Panzerfahren Chronicles Chapter 9:
Infiltration
Ben sat slumped in his chair. Everything around him was merely a dull noise, and he liked it that way. Mr Grainger's rambling on Elizabethan Medicine only helped for his mind to drift out of the present and into his own little world. Often, he imagined a way out of Woodchurch's endless cycles of the lessons – he didn't care about what he did, in his mind, he always made it out of the circle. One constant thing he kept, however, was James; or rather, how to deal with him. In all of his little daydreams, James was most commonly beaten to a bloody pulp in the corridors of the school, or in the tank sheds, all without the teacher's interference.
Sometimes, he'd even dreamt of killing him in varied ways, though these were all on those rare occasions when James would make a show of Ben – in view or not.
Despite his blood-boiling hatred of James, he never had the nerve to carry out the latter. He would never refrain from throwing a punch at him when the time arose, however. So what if he got detention? Or that the Headteacher would write home afterwards? He didn't care about the consequences – he just wanted to see James in pain. Sadistic, perhaps, but Ben had his reasons.
The year before, Ben had been within a relationship with Elise – nothing happened between them; merely the awkward hugs after school when they parted ways. Ben, however, had developed stronger feelings for Elise than she for him. When the prior commander left, and Casey had been brought in, his first order was to develop two squadrons of Cruiser and Medium tanks. Elise was placed in the 2nd squadron; while Ben was in the first. It was at this time that Elise met James, and the two took a liking to each other. Soon after, Elise confessed to James her feelings and the two began dating.
Ben, naturally, took this badly, and at the swiftest opportunity to deliver a bloody nose to James after a brief fight in the yard. Since then, James and Ben had been at each other's throats – though Ben was, by far, the more aggressive of the two.
The shrieking of the bell sounded, and in a flash, the classroom leapt up from their seats and threw their books and pens into their bags in an instant. It took a second longer for Ben to snap back to reality, and do the same. He slung his bag over his shoulders and made for the door, only to be barged past at the door frame by George. He didn't even have to think to react, and he shoved George to the floor; his bag coming off his back in the process.
"Ass-hole," George commented, as he got off the floor to face Ben; who simply shrugged and smirked.
"Do something," he replied. Ben unslung his bag and removed his blazer – he was boiling for a fight, or to at least lure James out to stop it. He shoved George, once more, backward with both hands. By now, a small crowd had begun to form around the boys in the corridor. George levelled himself with Ben – who swung his fist into George's temple. It smacked into his head and sent George recoiling back, only for him to respond in kind; and land a direct hit on Ben's nose. The two were equal. Blood trickled down Ben's nose. He didn't care.
Ben lunged into George. Fists were flying into each other like bullets from a gun. Knuckles and noses were bloody and, all the while, Ben smiled devilishly. He savoured every second of it.
"STOP!" A voice cried from down the hall. Ben turned, and his smile widened. James, who was fresh out of geography, was sprinting at the two at full speed. Josh and Dan flanked him soon after. Their sprint slowed as they got to the perimeter of the fight, but the haste was still high. Ben swung all his weight into his right fist, slamming into Goerge's face and sending him falling onto the blood-splattered floor. As they broke through, and James dashed between Ben and George, while Josh and Dan went for Ben; who swung at James. James swiftly brought his hand up to catch the punch. Instead, it merely deflected it, as Ben's knuckles grazed James' cheek.
James recoiled slightly and scrunched his face in preparation for another punch. Dan and Josh had thrown themselves onto Ben and were holding him back from continuing the fight. The crowd to James' right swiftly split, as Mr Stead barged through. His face was red with fury.
"Handforth, Davies – My room; NOW!" He exclaimed. Josh and Dan released their hold on Ben, one after the other. Ben's eyes glowed with anger, yet he resisted the ever-present urge to lash out once more; while James helped George off the floor. The crowd split once more to let the five of them through. James, Dan and Josh walked George to Stead's office. Ben, on the other hand, was taken to a different room: there had been enough theatrics for one day.
