Chapter 1
Thomas Barton the Third A.K.A. The Youngster
"Faster!” the master sergeant screamed at his ear. “This is not a football team, Barton. This is her Majesty’s Army, not your rich daddy’s garden. You are here to serve your Queen and Country, so you run around like you mean it or I swear to God you will be cleaning toilets with a toothbrush for the rest of your bloody life!”
Tommy bit his tongue and sighed heavily. He was tired, hungry, thirsty and cold. All that he wanted was a hot bath, a nice dinner, and a bed. Hell, it could be a corner on the floor and some old bread and he still will take it like a gift from heavens. Instead, he had to run around the training complex, under heavy rain, carrying all his combat gear like he was readying himself for a HALO jump, while this cunt of a sergeant screamed orders around like he was deaf, insulting him and his father, Lord Thomas Barton the Second, 13th Earl of Essex, for the last four hours.
It was starting to get boring.
That’s it. This is the last time I let Uncle Malcolm trick me again like a bloody fool. “Multidisciplinary military training” my ass. The S.A.S were tough, the captains were hardboiled bastards and the other officers quite nasty. But at least it was fun, and I got enough rep to evade stupid things like this. These Royal Army lads, they just want you to follow orders like a bloody robot. They don't want soldiers, they want sheeps.
And the son of the Earl of Essex was no one’s sheep.
Tommy stopped running. He took off his gear pack and threw it over the swamped ground. He was breathing heavily, and the cold was taking its toll on him. But he could already feel his body responding to the challenge, generating the necessary measures to keep him alive, no matter the conditions, no matter the damage.
After all, he was made for this.
He was just stretching himself when the Master Sergeant came over him, screaming whatever he was told to scream when he took the Master Trainer course. Tommy was amazed how much the sergeant could scream without losing his voice. Must be some kind of weird natural ability, he thought.
“What the bloody fuck do you think you are doing, punk?” the sergeant looked like a rabid bulldog. It took Tommy’s entire concentration not to laugh in his face.
“I'm tired, sir, Master Sergeant, sir”, Tommy repeated the usual formula, no fear neither respect behind his words. “I thought it wise to stop since I've been circling this complex for the last two hours, under heavy rain, sir.”
“Who the fuck told you to?” the Sergeant looked like he was going to explode at any moment. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are? This is the Royal Army, not your personal state, you little piece of rubbish. Here I’m the master and you the servant. And I told you to fucking move!” the sergeant moved quickly, trying to shove Tommy to the ground by pure strength.
But Tommy was not there anymore. He whirled away like a ballerina, and then moved forward, taking advantage of his swing to launch his elbow at the sergeant’s neck. That was all he needed. The Sergeant didn't have the timing, neither the honed reflexes of a skilled hand-to-hand combatant, something at which Tommy had excelled during all his life. Or at least, for twelve of his already long nineteen years of life. And after the last three years on Irak, life looks longer and longer.
The sergeant fell to the floor like a falling tree. His eyes rolled up and he lost consciousness immediately. Tommy smiled to himself, watching the bigger man fall to the floor. It was true what they said about the army, he thought as he reached for a pin in the inner pocket of his jacket. Too many teeth, no much bite.
He threw the pin over the fallen sergeant, like leaving a coin to a beggar in the streets of London. Then he turned around and moved to the barracks, while saying out loud, just for him and the man lying on the muddied floor, sleeping like a baby.
“Too much bark for such a small dog. Don’t you think so, sir?”
The pin was a small copper shield. It was a depiction of a winged sword, with the inscription “Who dares win”, and under it, another set of letters. It read: Lieutenant Barton, Thomas. 23 S.A.S regiment. G Squadron (Manchester).
