Authors: Ray Rigby
“Listen to that damn man,” laughed Bokumbo. “He can’t read, he can’t write.”
“You’ve got it downstairs, mate,” Bartlett grinned, “but we’ve got it upstairs.”
“O.K. Monty,” Bokumbo laughed. “Prove to me you’re superior to us black trash.”
“Seen pictures about your tribe. Tarzan and the Ape Man.”
“Shake me with your knowledge, man. Add fer me two and two.”
“Sit up trees and scratch fer fleas, your tribe do,” jeered Bartlett.
“O.K. You know the history about my tribe, now tell me about yours.”
“When Charlie Bloggs found you lot, you was walking about starkers and living on monkey nuts.”
Bokumbo turned to Roberts. “So this is a member of the great white race.”
Roberts laughed,
“Listen, we’re not all like him,” said McGrath.
“Starkers,” cackled Bartlett. “That’s why all them mission birds went over to convert them.”
“There’s plenty like Bartlett,” Bokumbo said.
“Och. Now dinna get above yourself.”
“We call them white trash.”
“‘Ere, watch it Jacko,” said Bartlett.
“I dinna go for that expression, white trash.”
“Why are you getting excited, Mack?” Roberts asked.
“And you keep out of this, Roberts.”
“It’s true, isn’t it, Mack?”
“He can keep his bolshi ideas to himself.”
Bokumbo stood up and walked across the cell to Bartlett and pointed at him. “For a job in the cookhouse he’d shop us all, so what should I call him?”
“Dinna give out your bolshi ideas here.”
“What is Staff Williams?”
“Och, pipe down. We dinna want to hear about Williams.”
“That I can believe.”
“I’m making a report about Williams,” said Roberts.
The prisoners looked at Roberts and there was a long silence then McGrath spoke. “What was that you said?”
“Jacko asked you a straight question, Mack. What is Williams?”
“Roberts, you give over about Williams.”
“You lot practically cross yourself before you mention Williams’s name,” said Roberts. “Who is he? The angel of Mons?”
“You’re a great man when it comes to yapping, Roberts.”
“Maybe Stevens knows.” Roberts looked directly at McGrath. “Shall we file down to the mortuary and ask him?”
“You keep that big gate of yours shut,” McGrath shouted.
“Mack, Mack,” Bartlett whined, “watch this Roberts. He’s gonna land the lot of us right in it.”
“I’ll see he doesna do that.” McGrath calmed down again. “Roberts, you’re going to be a sensible fella.”
“That’s right.” Roberts nodded his head.
“‘We’re all aware of what’s happened but there’s nothing we can do about it, Roberts.”
“That’s right, Mack,” said Bartlett. “Pity about old Stevens.”
Roberts smiled to himself. “So we’re all in sympathy?”
“Aye. He had a rough deal.”
“So I can count on you coming with me to see the Commandant. All of you?” Roberts looked at each prisoner in turn.
“To enquire after his health, or what?” said McGrath.
“We’ll do that,” Roberts agreed. “It’s only common politeness. Then we’ll slap home a murder charge against Williams.”
The prisoners stared blankly at Roberts and wondered if they had heard correctly. McGrath savagely struck out at a fly and the fly buzzed away and Bartlett, with a stupid expression on his face, followed its progress and watched it as it settled on the wall. ‘Roberts is crazy,’ thought McGrath. ‘The bloody hill’s beaten him. He’s cracked and we’ll have to watch out for him.’
Bartlett switched his gaze back to Roberts. ‘This one’s gonna be a right old nick,’ he thought. ‘Geneffeh wasn’t so dusty.’ He almost giggled. ‘Dusty. Blimey. Set bang in the middle of a bleeding desert. Still, it wasn’t so bad. Got a job in the cookhouse, didn’t I? A cushy number you’d call it. Well, I was well known there, wasn’t I? Give the screws a bit of flannel, make ’em laugh and you’re away, and I was sort of expected back every time I left, anyway, and they knew I knew the ropes and didn’t give them no trouble. Harris now could get me in the cookhouse, but he ain’t all that interested, is he? This trip’s gonna be a bit dodgy. Must get out of this cell. Roberts, he’s trouble, he is. Must get out of this bleeding cell. Me ninth trip over the wall. You’d think by now the army would’ve caught on. Well, why don’t they learn? Why keep threatening me with bleeding action? Why don’t they catch on I’ve strong objections to spilling blood. Mine, I mean. Sod everybody else.’ He still stared blankly at Roberts. ‘To hell with you,’ he thought savagely. ‘You’re determined to drop us all in it, ain’t yer?’
