A.N: Okay, so this is my first fanfic that I have uploaded onto this site, so please forgive me if it turns out odd. I appreciate any feedback, even contructive critismism. I've only unloaded the first bit to see how people like it so please review if you can. Hope you enjoy it so, on with the story:

Chapter One

It was day one in the Training Academy. Private James Frost was, quite frankly, bored. It was the only reason that he had enrolled and was here in the first place, but he was stuck now, and there was nothing more he could do about that. He had heard the rumours that many young cadets never made it out of the Academy once they entered the training grounds, and that those who did, were not the same men they had been when they went into action. And that was only after the beginners' training ground!

He sighed and looked, once again, around the sleeping quarters that he would be sharing with ten other cadets for the next three months or so. The troop had currently been given an hour to familiarize themselves with the grounds and to put away any belongings. Private Frost had managed to score a top bunk, for there were five bunk beds to accommodate the cadets, and was surveying the quarters pensively. He had made no attempt to make any friends yet, nor would he in the near future. If he was a true socialite, he wouldn't be here in the first place. He had other reasons for signing up.

'Umm...hi, my name's George Powell,' said a voice from James's right, causing him to jump slightly. He mentally scolded himself for not behaving cool and collected, but, regardless, rolled over onto his side to observe this "George Powell".

'Yes,' stated James, 'you probably are.' He turned away from the other boy who was, evidently, from the perplexed look on his face, not the brightest star in the sky, but then, you didn't have to be a genius to enrol here. But it helped. It really did. After a short while of thought, on George's part, he laughed slightly, causing James's visage to twist into a mixture of concern and disgust.

'No silly,' he said punching James roughly on the arm, the resultant a frown that spread over his face, 'You're meant to tell me your name.' James sighed and, once again, rolled over to face the boy who had an expression of glee over his not to bright looking face, such as that found on a small, dim child who has finally understood a joke. Well, what harm could this unfortunate character do with this small nugget of personal information? A lot...

'Private Frost', James offered to the, now, put-out looking lad. If James were one to care at all about other people's feelings, he may have encountered a sensation of guilt or even pity, for depriving this sorry soul of the information it was seeking. But no. This was James Frost. Cold by both name and nature.

The ground was cold and dusted with wet morning dew that sparkled over the training area. Truly a beautiful place to be, were it not for the ten mines placed just under the soil. James stood with the rest of the cadets, behind the square which had been marked out into a basic grid, over a sandy terrain, and was facing the drill sergeant. The man had not been blessed with looks and had a face with a constant sour expression that only a mother could love. The unfortunate man was pacing backwards and forwards along the row of cadets and after walking for about a minute and a half he turned, with military precision to face the new troops.

'Well I do believe you are the saddest bunch of momma's boys I have ever had the displeasure to set eyes upon! To attention!' He screamed as the troop managed to slump into a more upright position. 'Well you ill-informed little creeps may not know it, but there is a war out there! A bitter, devastating war and you bunch of ladies waltz in here are think you have the right to part take? Well, you make me sick! However, luckily for you, the army needs a squad of landmine trackers or, as they're known in the trade, "Minesweepers"! I will train you while you stay here! You will learn to find the mines, flag the mines and, urgh...find the mines!'

'You said "find the mines" twice.' Sneered James as he rolled his eyes. The drill sergeant was obviously not blessed with brains either, but then, judging by the shade of purple that the drill sergeant was turning, James's last comment was not too wise either. The well-built man swivelled his head to face James and slowly walked up to him.

'Did you say something punk? Well did ya?' Said the drill sergeant, a man who had the special ability to almost pronounce the exclamation marks whenever he spoke.

'Why yes actually I – oof,' James was quickly cut off by and sharp jab in the side from the cadet next to him who was still facing forwards and showed no signs of the assault he had just launched on James. 'I mean, no Sir.'

'Good, I didn't think so! Anyone else have any witty comments they wish to make? No? Then I suggest you all pick up a shovel and a flag! You may notice, if any of you can count, that there are ten flags and that there are ten of you! In case you cannot make the connection, there is one flag each and a similar scenario takes place with the shovels! You will need to work together to figure out where the mines are placed on the grid! When you think you know where a mine is, stick a flag in the ground over it and walk away from the grid! Any questions?'

When the drill sergeant finished patronising the cadets and everyone had pick up a flag and shovel, one of the cadets who James remember from the dorm, raised his hand. He was a slightly built chap with a hat pulled low over his face. James cast his memory back to the previous day, when everyone had been settling in and a few of the lads had been playing poker. He remembered that the said cadet had not been having much success at the game. It was not that he was bad at keeping a straight face, far from it, but the cards never seemed to play in the boy's favour. He had what James would describe as "chronic bad luck".

'And what might your question be? Have I not explained clearly enough for you, or are you just a little simple in the head?' The drill sergeant shouting pointedly at the hapless cadet. Poor sod, but oh well, better him than James. By now, the other nine cadets had gathered round to watch the fireworks go off.

'No, sir, it's not that,' the boy said calmly, 'But, I simply have a query; if there are mines in the ground that we are meant to mark, why on earth do we stick the flags into this thin layer of dirt between the mine and us. Would that not be stupid...sir?' By this point the drill sergeant and gone back to an unattractive shade of violet, however the boy was spared the full wrath of the drill sergeant due to the small bouts of snickering that had broken out amongst the other cadets. There was a short pause after the laughter had died down, and then George started to giggle slightly.

'Just do it!' the drill sergeant screamed, 'And don't question it! Now get to work!' He walked over to a big digital timer with block red numbers on it. He pulled on a pair of black sunglasses and pressed that start button. 'You may begin...scum!'

A.N: I almost forgot, I do not own Minesweeper. All rights go to Robert Donner and Curt Johnson.