The Hill (2 page)

Wilson screwed up his eyes and looked at the chapel and nodded his head again.

“Show you the Staff quarters.” Harris walked away quickly, followed by Williams. Taking out his keys he unlocked a gate that fitted snugly into the prison wall. Kicked it open. Shut it noisily behind him, locked it, walked into a courtyard, glanced at the few drooping flowers that seemed to cringe away from the heat against the far wall, then ran up a short flight of stone steps and into the Staff quarters.

Williams kept pace with him, but whereas Harris looked reasonably comfortable Williams was already dripping with sweat. Harris banged his stick against a door. “Dining hall.” He moved on quickly and banged on another door. “Sergeants’ Mess, got a NAAFI wallah inside so we’re doing all right for booze. His mates are looking after him.” He banged on another door. “Library.” Then halted in the centre of the hall and pointed down a corridor. “Staff sleeping quarters.”

Williams merely nodded his head again.

“Two hundred and fifty prisoners,” said Harris, “and we’re understaffed.”

“Understaffed in Blighty,” said Williams.

“And there’s another hundred or thereabouts due in. How’s things back home?”

“Rough, Staff.” Williams turned and watched a prisoner scrubbing the tiled floor.

“Lousy rations and all that, you mean?”

“Yeah. Lousy rations, Staff.”

“If you’re a bully-beef maniac, you’ll love the rations out here,” said Harris.

“Be like chicken, Staff.”

“You’ll soon get tired of that bloody chicken.” Harris turned and looked at Williams and decided that he didn’t like one damn thing about him.

“I’ll let you know if I get tired of it, Staff,” said Williams.

Staff Harris swore under his breath. You’re playing it all bloody correct, ain’t you, lad, he thought as he marched briskly down the steps and out into the hot sun again, fumbled his key in the lock and closed the gate behind him. Well, I’ll soon know how you’re going to shape. He locked the gate and glanced at Williams. “I’ve seen a dozen new Staffs come and go this past two months,” he said.

“That so, Staff?” said Williams, looking bored to death.

Harris savagely pulled on the gate. “Yes, bloody rejects looking for a cushy number, Staff, and they get a shock when they land up inside here.” He walked away at a furious pace and Williams changed step and kept up with him.

“I take a bit of shocking, Staff,” said Williams. The sweat was running down his face but he ignored it.

“It’s that holy sun,” grinned Harris, glancing sideways at the sweating Williams.

“So long as it’s not the Holy Ghost, Staff.” Williams increased his pace as Harris walked even faster.

“He wouldn’t like this place either,” said Harris. “The blinding sun would even sweat him down.” Harris halted suddenly in the centre of the parade ground, glanced skywards at the sun and then with a slow grin he looked at Williams again.

“You’ll have me in tears, Staff,” said Williams.

Harris stared at Williams and thought, I can’t wait to witness the meeting between this one and the R.S.M. Then he grinned as he saw Wilson walking towards him across the parade ground.

The R.S.M. halted and shouted, “Staff, here!”

“Sir!” yelled Harris and nudged Williams. Together, keeping in perfect step, they doubled across the parade ground and stamped to attention.

The R.S.M. glanced at Williams and then addressed Harris. “You’re responsible for the M.O.’s room, aren’t you, Staff?”

“No, sir. Staff Burton.”

“Since when?”

“Since last week, sir.”

“Why the hell wasn’t I told?”

“Commandant’s orders, sir. Thought you knew.”

“I’ll say it again. Any change of orders, let me know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Staff Burton, eh? He’s begging to get posted. You’re in charge of B wing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you report there was a fire there last night?”

“Fire, sir?” Harris looked puzzled.

“Yes. Smoke was pouring out the cell windows. The prisoners wouldn’t be smoking themselves to death, would they now?”

Harris’s mouth twitched. “I’d like to catch them, sir.”

“Easy enough. Search everybody coming in from the outside work party.”

“I do that, sir.”

“Then it must be the bloody fairies again dropping tins of fifty Players down the chimneys. See to it in future, Staff.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wilson looked at Harris’s open, friendly face and thought, not for the first time, that Harris was in the wrong trade. He turned and looked at Williams standing ramrod stiff facing him, taking in the powerful neck and shoulders and his thick arms, the skin pink and peeling. He glanced down at Williams’s bare knees. White skin. Straight out from England. This one’s in for some punishment, he thought. Straight out from England and drilling prisoners in the blinding sun. But he looked tough. “You the new Staff?”

“Yes, sir.”

The R.S.M. stared bleakly at Williams. “At ease.”

Harris and Williams obeyed the order and stood relaxed with their arms behind their backs.

Near the gate a squad of prisoners were standing at ease with the Staff facing them. Their general relaxed attitude irritated the R.S.M and he shouted, in a voice that carried clear across the prison grounds. “Staff!”

The Staff in charge of the prisoners spun around, then stamped to attention and shouted back. “Sir!”

“Staff, you gonna keep them prisoners idling all day?”

“Rest break, sir,” the Staff shouted back.

“They’re entitled to five minutes. How long have they had?”

“Aye, sir. Time’s about up.”

“Then get them doubling. Give ’em a wet shirt.”

