Sarah Joyce
Training Manager
HM Conscription Training Centre South-West 2 (SW2)
Monday 6th February 2020 8.15am
I've been here for five years, this will be my twentieth intake. I'm not an
overseer, Good Lord, no. I'm a civilian, a Ministry of Labour officer,
responsible for the admin of new conscripts during their three months basic
training at SW2. I get them processed, compile all the training reports and
liaise with suitable employers. Finally, and most importantly, I chair the
interview panel making final selections for the conscripts' 21 month labour
assignments.
I was 17 when Britain introduced Conscription. Like most, I was horrified at the
prospect, fearing for my three brothers. They had a panic-stricken few months
before rejoicing at the announcement that the upper age limit would be 21 years
and 5 months. All males born after March 31st 1984 would be conscripted. Stephen
had missed it by weeks. Those were dreadful times in our country's history.
Something radical had to pull us out of that mire and as the years went on, it
seemed we'd found the solution. The public came to accept Conscription with the
not so helpful slogan; "The needs of the many outweigh the suffering of the
few". A tiny minority of Britain's population would have it tough for two years
to help maintain a strong economy and prosperity for the rest of us. The one
thing turning me was the famous quote; "We're not sending them to war. They'll
all come back". An off the cuff comment helping to persuade the mothers of a
generation that this was indeed the right way. Unfortunately, as we know now, it
was an unfortunate choice of words.
I don't wish to discuss that stupid war. My eldest brother didn't return.
Britain had to change overnight to Conscription of a very different sort. Fitter
men were diverted to military service, less-able men such as the short-sighted
skipped basic training to be sent directly to arms factories, joining the
"slave" conscripts already serving. Thankfully, it was a short war, but so
horrific. No one will ever forget the October 2009 Ordnance Works bomb in
Aylesbury. With the amount of explosives there, the fire brigade dared not enter
that burning factory. The screaming men inside didn't stand a chance. Later CCTV
footage of the naked conscripts, many on fire, frantically yet futilely yanking
and hacking at their ankle chains shocked the world.
Nearly eleven years on, I still detest the widespread use of riveted,
semi-permanent ankle shackles. Once a conscript is chained that's it. The
shackle must be cut, or rivets drilled out, when his service has finished. The
terrified 18-year-old Aylesbury conscript, ankle thick with blood and gouges,
vainly using a metal chair leg to try and lever his shackle open still haunts
me. Two fleeing overseers, hands in shreds from the blast, stopped to help,
desperately tugging at his chain but it was no use. The toxic smoke was already
too thick. Loud explosions nearby told them it was now or never and they ran.
The conscript's shattered face watching his only hope of escape leaving was the
last thing we ever saw on the tape. Many conscripts would've survived if they'd
been chained with re-usable key operated shackles. Even today, for cost reasons,
riveted versions are preferred. With our trainees only being here three months,
I'm happy to say we have the lockable type.
Returning to happier times, today about 25% of 18 to 21 year old men, some say
the lucky ones, are conscripted for military service. The remainder, of course,
head to a training centre like this. In 45 minutes time, 250 naked young men
will fill this room and I'll be passing along the lines of conscripts checking
details. Staff Sergeant Baxter's officers will no doubt be squeezing and
twisting testicles as the chains go on. With faces screwed up in agony, the
conscripts will look towards me, the only civilian woman, eyes begging for it to
stop. Much as I feel compassion for their plight, my two sons will go through
this in a decade, the first few days of training are the most important. These
slaves - conscripts - won't have a sympathetic mother figure when chained in
factories or businesses. The sooner they realise this, the better. One must be
cruel to be kind here.
Some new conscripts are arriving. I usually disappear for a coffee and let the
overseers welcome them.
Conscript 31909B/2020
Monday 6th February 2020 8.20am
Of course, I don't want to be here. I've thought of a million ways to get out of
it but what's the use? Even the army looked better but I failed the first stage
of testing. The ID card chip has stuff about Conscription - slavery - on it.