He looked away. He didn’t want to think about Roberts. ‘I’ll go spare.’ He deliberately reviewed some recent events in his past life in an effort to cheer himself up. ‘Funny old life I’ve had,’ he mused. ‘Feast or famine. It’s always been feast or famine, with me. Take a few weeks ago, now.’ He grinned at the memory of that wonderful night out on the town. ‘Realised my life’s ambition, didn’t I?’
Bartlett loved to do things in style. So, with the money he had made from the tyres he had flogged he had taken some of his pals out for a booze-up in Cairo. Money always burned his fingers, Bartlett was absurdly generous. His one redeeming feature.
After a pretty wild drinking bout he and his friends wandered into the Globe cabaret armed with a zinc bath, a scrubbing brush, a highly scented bar of soap and a large towel. While his pals gleefully filled the bath with bottle after bottle of Stella beer, Bartlett went to the gents and undressed and when the bath was about two-thirds full of beer it was carried to the centre of the dance floor, then one of the boys borrowed the bandsman’s drums and as the drums rolled Bartlett flung open the door of the gents and wrapped in his bath towel he made his entrance and strolled, like a Roman Emperor, on to the dance floor.
He placed his toe in the bath gingerly to try it for temperature then, to everyone’s delight he threw off his bath towel and stood stark naked in the middle of the dance floor and acknowledged the wild cheers by bowing to the soldiers, and blowing kisses to the almost hysterical cabaret girls, and then he stepped into the beer bath and got to work with the scrubbing brush and soap.
Bartlett grinned with delight at the memory of it. ‘Pity the bleeding Redcaps had to nick me,’ he thought. ‘No sense of humour, and a pity I had all that money on me and they wanted to know where I got it from and a pity that Alf had to tell them. Just shows you, you can’t trust nobody.’ He turned and glared at Roberts again. Somebody had better put this berk straight and it had better be me.
“ ’E’s a comic,” he said, nodding to Roberts. “Can you see it, Mack?” He went into his posh act again. “Oh. Come in, ex-Sergeant-Major Roberts. Take a pew. Williams, you say murdered one of my lads — tut, tut. Can’t have that sort of thing here, can we? Get the place a bad name.” Bartlett laughed and turned to McGrath. “Put that bloody lunatic straight, Mack.”
“The Commandant sounds like a nice fellow, Bartlett,” Roberts said. “Do you think he’ll insist on a court of enquiry?”
McGrath leaned forward and stared at Roberts. “Of course there’ll be an enquiry so shut up shouting murder till we know a bit more.”
“Mack, you saw what Williams did to Stevens.”
Bokumbo knelt down and folded his blankets.
“Aye. He gave him the same treatment he gave us.”
“One small difference,” said Roberts. “Stevens is dead.”
McGrath lost his temper and threw his pack across the cell. “Why the hell don’t you join the band of hope? Stevens is dead. O.K. but you canna bring him back. But, Roberts, if you keep screaming maybe we’ll all join him in the temperance hall.”
“Mack,” said Bartlett, “this’ll calm Williams down. I bet he’s shaking.”
“You’re catching on, Monty,” McGrath grinned. “That pig of an R.S.M.’s not going to be so pleased with Williams this morning.”
“Yeah. One screw’s gonner get busted out of ’ere. Think he’ll be a bit more polite now, don’t you, Mack?”
“Aye. We’ll have no more trouble out of Williams.”
Roberts moved to the window and Bokumbo followed him. “They’ll bust Williams and transfer him. That’s the way it will be, Joe.”
“It was murder.”
“We know that. Does the Commandant know it? Does the M.O.? Those screws will stick together like mud.”
“I’ll see the Commandant gets the facts.”
“O.K.” Bokumbo turned away.
‘Tell him Williams doubled Stevens over the hill,” said McGrath. “That’s all of it. He doubled Stevens and us lot over the hill.”
