The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Four: In the Army

Rusholme, Manchester

16^stth March 2001
The room was messy and untidy, a typical teenager’s bedroom. A small television, connected to a Sega Mega Drive, sat on one table; they’d spent the last two days trying to forget about their lives. Sarfraz sat up slowly, shaking his head. After everything, after deciding he wasn’t going to marry the girl, his family had rejected him.
He shook his head slowly. The Army had accepted his application and ordered him to report in four days – today. His family had had several different kinds of fit, which had ended with him deciding to leave – a decision helped by his father holding the door open and waiting for him to choose. He regretted it at time, even though Brad had been as good as his word.
“You could still marry her,” his mother had said. “They’re a very important family.”
Sarfraz felt a tear trickling down his cheek. The Ullah family wasn’t important at all; they merely had a girl they wanted to live in the country permanently. It was better, he supposed, than marrying someone like Sameena to someone from the old country, but not by much. Their only strength came from their size; they hadn’t been happy at all.
“What did they expect?” He asked himself silently, and knew the truth. They’d expected him to agree to marry her at once, and they’d expected their daughter to open her legs for him, without any concern for what the young couple wanted for themselves. It was the age-old compromise between faith and culture; between family and individuality.
“Rise and shine, solider,” Brad said cheerfully. His sister’s boyfriend was English, something that would have shocked his family even more than his refusal to marry Noreen. Traditionally, he supposed he was supposed to start a fight with Brad for his sister’s honour, but she would have killed him for it. Besides, it was difficult not to like Brad; he was a decent man in a world of evil people.
“Fuck off,” he said. Brad ignored him, placing a small tray on the table. The smell of scrambled eggs rose up, reminding him that he was hungry. “Thanks.”
“So the fucking can wait,” Brad said wryly. “How are you feeling?”
Sarfraz laughed bitterly. “I’ve felt better,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Nearly ten o’clock,” Brad said. “You’re supposed to report to the recruiting station at eleven.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” Sarfraz said sardonically, taking a plate. The scrambled eggs were tasty, even though the toast was burned. “Nice toast.”
Brad cocked an eyebrow at him. “You can laugh when you learn to make toast yourself,” he said. As a student, he had his own house, which had been purchased by his father.
“I can make toast,” Sarfraz protested. “Why, only five days ago I made an entire plateful of toast.”
“That’s not the way Sameena tells it,” Brad said. He chuckled. “According to her you went through an entire packet of bread, just to get it right finally.”
“My loving sister,” Sarfraz said wryly. He sobered, putting down the plate. “You will take care of her, won’t you?”
Brad nodded, suddenly serious. “Yes, I will,” he promised.
“And make a honest woman of her before someone else tries to make a dishonest woman of her,” Sarfraz said. “Marry her, take her somewhere else if she’ll go with you.”
“Pity the poor bastard who tries to take her anywhere against her will,” Brad said. “Damn it; I hate long goodbyes.”
Sarfraz smiled despite himself. “I suppose I should get dressed,” he said, jumping into the shower. Five minutes later, he stuck his head out. “Does it ever run hot in here?”
Brad laughed. “You really don’t want to know,” he said. “I think it was one of my father’s little jokes.”
Sarfraz shook his head. “Your father won’t be trying to marry you off to someone,” he said. “Pass me a towel, and then I can be on my way.”
***

Brad came with him as they walked through Rusholme, passing shops from the Far East and China. Twenty years or so ago, the immigrant community had been placed in Rusholme – and they’d made it their own. The occasional burst of racial tension aside, Rusholme was surprisingly peaceful – and there was nowhere else to match its curries.