We've all seen the patrols checking IDs. I don't want to end up like that guy me
and Denise saw outside Sam's. He'd obviously not turned up for training in the
past. In full view of the amazed nightclub queue, they stripped and beat him
before dragging him away in chains. Men like him always get longer, three to
five years. Denise reckoned the guy looked about 24 too. Guys should just do the
two years and get on with life.
Families suffer if guys run away. Parents pay more tax, brothers and sisters
lose university grants. How would a guy get a job if he skipped slavery? Your
employment records and references are all on your ID chip. You'd have to stay at
home forever, never buy anything, never go abroad, never study again...I thought
about it. Denise's brothers all did slavery or are doing it. Her brother Dave's
a laundry man on a warship, cool. Me and some mates had a laugh about him in the
pub. His ship goes all over the world but he's chained up below. Denise, she'd
be most upset if I run off now. Anyway, I've got plans for my life, finish this
2 years, I'll only be 20, go to university and then travel for a year. Being
realistic about Denise, I can't see her waiting for me.
Mrs Wilson, my school Conscription Liaison Officer reckoned I'd end up in an
easy manual job which would look great on my resume, if I worked well. Then
again, she'd said that to all the boys in my class. I guess she'd keep quiet if
she thought we'd be chained in a hell factory like the one we'd visited with
her.
The worst school trip ever. We got the school coach to this factory which made
posh furniture. The first building we went to was great: All glass, flowers,
fountains, soft music, fantastic women and all those cool expensive leather
sofas. After loads of coffee and Finnish biscuits, we sat in chairs big enough
to sleep in as the stunning Scandinavian blonde presented FINN furniture. It was
a funny presentation, but I was in love, all the boys in my class were. She sat
back down onto one of FINN's sofas crossing those long silky nyloned legs.
"Any questions?" she beamed.
My chance to impress, "W-W-Why are your chairs so expensive?"
A few girls giggled.
"Actually", she laughed, "our Swedish competitor is far more expensive due to
their huge production costs. FINN moved here in 2013 because of the UK's cheaper
conscript labour".
No more questions.
"Right" she announced, "let's take a walk".
Following this Nordic Goddess, the boys all pushed to the front to watch those
long legs taking us on tour. With her heels clicking on the marble floor,
passing leather sofas and fresh flowers, I knew where I wanted to do my
conscription.
Noise. Lots of machinery noise and gluey smells. We were walking through a glass
corridor towards the grey windowless building I'd seen from the coach. Goddess
paused at a row of lockers, reaching into one to pull out her handbag and a
brown leather whip. Swiping her security card and entering a code, the metal
doors slid open, in front of her was a huge factory. There must've been 600
machines, a naked slave chained to each. A slave, pushing a trolley loaded with
leather sheets, stopped and stood motionless to let us past, his sad bloodshot
eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Now" she had to shout, "the production process".
As she approached the nearest machine, its slave snapped to attention standing
back from his machine, as far as his chain would allow. Goddess started to tell
us about the machine, how it kept working 18 hours a day, 126 hours a week......
I wasn't listening any more; I was stunned.
"Any questions?" that smile again. "No? Let's move on".
The smile faded, "Get on with your work slave!"
"Yes Ma'am".
Half the class, the boys, were shocked. Goddess didn't seem so nice anymore. For
the rest of the tour, I watched the defeated-looking slaves standing at those
machines, backs red and wealed, balls blue and swollen. Civilian women and
overseers, as well as a few men, were standing or sitting around the factory
chatting. Half an hour ago, our tongues were hanging out as we saw Goddess. Now,
with those long long legs and high heels gliding past, not one slave even
noticed her, they were solemnly working and doing it bloody fast too. That was
hell.
