The Young Soldier

The young soldier moved through the train, trying to shift his weight to compensate for the rocking motion. He was still quite new to the train crew and hadn’t yet become used to the constant movement of the ground beneath his feet. He had a private message to deliver, from The Driver to the Baggage Master, which required traversing the whole length of the train. It would take him nearly half an hour to reach the rear carriage. His boot heels chimed on the smooth floor, announcing his approach to those further along. Uniformed crew members snapped to attention with a smart salute, while passengers mostly looked away, not wanting to draw his notice. The official train music followed him, piped through speakers in every corridor and every compartment. It was the soundtrack to his life now, the beat pounding along with the blood in his veins as he walked. He stepped in time to the rousing, military march, the notes powering his strides.

He made his way through the corridors that ran between the opulent carriages of first class, with their swinging chandeliers and velvet seat cushions. Unbroken polished wood panelling enclosed the sounds of raucous laughter and clinking glasses, party slogans and comradely back-slapping. The young soldier would need a specific reason to breach those doors and had never seen inside, though he had heard tales of the luxuries on offer.

Further on, the carriages became more sparsely furnished, with slatted wooden seats and scratched tiling. Here, the blacked out windows felt oppressive, only the occasional gas lamp relieving the gloom. These carriages were open all the way across, with just one door at either end, allowing access to other parts of the train. There were more passengers here than available seats, so some people huddled on the floor. The young soldier picked his way between the slumbering forms of the passengers, unsure if they were really sleeping or only pretending.

The rush of air as he clambered out of one carriage and into the next revealed the speed of the train’s progress. A bitter wind whistled up through the hinged connection between the carriages. The young soldier did not dare pause to find a chink in the boards blocking the view of the outside world. He had not stepped foot off the train since his arrival weeks before and, prior to that, he had been confined to one of the domed cities the train travelled between. So he hadn’t had an unobstructed view of a natural landscape since his early childhood. He wasn’t sure he would want to see the state of the world as it was now.

As he levered open the door to the next carriage, an unexpected sound reached his ears. Someone was singing, a live human voice instead of the usual piped instrumental music. Made curious by the unfamiliar noise, the young soldier tip-toed along the corridor and peered through the glass panel into the compartment beyond. The lack of official music drew his eye to the speakers in the top corner of the carriage. A bright blanket muffled the sound, a clear infringement of the rules of the train.

Below the speaker, a man with a grizzled beard and ragged jacket balanced atop the wooden bench, clinging to the luggage rack with one hand. He swung back and forth with the motion of the train, conducting himself with his other hand, as he raised his voice in song. The young soldier watched and listened, transfixed by this entirely unfamiliar sight. Even more shocking, it was not a song he knew. The words came to him in snatches over the sounds of the train’s motion. He drew in a sharp breath when he made out disparaging phrases about those in power. How could anyone dare speak out against their leaders, especially in such a precarious situation when discovery and harsh punishment could be only moments away? And why would they want to?

The singer’s audience was made up of other passengers, similarly ragged, but gathered round in rapt attention. One or two clapped along, while the others huddled together as if seeking warmth. Their expressions ranged from amusement to anger, with some raising a fist to shake it in the air in time with the man’s song. An elderly woman on the edge of the group glanced round nervously and caught sight of the young soldier through the glass. Her hand sprang to her mouth and she pointed silently, alerting the others to his presence and breaking him from his paralysis.

He reached for his radio.

“Unauthorised activity in Carriage Fourteen.” 

The passengers scrambled apart and slunk back to their assigned seats, turning their faces away or hiding them behind the folds of a scarf.

Only the singer remained where his was, staring in open defiance, uninterested in hiding his crime. The young soldier met his gaze and shrank from the hatred he found there. Before long, the door opened behind him, bringing a blast of cold air and a troop of five masked Security Officers. They shoved him roughly out of the way, unconcerned by his status in the pursuit of their duties. They charged into the carriage, converging on the singer, who was still standing on the bench. Four of them grabbed him, one for each arm and leg, while the fifth reached up to pluck the blanket free from the speaker.

Over the sound of the renewed train music, the singer appealed to his fellow passengers.

“Will no-one stand with me?”

They kept their faces hidden, turning away from the scene and curling in on themselves, studiously minding their own business. The young soldier thought about exposing them as having been complicit with the man’s crime, but something stopped him.

As the guards dragged the singer from the compartment, the young soldier caught his eye again. This time, he saw desperation and a mute appeal. He stared back, maintaining eye contact until the guards opened the carriage door and carried the singer from view. The young soldier stood for a moment, looking after them. Then, with a trembling hand, he straightened his cap, turned in the opposite direction and went on his way.

THE END