying. I have a certificate from the special
school, remember?" She was so proud of that fucking certificate. "I don't like
it when people hold things back. But when they lie, that's much worse. I really
don't like lying, Richard, and I always punish people hard when they lie to me.
So this is nothing personal." She turned to the guard. "Give me his left hand."
She pulled something from her jacket pocket, a thin steel blade of some sort,
and drove it under his fingernail. Richard shrieked in agony as she withdrew the
instrument and blood began to well out in its wake. She did another finger, just
for good measure, and then took him by the chin again.
"Please, scream all you like. You won't disturb anyone down here."
"It hurts!" he howled.
"Of course it does. So, Richard, where's Edwin Sanderson? Think very carefully
before you answer."
"Go to hell, you fucking whore," he said instantly.
"I do believe we're getting somewhere. Okay, Richard, I'll hurt you a little
more if that's really what you want. What'll it be? More fingernails? Pliers on
your nipples? A little of the hydrochloric acid? Or I could just burn you with
my butane lighter." She eyed him consideringly, ignoring his sullen glare. "It
is like fishing - angling, you say? It is no good unless they give you a bit of
a fight."
She rummaged in her briefcase and came out with a syringe and a vial of pale
blue liquid. "This is a favourite," she remarked as she filled the syringe. "You
may choose - right arm or left?"
"What the hell does that stuff do?" asked Richard, simultaneously nervous and
defiant.
She chuckled. "Why tell you, when I can show you? Let me see..." She grabbed his
nipple and twisted it, so that he gasped with pain. "Hmm. You didn't quite yell,
so we'll go with the right arm. I should have brought a coin to flip, no?" She
moved around beside him. "This is really going to hurt," she confided cheerfully
as she pressed the cold steel into his right bicep.
He watched the blue fluid from the syringe drain into the muscles of his upper
arm, and a moment later felt a searing, burning agony from his elbow to his
shoulder. He screamed and bucked against the firm hands restraining him as his
muscles cramped and knotted uncontrollably. Theresa smiled as she wiped the
needle clean and refilled it.
"That stuff won't diffuse far," she remarked. "But I can always give you more if
I want to spread the pain around a little."
"No! Stop! I'm begging you!" he pleaded through his tears.
"You know how to make it stop, Richard." She pressed the tip of the syringe
lightly against the base of his limp penis. "Well?"
"Not there! No!"
"Don't worry, it wouldn't work anyway. I need a big muscle, not a skinny little
cock. This one will do." She jabbed the needle suddenly into his thigh, and he
felt a second explosion of pain. He kicked out spasmodically, but she only
smiled thinly as his bare foot struck her shin and knelt to fasten the ankle
straps attached to the chair. He heard himself screaming, and wished desperately
that he would just pass out or have a heart attack or something. He felt like
his bones were disintegrating. When he saw her filling the syringe a third time
he suddenly knew that he would do anything, absolutely anything, to prevent the
agony from increasing.
"All right!" he sobbed. "I'll talk. Please, just put that down."
"So talk," she said coolly, approaching him with the full syringe. "I'll just
have my fun in the meantime. Hold him still, ladies."
"No! Ed left the country four days before he was supposed to report," gasped
Richard in one long breath. "He wanted me to come with him, but I wouldn't."
Theresa shrugged and touched the tip of the needle to his left shoulder - but
didn't press it home. Encouraged, he rushed on. "He talked to one of those
people smugglers that are always in the news, a fellow who'd just brought a load
of Kurds from Turkey direct to the UK. I have no idea how Ed met him. Apparently
this guy thought the idea of smuggling somebody out of England for a change was
just hilarious, but he agreed to take Ed for three thousand quid and some
cocaine. Like I said, Ed was desperate."
"Agreed to take him where?" asked Theresa quietly.
"Oh, please don't make me - Ahh! God!" Now his shoulder. He screamed in pain
beyond anything he could ever remember imagining. "Greece!" he howled, utterly
defeated. "He spent a year there as an exchange student once, and he speaks the
language. He said a friend - Nikos Korlasios, in Athens - could get him some
sort of job with no questions asked. I don't know whether he was planning to
stay there forever or not. I don't even know if he had a plan." Richard looked
up at her with tear-filled eyes. "Please just leave him alone. If you can prove
his father didn't help him get away, what's the harm?"
"It's not my decision to make," Theresa said calmly. "But I will pass your, ah,
recommendation on to Major Stevens. I'll give you an antidote for the pain, and
then you can sleep a few hours before rejoining your unit. I know that wasn't
easy for you, Richard. Thank you so much." She kissed him lightly on the lips
and turned away to find the antidote.
But even later, after he'd been allowed to shower, eat, drink and use the
toilet, and was bedded down on a reasonably comfortable mattress in one of the
cells, the tears wouldn't stop. He imagined Ed being hunted down, subdued and
stripped naked by pitiless female hands, dragged off in chains as he pleaded for
mercy. And it would all be his fault.
* * *
"Faster!" shouted Sergeant Hallee. "Faster, you lazy bastards! You did better
yesterday!"
Carl heard the smack of leather straps striking flesh all along the line of
naked men, and the ensuing cries of pain. They were pulling themselves, hand
over hand, along the length of an elevated metal bar; it was one of several
stages in a complicated obstacle course another unit of conscripts had been made
to construct a few days ago. He reached the end and dropped down without feeling
the strap himself, fortunately, but was immediately seized and pushed to the
ground by a predictably aggressive Officer Desalle. Her boot on his backside
sent him crawling off across the gravel pit that formed the next stage, hoping
that the abrasions on his hands and knees wouldn't be too bad this time.
Deprived of her favourite victim - where the hell was Richard, anyway? - Desalle
was apparently diversifying a little. He glanced over his shoulder at Hallee,
who was enthusiastically reddening the backsides of the last few men on the
overhead bar.
"Just wait till tonight," Carl muttered under his breath. "Just wait, you
bitch."