It wasn't until lunch break, that George was released from the office, if only for a few, brief minutes to gather what he could for lunch from the canteen. He was, as usual, joined by James, and the others. George had been given, so far, a weeks' worth of detention along with the menial task of dusting every picture frame in the Panzerfahren clubroom – along with tidying up after tonight's meeting. Making students write lines wasn't Mr Stead's way of doing things. He took the punishment, as it was better than several night school sessions with Mr Smith – the school's deputy head. The last thing he wanted, was to stare at the back of his balding head until 6 p.m.
The day went past swiftly. George had the constant pestering from every other student in the school, about how he got in a fight with Ben; and teasings about who won. He was used to it, Army Cadets taught him how to hold himself together when the pressure was mounting – but with only half the day left after the fight, there wasn't much to put up with anyway. George looked at his watch: 15:19. He was time he cleaned the clubroom; much to his dismay.
The school halls were emptying by now, only a few students and teachers dotted the halls, computer pods and classrooms. The cleaners were out in force, however, mopping and sweeping the floors of dust and wrappers left by long-gone pupils. He turned into the room and nudged open the door. To his surprise, James was still there, hunched over a map and with a frustrated look plastered on his face.
"You good there, mate?" George asked. James snapped out of his thousand-yard stare into the tiny pixels of the map and darted his head up. Clearly, he hadn't heard the door open, nor close.
"Yeah," James said, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes, "I'm just struggling here, y'know." George chuckled slightly,
"What with?" James' response was delayed.
"This." He said as he gestured to the map, "I got the location of our match with Wirral Grammar just after our last lesson. Nesscliffe – in Shropshire. It's a narrow playing field, so flanking isn't much of an option; which makes it worse, considering they'll throw at us Tigers, and Panthers, and whatever else they feel like."
The room was silent for a few moments before George spoke.
"Nesscliffe..." He said, his eyes dancing across the map. "Flat ground, mostly farmland, but it has old ammo bunkers, and based on a disused railway. It explains the paths and dotted buildings around the map." James tilted his head to the side.
"You've been?" He asked.
"Yeah," George replied, "Last summer, I was away with D – Company. We were ambushed by two fireteams right here." He motioned to a point on the map, labelled America Copse. "It's a wooded area, two bunkers to either side, with the main road to F.O.B. Alpha right through the middle. I'd say that's a good place to stick Wolverines, Fireflies, I dunno – something with a punchy gun."
Silence followed. George watched as James stroked his chin, still fixated on the map. He could see the wheels turning behind James' eyes, albeit slowly; a plan was being formed, piece by piece. he thought best not to talk, and risk derailing James' train of thought. He picked up a pencil and begun to dance his hand around the map. Every defensive, offensive, and resupply point were all mapped out. In the past, it was always the Deputy and the Commander to plan out the match: But now it was James' turn to play the game.
"What's the time?" James asked, his gaze still fixated on the map. George raised his left arm.
"Four o'clock." George responded, "Why?" James raised his head and looked outside. The Panzerfahren shed was all locked up – bar one door. Outside was the Sherman Grizzly, basking in the early October sun. Its crew were stood around it, marvelling at the Canadian metal beast.
"Looks like they've got her sorted then," James said, nodding toward the sheds. George turned to look outside and saw the same sight. Grizzlies were rare in Panzerfahren, not just because they were a Canadian produced tank – but because most of them were privately fabricated for higher-end schools – international or otherwise; and to have one within the Woodchurch fleet was more so a status symbol than a fighting tank, but a fighting tank it was nonetheless.
"I'm going down to check it out, you know how rare those things are," James said, already halfway through the door. "You coming?" He asked. George thought for a second.
"Nah," he responded. "Just send me any pictures you get of her," James smirked, before turning away from his friend.
"See you tomorrow," James yelled from outside the room, to which George returned the favour.
Silence descended upon the room, as George looked upon the map once again. He smirked and chuckled to himself as he remembered the times he had been to Nesscliffe with the Army Cadets. The camp was just made up of old shacks, but that's not what made it good – it was the people. There was never a dull moment on camp – either live firing on the range, or running headfirst into people in a T-Rex costume. The memories clouded his thoughts so much, he didn't even see the figure walk through the door.