Anyway back to now, it was no big surprise when the Ministry of Labour letter
arrived just before Christmas. I had to report at 9am on the first Monday of
February. As well as the obvious warnings and advice, it recommended I shave my
own head before arrival. Most slaves I've seen around town and all those poor
FINN guys were shaved totally bald. I guess any slave arriving with hair would
get a very rough haircut, I certainly don't want to start on the wrong foot.
I'm so early. There's one overseer and another woman here and that's all. My
head sure is cold.
Staff Sergeant Ann Baxter
HM Conscription Service
Monday 6th February 2020 8.25am
Nine years, I've never had a man "fail". No, it's not an exam. I mean I've never
known a man who can beat the system. Sure, you get macho types, ha ha, trying to
look tough standing to attention, naked and in chains, on the parade ground. We
don't stand for it one bit. They soon learn it's best not to get noticed.
Using their profiles, we usually earmark one trainee slave as a troublemaker
before he even arrives at SW2. We use him as a tool. He gets the harshest
treatment and, like any new entrant would, protests with body language or even
just his eyes. His fellow slaves witness the ensuing severe punishments. Our
"psychologists" sometimes interview the others after. They hear things like,
"He's a dickhead, why doesn't he just shut up and do his 2 years". Ha ha.
We purely and simply train them to act and think like slaves. Politicians and
smiling PR ladies say "conscripts" - not me. The army gets conscripts, we get
slaves. I reckon three months is too long, better to put them to work sooner.
Here, they get fit, learn how to address people, the different standing
positions - some have trouble standing to attention for even an hour or two -
and general slave etiquette.
Look at any slave's body, it's evident that corporal punishment is allowed.
We're not given carte blanche however. Firstly, ha ha, slaves don't work well if
you break their bones. Secondly, we have to protect their little bodies because,
after all, they'll be free again in two or three years.
As you can see, I carry this standard issue whip. Whips are nasty and dangerous
so we've got to be trained. A whip is to encourage a slave to work, not to
injure him. We only strike the upper back or legs. The lower back or buttocks
are out of bounds to protect the kidneys. I can whip a fly's eyebrows off but
I've seen office women missing a slave's body completely.
Punching anywhere on the body's permitted. Studies show that a woman's punch,
even for a kick-boxer like me, should not cause damage. Kicking to the legs and
buttocks is permitted, although I know a few women accidentally on purpose
aiming a bit higher, ha ha. Which brings us onto a whole new ball game, ha ha,
the testicles.
Ask any kid what he fears most about slavery, he will say being kneed in the
balls. Kneeing's become the most encouraged form of punishment. Whipping's best
but hard to master. Many women are untrained or lack the co-ordination.
Overseers are trained to knee, but no one else. If some secretary does it wrong,
makes a balls up, ha ha, no one gets hurt - well, no innocent bystanders anyway,
ha ha. We aren't, in theory, allowed to kick the testicles - go figure.
Punching, squeezing and twisting 360? are also permitted but that's it. The
scrotum's a fleshy sac which bruises easily whilst the testicles inside might
swell up but shouldn't get damaged. A teenage boy, seeing a slave's bruised
scrotum, will of course worry about his own equipment, it's natural. In the
early days before the war, some slaves suffered damaged or lost testicles but
adherence to guidelines has almost totally stopped this.
Of course, justifiable corporal punishment's only half the game. The psychology
starts long before we get our hands on them. With the support of schools and
subliminal TV advertising, men've almost come to terms with slavery by the time
they get here. This effect's most noticeable with rich kids educated overseas,
guess who our pre-determined troublemaker is? I wouldn't even try using
psychology on a slave; we've got plenty of experts in the South Region for that.
I'll make no bones about this - basic training is brutal. Slaves here, mentally
and physically exhausted, are only too keen to pour their hearts out to a
sympathetic man or women. Any "advice" to ease their suffering is gratefully
received but they're of course sent away with heads full of slave-speak.
Right! I'm gonna get my officers ready. The first day's always the hardest.
"Morning Mrs Joyce. Good Weekend?"
