The next day dawned bright and clear.
I arose from my bed as the trumpeter sounded Morning Call and walked to the Mess to eat breakfast, joined by four of my officers. The Mess was draped in black unmarked banners and I saw some of the new recruits looking at them, worried. Their normal training schedule had been altered to accommodate the gauntlet and that bothered them. They’d have to get used to unexpected changes in routine — we threw a lot of that at senior recruits — but they’d also have to witness — and remember — the gauntlet itself. I ate as much as I could, but it wasn’t much, despite Peter’s urgings. It was almost like having a mother again. I should have concentrated on paperwork after breakfast — there was no point in looking over Ed’s shoulder as he moved the forces from New Copenhagen to Pitea — but I couldn’t. It was almost a relief when the trumpeter sounded Judgement Day.
“Form ranks,” Russell was bellowing, as I came onto the main training field. Normally, we had recruits and most of the old hands running laps around the field, trying to get into and then stay in shape. Now, we had a line of masked men from A Company, wearing black uniforms that reminded me uncomfortably of Fleet’s uniforms. We’d probably have to change them if someone like Price-Jones got a good look at them. The uniforms were stiflingly hot, but they had one great advantage. No one would know who was under the masks. “Form lines!”
The ten prisoners were marched out onto the field, exposed to the gaze of their fellow soldiers and the new recruits. A handful quailed under their gaze, others stood tall and glared back at the onlookers, refusing to show fear. I absently made a note to keep an eye on the ones who glared back. They’d go far, assuming we didn’t kill them first. Their hands weren’t cuffed, but they’d been warned that they were prisoners until they’d run the gauntlet and if they tried to run, they would be shot. No one, not even the rawest recruit, was blind to the significance of their bare uniforms. All rank badges had been removed.
I stepped forward as silence fell. “During the recent struggle against the Communists,” I said, my voice echoing in the silence, “you abused prisoners in your custody. You beat men and women who had surrendered to you. You broke the rules of war as hammered into your heads during the time you spent here. You knew that you were doing the wrong thing.”
There was a pause. Different worlds had different regulations, but I believed that abusing prisoners while they were in custody would make it harder to take prisoners in the future. If a prisoner acted up, they could be smacked down, but someone who was compliant couldn’t be abused. The recruits had that regulation, along with a dozen others, read to them each morning. They had no excuse.
“You have the choice between the Gauntlet and spending time in the nick,” I continued. “You have all chosen the Gauntlet. Number One, step forward and walk the Gauntlet.”
We’d even stripped their names from them. Number One, I was pleased to see, was one of the defiant ones, but even he was quailing as he approached the line of men holding sticks and waiting for him. The Gauntlet is brutally simple. He had to walk past the men — or run; it didn’t matter — while they hit him with their sticks. I’d chosen A Company because the men were disciplined enough to hurt them without causing permanent damage, but broken bones and even serious injuries were not uncommon. I wondered, absently, if he would break and try to run, or beg to be jailed instead, but he walked onwards…
The first stick glanced off his arm. He was allowed to try to block the blows, although he wasn’t allowed to actually attack the attackers. He gasped in pain and staggered slightly as another man stepped forward and launched a wicked swing at his chest, but somehow he blocked that as well, only to be struck across the back by a third man. He stumbled onwards, blood dripping from his nose after a glancing blow started a nosebleed, and somehow made it through the final pair of men. The last one ignored the stick and kicked the victim up the arse, sending him tumbling to the ground just outside the Gauntlet. He’d barely hit the ground before Russell was there, hauling him to his feet and pinning on the rank badges we’d removed. He’d survived the Gauntlet and was forgiven.
“Take your place,” I ordered, pointing one long finger towards the remains of his platoon. They’d probably rub it in a bit afterwards, but officially he was forgiven — besides, he’d shown commendable bravery in the Gauntlet. “Number Two?”
The next few soldiers managed to walk the Gauntlet without serious problems, but Number Six was hit neatly on the back of his knee and collapsed to the ground. A Company was disciplined enough to wait until he regained his footing before closing in again, but it took him nearly ten minutes to stand up again. It might have been calculated, I realised after a moment, allowing him to catch his breath. I didn’t know if that were true, but if it was… I couldn’t decide if he were being clever or stupid. I’d have preferred to run through the Gauntlet, shielding my groin and eyes, and take my chances. Number Seven tried just that and survived with nothing worse than aches and pains over his upper body and a limp. Number Eight tripped over himself and hit the ground hard enough to hurt. Number Nine went down on hands and knees and tried to crawl through the Gauntlet. That was technically against the rules, but his back and bum got hit hard enough to drive the message home.
“Your turn,” I said, to Number Ten. He’d been one of the ones who had refused to meet the accusing eyes. “On you go.”
He stared at the masked A Company men, looked at Russell’s merciless eyes, and turned to flee. The MPs were on him within seconds, knocking him to the ground and cuffing his hands behind his back, before they marched him off unceremoniously to the guardhouse. After he’d spent the month in the nick I’d promised him, he’d be discharged without a formal ceremony. He didn’t deserve even a dishonourable discharge. We were lucky we’d caught him before he infected an entire unit, or disgraced the army we were trying to build.
I allowed my eyes to move over the recruits. Some had fainted in horror and would be revived later by Russell, who would be uncharacteristically kind to them. Little in their lives had prepared them for such horror and they hadn’t had the benefits of six months hard training to harden them. Others were staring, their eyes wide, wondering what kind of monsters hid under the masks. If the Government kept the Army as I’d designed it, they might find themselves wearing the same outfit, one day.
“The matter is now closed,” I said, firmly. “By mistreating the prisoners, you disgraced yourself and the army. By running the Gauntlet, you paid for your offences and the matter is now closed. Go see the medics and then report back to your units for Evening Call.”
I watched as they stumbled away, wincing slightly at one of the soldiers who was limping badly, and kept my face carefully blank. I hated doing that to anyone, particularly men I was responsible for, but there was no choice. I couldn’t have people who were inclined to abuse prisoners in my army, not when a civil war was underway. The results would be disastrous if enemy fighters were afraid to surrender.
Or at least that’s what I told myself.
A flight of heavy UN-issue transports roared overhead as I walked back towards the guardhouse. The UN had kindly placed them at the disposal of the planetary government — which meant they didn’t have the freighters necessary to carry them back to Earth, where they would have been useless anyway — and Ed had commandeered them to move light infantry from the spaceport to Pitea. It wasn’t a perfect solution and I was worried about a couple of insurgents with SAMs, but it was the best we had. I wished I could leave this matter in Ed’s hands as well, but it was something I had to deal with personally. It would make running the Gauntlet seem easy.