"Oh!" They cried, breaking George from his trance. He looked the person up and down: A cleaner. A very young-looking cleaner. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting anybody to be in here at this time."
"No, no," George said, "It's alright." He eyed the cleaner up and down, something about her seemed off, familiar almost – but he couldn't place it. The cleaner started to go red in the face.
"I- I'll just wait until you're done in here." She stammered, her fingers rattling around in her hand as she stood in the doorway. George smirked, he knew exactly why she was here; and a plan quickly formed in his head.
"Oh, I'm pretty much done here," he said, lying, "I'll just grab my things." He swiftly made his way across the room and scooped up his bag, then doubled back and threw the map and plans into the desk draw. "Don't want anyone looking at that." He chuckled. As he did, he took another look at the cleaner stood before him. Her eyes were fixated on the draw, like a hawk picking out its prey. "Anyway, I'd best be off. See you around." The cleaner's eyes snapped away from the draw and looked at George.
"Oh, right," She said, "see you." The cleaner moved aside, and as George walked through the door her eyes were straight back on the draw. George smirked.
'Just as planned', he thought to himself.
Meanwhile, in the yard, James was gazing at the Grizzly which was basking in the slowly dimming sunlight. The Canadian Beast stood proud amongst its British and American counterparts, not too unlike them – but different nonetheless. The crew were leaning against the hull armour of the tank, engaging in idle chat with their new Team Commander.
"What's it like?" one boy asked, wide-eyed to James. The boy in question was only young, one of the youngest in the team; to James' knowledge. And here he was: commanding one of the rarest tanks in the entire sport of Panzerfahren.
James could only give a half answer.
"Well... I... It's a pretty scary thing. Going from the commander of five people to the whole team in just an hour. Part of me wishes I wasn't voted in as the new commander after Casey: but here we are." The boy who asked simply nodded in return. "Any ideas for names yet?" James asked, genuinely curious. The boy responded swiftly,
"The Frankby Fury!" He cried, evoking a slight smirk from James, who was somewhat warmed by the eagerness of the boy.
"Well, here's hoping you can pu-"
"JAMES!" A voice cried from behind them. James swiftly turned on his heel to face the origin of the voice. To his surprise, George was hanging half-way out of a window. "THERE'S A SPY!"
"Shit," James said quietly. It took him a good second for George's words to set in...
"SHIT!" He screamed as he made a mad dash toward the nearest entrance to the school. He slammed through the doors, which swing with such force that they may have been thrown off their hinges if hit any harder, and nearly tripped as he turned toward the Club Room. The halls were quiet, save for the occasional detentionee, or teacher; who, when questioning James' rush, were silenced by the single word: Spy.
As he approached the corridor in which the room lay, a figure walked out into the corridor. They were about his height, but different. Their eyes met: Soft, blue eyes. Hair tied in a bun, and the same age.
James stopped dead in his tracks, as did the person opposite.
"Katie?" He asked, panting.
"James." She replied, a brief smile appearing on her lips; before something behind James caught her eye, and she took off like a bat out of hell. James turned to see what she ran from.
"JAMES!" Sounded George's voice, "STOP HER!"
As quick as he could, James rotated on the spot to head after the girl. But, by the time he did, she'd ploughed her way through the emergency exit at the end of the corridor. George dashed past him in a blur. James followed as quickly as he could, but as he reached the exit where Katie had left, she had already disappeared.
"Fuck. Why didn't you stop her?" George panted. James didn't answer. He just stood there, panting like tired dogs, staring outside. "Well, there goes the plan," George said.
James remained silent for a minute before a thought sprung into his head like a rabbit: "Not exactly."
"What do you mean 'Not Exactly'?" George's voice seeped with sarcasm and annoyance. "She's got the plan. The entire plan." A smirk appeared on James' lips, as he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone.
"Not Exactly." He said, with a grin ear to ear. In that very same moment, his phone buzzed, and a high-pitched PING sounded out from the device. The screen lit up, and on it was a single notification:
Katie Mitchell:
I hear we are playing against each other soon... ; )
James' smirk turned into a smile, as butterflies started flying in his chest.