| Subject: Trying again. It doesn't seem to like apostrophes. |
Author:
Arlis
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Date Posted: Wednesday, September 27, 10:12:40am
In reply to:
Arlis
's message, "Okay. This new Captcha is really starting to annoy me. It won" on Wednesday, September 27, 10:10:10am
He refused to think into this any longer, could hear that his commander was winding down--his mind forced to circle back to the present. While Van Vactor had made his displeasure at Michael’s presence known--a 35-year-old recruit who had spent most of his life in front of a camera clearly not his primary choice for this job--he had also, in the spaces between his words, let him know that there was nothing he could do about it.
There would, apparently, be newsreel men coming to film him at some point--his presence in the troops a rallying point for future recruits. If the man had any plans on ridding himself of him, it would have to be after the cameras were gone. He would probably want to keep him alive until then.
This was a somewhat comforting thought, even if it might not go very far. They were here to train for work as air observers, for the task of flying into enemy territory long enough to see what was there. Even assuming nothing untoward happened along the way, some of his fellow trainees less than friendly, the job alone was perilous. He would be very lucky to make it through this alive.
His future, then, was not exactly a suicide mission, but it was damn dangerous. If he were infantry, on the ground in whatever battles might come, he at least had himself to rely on--as much as that might help, with a faceful of bullets potentially waiting for him. In a plane, there was less he could do. He wouldn’t be the pilot, was considered too old to train--although his eyesight was perfect. But even the greatest amount of will could only get you so far when you were falling out of the sky in a metal shell at a few hundred miles per hour.
This wasn’t his only concern, wasn’t even the most immediate. The fact that he might be stuck in a plane with some of his current comrades--in even the best of circumstances--was less than encouraging; Van Vactor wound down, giving them all --Michael in particular--a final glare, before turning them over to their immediate trainer, who waited until the man was out of sight to let out a very small sigh. Michael suspected that he was the only one who heard it, could certainly sympathize. Brian Simmons was a colonel in the Royal Canadian Air Force--was clearly used to being at a higher level of command. But their early status--as well as the soon-to- arrive newsreel cameras--had apparently given him a new role for now.
The man pulled himself together quickly, began giving them the short version of their plans for the rest of the day and tomorrow--in far less dictatorial style than Van Vactor had favored. Michael suspected that he was the only one who had even seen Simmons’ frustration with his commander--most of his fellow recruits either too new or too distracted. Ackerman, especially, was focusing all his concentration on not turning his head to stare daggers at the actor, as he had been since the moment of the star’s arrival. While the constant menace there hadn’t broken through into anything beyond language quite yet--and, even then, existed frequently solely in words which were pitched at a level too low for the man to have any intention of his new enemy responding--it soon would. If Michael managed not to have to physically fight the man, it would be a miracle. And only his status as the Commonwealth Air Training Plan’s poster boy would probably keep him from being dishonorably discharged, when it happened.
It wasn’t that he actually suspected that he would be at fault in any fight between himself and his new opponent; he had ignored enough people who hated him, in his time. But Van Vactor’s opening speech in his office had made it clear that his perceived country of origin--his family heritage, wherever they were actually from-- would mean that any violence done to him would be held against himself alone.
This wasn’t news to the actor, his entire young life--the near-constant fury he had lived in then--teaching him the lessons of prejudice. While his accent was viewed as seductive by Hollywood--and exotic by his American fans--it was anything but in his home country. Perhaps some of Ackerman’s dislike of him came from his status as an actor, his age, or the perceived strings which he had pulled to be here, but Michael suspected that these would only be background motives. William Ackerman--Bill to his friends, which thus far seemed to only encompass fellow countryman, Eric Elkins--was the type of boy, a man now, he supposed, that he had grown up with: brash, arrogant, and cruel. Or, at least, he would be the latter if he ever saw a chance to get away with it without anyone in power noticing.
Col. Simmons’ tired speech went on, as Michael pondered his new barrack mates. He remembered so many kids like Ackerman--probably like Elkins, too, although he was obviously only going to attack if his new friend started it. He had been beaten up by them dozens of times-- insulted by them into the thousands. True, by the third fight or so, he had gotten pretty experienced at giving as good as he got, but the emotional bruises remained. He had once thought that, by escaping to New York, he would leave such ignorance behind him; he didn’t sigh. But fate--and Adrian’s deals with Jones--had led him back to face his past again.
The colonel was wrapping up, their suppertime close--their real training beginning tomorrow. Already today, Nikita’s husband had shown his prowess on the firing range, knew that he had won only more enmity from Ackerman and Elkins there. Still, it couldn’t be helped--and Michael had no desire to hide who he was. The pair of them could learn, one way or another, to cope with their hate. He was old enough to understand that some things were far more important.
They were dismissed a moment later, made their way toward the mess hall. Simmons gave him one last look before moving away, Michael knowing completely what it meant: good luck. Even if their trainer knew what was going on, there was nothing to be done but to let it play out, for now.
The actor understood this, walking away with his usual dignity, ready to see what happened. The first thing which did would have surprised him, had he not already summed the particular man up. Kane smiled at him, trying to be friendly; although he had a slight British accent, he was doing his best to obliterate it with a kind of James Cagney toughness he had undoubtedly picked up at the movies, already having made it clear to all that he had lived in Canada for several years. "Ready for chow?" He kept in pace beside him. "Probably not a damn sight better than that swill they were serving us this afternoon, but . . ."
Michael gave him a neutrally-friendly look, but the man got no farther, as the actor had already predicted--Ackerman coming up to put his arm around his friendlier comrade’s neck. The stranglehold was supposed to appear chummy but was clearly working as the strong-arm tactic it was meant to be-- the words of Michael’s new nemesis ground out through a false smile. "Hey there, Willie. You don’t want to get all friendly with the frog, right?" He grinned around his captive at his would-be victim, before starting to lead the man away. "He might make you eat snails or something." Willie’s slightly frightened, "Right, right," trailed behind him.
The man all of this was aimed at only sighed quietly, having endured far worse before. Still, he was dimly pleased to find a new ally, Henry Sikes smiling at him nervously, as they walked toward the mess; the boy had clearly been working up his nerve to speak for the last day. "Ignore him. He got up on the wrong side of the cot this morning, that’s all."
It wasn’t, of course, but Michael didn’t address the rest, accepting the comradery for what it was. "Not difficult, when your snores land you on the floor." Sikes looked at him in surprise, clearly not having expected the sense of humor, and smiled more genuinely, less nervously, a second later. His "yeah" lingered, as they made their way toward supper--leaving Michael to try not to sigh. It wasn’t much in the way of companionship --wasn’t a damned thing in comparison to the love he had been experiencing just two days before--but this was a new decade; something internal forced itself into place. He would have to learn to live his life alone, until he was able to get back to Nikita again.
Extra note: I am not an authority on the customs and background of Manitoba, and especially not on WWII air training, boot camps--or military history, customs, and practice in general; I’m not even certain if Germany, Japan, etc. were known as the "Axis" by this time. More specifically, from the information I’ve been able to gather, the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan-- which trained future airmen from Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and England--only started its actual training in April of 1940, not the very first of the year. I am, then-- again--playing fast and loose with the facts. Please do not take your sense of history from me--and, if you already know very well how wrong I am, I apologize. I’m afraid I can only beg once more for suspension of disbelief. %)
I also don’t know whether this is necessary, but I figured I’d give you a couple of reminders on the various LFN characters I’m incorporating here for the first time (the ones with sudden last names): Brian was Karen’s trainer in "Recruit." Eric was Nikita’s stalker/wannabe savior in "Escape."
[End of Part 252]
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