“Bet Stevens’s missus gets a telegram,” said Bartlett. “Your poor ’usband died a hero’s death in action.”
“O.K.,” shrugged McGrath. “She’ll get a telegram.”
“‘Ere,” cackled Bartlett, “what about them boys who stopped a bomb in that brothel in Sister Street. They died in action too, didn’t they?”
Bokumbo couldn’t help laughing. “Man. If you’ve got to die I don’t know a better way.” He stopped laughing when he heard Harris shouting from the end of the corridor.
“Wakey-wakey. Rise and shine. Let’s have you now. Stand by your doors.”
Then the racket started. A low murmur that increased into a howl of rage, and then the tin cups rattled on the bars of the cell doors and the noise increased until it was almost deafening. Then the chanting “Stevens ... Stevens ... Stevens ... Stevens ... Stevens ... Stevens ... ”
Roberts ran to the cell door and gripped the bars and tried to see into the corridor. Then he turned to the prisoners and shouted “Hear that? Do you hear that? Now are you just going to sit on your backsides and do nothing?”
Bartlett picked up his cup and banged it against the grill bars and yelled “Stevens ... Stevens ... Who murdered Stevens? Stevens ... Stevens ... ”
Roberts and Bokumbo watched Bartlett bashing his cup against the grill bars and yelling his head off. They looked at each other.
Harris walked along the corridor and stopped to yell into one of the cells.
“That’s enough, shut it. Quiet. That’s enough noise.”
The prisoners jeered and made even more noise and Harris walked on, still shouting. Burton ran towards him and they had to shout to make themselves heard.
“Seen the R.S.M.?”
Burton shook his head. “No, Staff.”
Harris nodded. “Take over.” He walked quickly down the corridor and passed two more Staffs, both of them running. Harris walked into the sunlight then sprinted towards the Staff quarters. He saw Wilson walking towards him and slowed down. “Sir, the prisoners.”
“Sounds like victory celebrations,” said Wilson. “Get every available Staff here at the double.”
“Yes, sir. Armed?”
The R.S.M. smiled. “Where the hell do you think we are. Chicago? I’ll give them my tongue not waste bullets on them. Detail a fire picket and hoses. Don’t think we’ll need them, though.” He walked on and Harris doubled away.
The R.S.M. walked into the corridor and Burton saw him and ran to him. “Who’s the Staff in charge?” yelled Wilson. “Me, sir,” Burton yelled back.
Wilson nodded and moved to the first cell and looked through the bars at the enraged faces yelling at him. He stood there silently for almost two minutes, just looking at the prisoners. Then he beckoned to Burton to unlock the door and as he stepped into the cell the prisoners stopped yelling and moved back. The prisoners in the other cells stopped shouting and everybody waited.
The R.S.M. looked at each prisoner in turn, then he picked on the biggest man who was clutching a battered old tin cup in his hand. “You,” he pointed his cane at him. “What’s your name, Oliver Twist?” The prisoner made no reply. “Put that cup down.” Wilson tapped the cup with his stick. “It’s too early for breakfast.” The prisoner stood his ground. “What’s your name?” repeated the R.S.M.
“Stevens,” said the prisoner.
The R.S.M,’s expression hardened and he stood weighing the man up. Then he called out to Burton but he didn’t take his eyes off the prisoner. “Staff.”
“Sir.”
“We’ve had a miracle. Here’s a man returned from the dead. Take him back to the mortuary.”
“The mortuary, sir?”
“Yes, the mortuary, via the hill. Give him a last good run before we bury him.”
The prisoner threw his tin cup against the wall. “You bastard.” He rushed at the R.S.M. who sidestepped smartly and put his shoulder to the prisoner and sent him flying through the open cell door and slap into the corridor wall. Burton pushed him and two Staffs shoved him along the corridor. The R.S.M. turned to another prisoner and watched him as he called out to Burton. “Staff.”
“Sir.”
“Double away and get me a copy of the K.R.R.’s.”
“Sir.” Burton doubled away.
The R.S.M. looked the prisoner up and down. “Name?”
The prisoner hesitated. “Johnson, sir.”
“How long are you in for, Johnson?”
“Hundred and twelve days, sir.”
“Hundred and twelve days. Hardly time to get a haircut. Did you start the mutiny?”