“I’m going to miss this,” Sarfraz said, as they passed gaudily dressed Hindu women, chattering away about nothing. Someone with a sick sense of humour had planted Hindus and Muslims next to one another, and the two religions stared at each other with a dignified silence.
“You’ll come back,” Brad said, as they reached the recruitment centre. “You’ll be back before we know it.”
“Up yours,” Sarfraz said. He stuck out a hand. “You’ve been a good friend,” he said. “Take care of her.”
“You know I will,” Brad said. They shook hands. “Good luck.”
Sarfraz nodded and stepped inside the recruitment centre. The officer on the desk smiled at him; recruits were few and far between in Rusholme. Some of the citizens had army experience, but not British Army experience, and few of the children wanted an army career.
“So, you came back,” he said. He stuck out a hand. “You just won me a kebab.”
Sarfraz gaped at him. “You had a bet on me?” He asked. “What’s happening?”
“Oh, we had a kid here who wanted to join the SAS,” the officer said, as they shook hands. “I’m Sergeant Adder, by the way. Stupid kid had done it on a bet and was horrified to discover that there was a five-year training course and service as a grunt first. That’s why we have a short period for you to reconsider.”
Sarfraz laughed dutifully. “I considered. I reconsidered. I had second thoughts, third thoughts, and then I rather lost count. And I’m still here.”
“Welcome to hell, kid,” Adder said. His tone was friendly. “I have a lot of paperwork for you to sign, I’m afraid, and then you have to be on the bus.”
Sarfraz blinked. “I’m that important?”
Adder cackled. “Of course not, son,” he said. “Normally, we would expect recruits to report to their barracks, but we have special orders for the moment. They were just issued two days ago. We’re to bus you lot to a reactivated barracks.”
“I see,” Sarfraz said. “When do we leave?”
“Sign here,” Adder said. He looked up, meeting Sarfraz’s eyes. “This is pretty much your last chance to back out.”
“Pass me the papers,” Sarfraz said. He examined them quickly; a medical form, a liability form – he chucked at that one – a signed declaration of loyalty to the Queen and half a dozen others, from pensions to next of kin. He wrote Sameena in as his next of kin; she’d know what to do if he died.
“Welcome to the Army,” Kettle said. “Do you know how to salute?”
Sarfraz struck a saluting pose. “Ridiculous,” Kettle snapped. “It needs improvement.”
He demonstrated, talking all the time. “It’s not as simple as the television makes it look, kid; it needs proper pose.”
“Yes,” Sarfraz said, copying him.
“That’s yes sir,” Kettle snapped. “Sir everyone; a new cadet has no one to look down upon.”
“Yes, sir,” Sarfraz snapped. He came to attention. “How was that?”
Kettle grinned. “For God’s sake, don’t ask the commanding general how well you did,” he said. “Again.” Sarfraz snapped to attention. “At…ease!”
Sarfraz relaxed slightly. “Sir, what do we do now?”
“You don’t ask questions either,” Kettle said. “You have thirty minutes until the bus leaves, son; you may remain here or you may take your last look around this godforsaken city.”
Sarfraz grinned, and then a plaque on the wall caught his attention. He read it quickly; it didn’t seem to be in the right spirit for a recruiting office. Puzzled, he read it again and then stepped out for a quick walk. There was someone he wanted to see for the last time.
N: Dear faithful old hairy English Tommy! Ten years you waited here rather than disobey that last order I gave you. Stay here till I came back, I said to him. He waited alone in the desert. He never wavered from his duty. He kept the name of servitude shining bright. Eccles - Eccles - you upheld the flag. You never questioned the order. You stayed out here alone. You, without food or water. You, without money. You, without anything to stop you walking away. You! You IDIOT!"⁷
***

The kebab house was closed, it not being lunchtime yet, but Sarfraz tapped on the door. A young brown-skinned girl opened it, her eyes wet with tears. He reached out and gave her a hug, heedless for once of who might be watching.

“Are you alright?” He asked finally. “I’m sorry…”
“So you should be,” she said. Her voice was a curious blend of Lancashire and India, like many third-generation immigrants. “You go and leave me…”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “I’ll keep in touch…”
“That won’t be easy with dad opening my letters,” Anisa said. His girlfriend stared at him. “You’ll come back with a lot of foreign girls and…”
Sarfraz laughed at her, not unkindly. “I’m just going for the training,” he said. “Once I’m a proper soldier, we can get married…”
“It’s all around the town that your father has disowned you,” Anisa said. “Will my parents agree?”
Sarfraz felt rebellion flowering deep within him. “Does it matter?” He asked. “Love, I have to be back in” – he checked his watch – “twenty minutes. Please – I don’t want my last memory of you to be you in tears.”
Anisa shook her head slowly. “Me neither,” she said. “Sarfraz; come back to me.”
“I will,” he said. “I promise.”
***

The bus was surprisingly civilian; there was no suggestion that it was carrying nearly twenty would-be soldiers, or even their small bag of personal belongings. Sarfraz saluted Sergeant Kettle, then the driver of the bus, before taking his seat. His bag, which he’d left at the station, had already been placed inside the bus.

