Chapter Eleven Battle Scars #2
He stood, grabbing his kit bag, rough hands aching with the effort of dragging the years and memories back into their box and forcing the lid closed.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice thick. “Be there in a sec.”
Alfie side-eyed Freddie behind his back, then disappeared.
Freddie, still half-dressed, pulled a jumper over his damp hair, peeking at Nathan as if unsure whether they were still standing on the same threadbare ground or whether the floor had finally given way.
Nathan slung his bag over his shoulder. Then he glanced over to Freddie. “Unlike me, the feelings never left.”
Then he turned and left, every step heavier than the last, mind dragging through the past the way his boots had through the muddy terrain in basic.
Fifteen years ago….
The first thing Nathan learned about army life was that it didn’t matter how big you were, how fast, how smart.
You were no one.
And they broke you down to prove it.
“Off the wagon! Shift it, you useless lot! Line up! NOW !”
The bus had barely screeched to a halt outside the barracks before the shouting started.
A corporal, shaved head, red face, veins bulging like taut cables down his neck, was already bellowing at him to move faster, faster, faster .
Nathan stumbled off the coach, duffel bag bouncing by his side, joining the sea of scared eighteen-year-olds with buzz cuts and second-hand boots.
It smelt like old sweat and disinfectant and rain .
Cold seeped through the thin layer of his civvy jacket. His heart hammered so hard he thought it might shake loose. But he kept his head down. Kept moving. He wouldn’t get picked off if he didn’t stand out.
First lesson: head down. Eyes forward.
The parade square loomed. Rows of squat, grey buildings lined the yard, every window like an unblinking eye. A life sentence of hard beds, harder fists, and harder truths awaited him here.
“On the line! Now!” the corporal barked.
Nathan dropped his bag. Formed a shaky line. Clenched his fists to stop them trembling. Around him, boys tried to look like men. Jutting chins. Wide stances. False bravado leaking out the seams. Nathan knew better. He’d seen real men crumble. His old man had shown him that.
When the corporal reached him, his face screwed up as if Nathan was already a disappointment.
“Name?”
“Carter, sir!”
“Sir?!”
“Corporal!” he corrected, too slow.
The man leant in, voice a quiet, venomous rasp, “We’ll break that Essex boy cheek out of you soon enough, kid.”
Nathan wanted to tell him there was nothing left to break.
He’d broken a while back. Leaving Freddie behind with nothing but a half-kiss memory and a thousand regrets had killed any cheek.
Now he had a baby on the way and a girl he didn’t want to touch trying to make them a proper family. And here he was, numbing himself.
But he swallowed it all. As he would every day for the next fifteen years.
Pack it down. Bury it deep.
Survive .
Second lesson: bite down. Keep breathing.
Later that night, lying on the hard mattress with the sound of other lads crying into their pillows, Nathan stared at the ceiling, fists curled tight over his chest, and not for the first time in the weeks leading up to being here, wondered if Freddie would eventually understand. Be proud, even.
He closed his eyes.
Dreamt of the sea, the pier, a kiss tasting of WKD and hope. And he let the loneliness harden into armour.
Third lesson: Show no signs of weakness.
It was stupid.
He knew it the second he did it.
Late one night, weeks into his training, lights-out already called, Nathan sat hunched over in his bunk, the glow of a smuggled torch tucked between his knees.
Inserted between the pages of a battered book was a photo.
Well, two photos. One of the latest scan of his baby.
A boy. Due date looming. The other one, bent at the edges, faded from being thumbed over too many times, was of a different boy.
One who’d battered his heart long before.
Freddie .
Smiling wide, hoodie half-zipped, cap backwards, holding up two fingers in a mock peace sign at the skatepark back home.
Home .
Nathan stared at it as if it could keep him tethered. As if it could stitch together all the parts of him the army hadn’t yet ground down. Meaning he didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.
“The fuck you lookin’ at, Carter?”
Nathan jolted. Turned. Slammed the book shut too late .
Private Keenan. Two bunks down. Big lad from Birmingham thought leadership came with throwing his weight around.
“That your boyfriend?” Keenan sneered loud enough for the others to hear. A few jeers sparked from the darkness. Mattresses creaked.
Nathan didn’t answer. He stood, slowly, heart hammering, trying to bury the flash of heat rising along his spine.
“Didn’t know we were training queers.” Keenan stepped closer. “Gonna be real popular in the showers, mate.”
Nathan’s fists clenched before his brain caught up.
Keenan laughed. So Nathan swung.
Hit bone.
Pain shot up his knuckles.
The fight was messy. Brutal. No finesse, no shouting.
All teeth and fists and bodies crashing into the flimsy bunks until the corporal hauled them apart, spitting threats of extra PT and charges.
But it was Nathan who walked away with a split across his right eyebrow. A ragged cut that never healed.
A scar he still carried, pale and faint now, that Freddie had traced with a fingertip and asked, “How did you get this?”
Because the truth was, he’d bled for him.
Always had.
Always would.