About three hours later, after encountering many checkpoints and unbelieving soldiers, we have arrived. It is some deserted, off the grid, run down camp. Or what was left of one. The inter-camp soldier transport drops us off and we head to the main office, a rundown old shack not much bigger than a small workshop.
A short, heavy set man in an army uniform, sitting at an even older desk, stands up and greets us as we step inside. He introduces himself.
"You will refer to me as Colonel Bosch. I am not your friend, I am your officer. You may be kids but you are in MY camp and are therefore soldiers! And you will be treated as such. Like all other soldiers here! No favoritism!"
I interrupt his rant.
"We're teenagers, not kids. It doesn't take a PHD to figure that out."
Bosch's eyes widen at the bold interjection.
"It seems we have a smart mouth soldier here." He steps in front of me and grabs my collar, pulling me close to his cigar breath. "Let me make myself clear, behavior like this gets discipline. And our discipline is a lot harsher than a timeout kid."