“Not a bad salute,” the driver said, starting the engine. “You’re the last person for this bus, so we’ll be on our way directly to the training centre. All very hush-hush; you guys are in for some surprises.”
“Thank you,” one of the recruits said. He stuck out a hand to Sarfraz. “I’m John McLachlan,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Sarfraz Ahmed,” Sarfraz said. “What are you in for?”
John chuckled. “Oh, I knocked down an old lady,” he said. Only the grin on his face kept Sarfraz from believing him. “The judge gave me a choice between jail, the army, or apologising to the old lady.” He snickered. “Of course, if I’d known that there was a war on, I would have apologised.”
“You stole that from the Simpsons,” one of the other recruits said, challenging him. “Hi, I’m Derek.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sarfraz said. They passed a happy hour on the bus, exchanging names and trivia, before they arrived at a camp. The sign on the gate was rather unwelcoming, warning of armed guards and hungry dogs.
“Friendly place,” John muttered. The recruits fell silent as the car drew up outside a large manor house.
“Welcome to Churchill Training Centre,” the driver said. “Get out, form up!”
The recruits hurried to obey. A burly sergeant looked them up and down before ordering them to stand at ease. The recruits relaxed slightly, trying to look around without moving their heads.
“Welcome to Churchill Training Centre,” a voice said. A young man dressed in the uniform of a captain saluted them. They tried to salute him back, to the obvious dismay of the sergeant.
“Normally, you would have gone to Deepcut or Aldershot or one of the other training centres,” the captain said. “This base, Churchill Training Centre, has been newly reactivated for the training of new recruits, while the more…formal training centres are being used for the reactivation of old recruits.”
For some reason, he seemed to find that very funny. “Naturally, we don’t intend to slack on your training,” he said. “For various reasons I am not at liberty to disclose to you, we are expecting several hundred recruits here in the next couple of months, and then thousands more.” He grinned, showing teeth. “Seeing you lot volunteered for this, I think I can tell you that we expect you to be the leaders in your class.”
Sarfraz was puzzled. Was there a war on? “I’m Captain Yates,” the Captain said. “This is Sergeant Benton. We will begin your proper training when the rest of you arrive, in a few days, but for the moment I will leave you in his capable hands.”
He saluted them, and then left, leaving Sergeant Benton studying them. “Right, you lot,” he said. His voice became sticky-sweet. “You may have heard of sergeants who are nice and kind to the recruits, who generally kiss them to make it better, and who fluff up the pillows on the four-poster beds in the barracks, right?”
The recruits, too inexperienced to sense the trap, nodded. Some even spoke aloud. “I am not one of those sergeants,” Sergeant Benton thundered. “My job is to make you soldiers, not the little shits they have outside Buckingham Palace, nor the shits they have looking good on guard duty, but the real deal – combat soldiers who will never give up! I am going to put you though hell so that you can put the enemy though hell, understand?”
There was an incoherent murmur. “That’s ‘sir, yes, sir,’” Sergeant Benton thundered. “Do you understand?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Sarfraz shouted, along with the other recruits.
“So, maybe you’re not entirely hopeless,” Sergeant Benton snapped. “Now drop and give me fifty!”
Some of the recruits fell to the ground at once, doing push-ups, and the others took their lead from them. “Faster,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “Move it; your life depends on how fast you can do the press-ups!”
Sarfraz finished his fifty with a sigh of relief. “Another fifty,” Sergeant Benton snapped. “Move it; do you think the enemy is going to give you a rest? They’ll chase you over hills and dales until you’re fucking tired, you bunch of pansies!”
The small group finished the press-ups and stood to attention, careful not to show any signs of weakness. Sergeant Benton examined them thoughtfully, studying them all carefully, looking for signs of…something. Sarfraz, his every muscle aching, didn’t have the energy to puzzle it out.
“Very good,” he said finally. “Follow me!”
He led them around the manor, commenting on one small barracks after another, and finally led them up to a barrack house. “This will be your home for the next few months,” he snapped. Sarfraz wondered if Sergeant Benton could do anything without shouting. “Enter!”
Sarfraz stepped inside the dark rooms, his hands fumbling for a light switch. “It’s here,” John said, the usual humour gone from his voice. The lights came on, revealing row after row of bunk beds, stretching off towards a dark series of showers at the end.
“You use the cupboard under the bunks to store your stuff,” Sergeant Benton snapped. His voice echoed though the room, it was that large. “It’s 1700hrs now, so you have half an hour to get used to these barracks. Choose your bunks, decide where you want to sleep; take a shower if you want. Food will be served at 1730 precisely; anyone who isn’t there will go hungry.”
His voice darkened. “We have had problems, beforehand, with people bringing drugs and alcohol into the barracks,” he said. “This is the one warning you get; if you have brought anything like that, dump it into those bins and we won’t ask any questions.”
He swept out, leaving the recruits looking at each other. “I hurt,” John said finally. Sarfraz nodded. He ached too, all over. “That bastard…”
“That bastard is trying to keep you alive,” Derek said. He looked up and down the room, and then picked a single bunk bed, right at the back. “I think we should sleep together.”
The group chuckled. “I don’t swing that way,” John said. “Count me out.”
“Sinful,” Sarfraz agreed. Islam had very clear rules on homosexuality. They boiled down to don’t. “I think we should sleep in separate beds, it’s not safe here.”
Derek turned an interesting colour. “That’s not quite what I meant,” he said. “We’re a group and we should stay together as a group.”
Sarfraz thought about it, and then dumped his bag on the bed next to Derek’s. “I agree,” he said. “I have a grim thought that they will want us to work together.”
John nodded. “If any of you try to grope me in the night,” he threatened, but no one was listening. He took the bed at the end. “Wake me up when its tea time.”
***

On reflection, Sarfraz decided that he had enjoyed his first day in the army. The food had been plain and monotonous – even though the Army had been more than willing to accommodate his dietary requirements – but there had been plenty of it. Afterwards, Derek and John had organised a football match while Sergeant Benton showed the stream of newcomers around, establishing his dominance over them with ease.

“Attention,” Sergeant Benton bellowed, blowing a whistle for effect. The entire group, now nearly two hundred recruits, gathered in around him. In the steadily falling twilight, it was still easy to see in the floodlights around the base. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow and I expect you to be in your bunks in thirty minutes.”
Some of the newcomers made the mistake of groaning. Sergeant Benton gave them push-ups to do. “You have a long day ahead of you,” he repeated. “After all, you’re in the army now.”