“Sir!” The Staff turned to the prisoners. “Right, let’s have you. Attenshun — left turn — double, and no bloody yapping. No yapping in the ranks.”

The squad doubled away towards the hill.

The R.S.M. looked at Williams again. “Name, Staff?”

“Staff Williams, sir.”

“Worked in the civvy jails, haven’t you?”

“His Majesty’s prisons, yes, sir.”

The R.S.M.’s mouth tightened. “I stand corrected. But who’s do you think this is? Joe Loss’s?”

Williams made no reply. He stared blankly ahead of him and waited.

“Worked in Aldershot as well, haven’t you, Staff?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Know something about the way we do things then, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

So it’s true, thought the R.S.M. The news on the grapevine’s seldom wrong. So this one’s a civvy jail screw, is he? The R.S.M. looked down his nose. He had no respect for turnkeys. He must have worked hard to get out of a reserved occupation job. “Why leave the comforts of civvy life, Staff?” he enquired politely.

“I wanted oversea, sir.”

The R.S.M.’s polite tea-party-voice didn’t fool Williams. He waited for the sting in the tail to the next question and wasn’t disappointed.

“I hear that Jerry bombed the Scrubs, Staff,” said the R.S.M. with a sardonic smile. “Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. So I believe. But he didn’t bomb the Moor.”

“You should like it here.” The R.S.M. turned and grinned at Harris. “Nice and peaceful here, ain’t it, Staff?”

“Yes, sir,” grinned Harris. “Nice and peaceful.”

“I’ll do my job anywhere I’m sent, sir,” said Williams.

The R.S.M. nodded and taking out his handkerchief he blew his nose violently.

Harris’s smile broadened and he glanced sideways at Williams.

“Enjoy prison work, Staff?” asked R.S.M. Wilson politely.

“I fancy I’m the right man for the job.” A fly settled on Williams’s nose and he shook his head, but the fly stayed where it was cleaning its wings.

“Do you?” The R.S.M. nodded to Harris. “Staff here don’t reckon himself as a man with a mission. That right, Harris?”

“There’s other jobs, sir. They can still use men up the front.”

R.S.M. Wilson looked at Harris with pitying contempt. “If you wanted up front then why the hell didn’t you join the Commandos?”

Harris stiffened. “All I meant was — ”

Wilson spoke quietly. “I’ve done twenty-five years. Where the hell do you think I’d like to be?”

“I know, sir. All I was trying to say — ”

“Don’t interrupt, Staff.” The R.S.M.’s eyes bored into Harris’s. “I know we ain’t reckoned as death-or-glory boys and nobody’s gonna pin a medal on us, but get this straight: one job’s as important as the next. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

R.S.M. Wilson stood rocking on his heels, his arms behind his back. Harris worried him. He was a decent enough man but he would open his trap and say the first damn silly thing that came into his mind. But he could be trusted and it was important to have men around you that you could trust.

Wilson watched the squad of prisoners doubling towards him and he noticed that one of the prisoners was doubling with his mouth wide open. The prisoner, a large fat man, stumbled and lurched and lost balance and fell flat on his face. The Staff in charge of the prisoners gave the order to “mark time.” The prisoners marked time and the Staff walked over to the prisoner who still lay face down in the sand. “Get up.” The Staff put the toe of his boot in the prisoner’s ribs. “On your feet.” The prisoner, his chest heaving and his mouth wide open sucking in air turned over on his back but made no attempt to stand. The Staff looked at the prisoners who were still marking time. “Two men. Get him on his feet. Double over.”

Two prisoners doubled over and lifted the fat man and he stood limply between them while they supported him. The Staff nodded to the squad of prisoners and the men led the fat man back to the squad but he still stood limply between them and still had to be supported. The Staff gave the order “Double” and the squad doubled away with the fat man hanging heavy on the two prisoners.

As the squad passed R.S.M. Wilson he called out, “Staff!”

The Staff halted. “Sir!”

“Halt your men.” Wilson spoke quietly. “Don’t you know the ropes yet?”

The Staff halted the prisoners.

Wilson marched briskly over and faced the squad of prisoners. The fat man, still supported, stood limply, his head hanging down. Wilson lifted the man’s head by his chin and looked into his eyes. “Let go of him,” he said. The prisoners let go of the fat man and he fell on to his knees and stayed there swaying for a moment and then toppled over.

“He’s trouble, sir,” said the Staff. “Bone idle.”

Wilson glared at the Staff. “He’s fat, pushing forty and unfit.”

“And idle, sir. An idle man, that.”

“Let the M.O. be the judge and jury,” the R.S.M. said. “I want to see the prisoners double out of here, not be carried out. Detail two men to lift him over to the M.O.”

“Sir!” The Staff stamped to attention, turned and pointed with his cane. “You two. Three paces forward, march!”

Two prisoners marched out of the ranks.

“Escort the prisoner to the M.O. Dis ... ”

The prisoners moved.

“Wait for it, wait for the order. Dis — miss!”

The prisoners picked up the fat man and one of them held on to him while the other placed the fat man’s arm around his shoulder, then he put an arm around the man’s waist and the other prisoner did the same and between them they half carried, half dragged the man away.

The R.S.M. watched the fat man’s legs dragging in the sand and as they passed he smelt the sweat from the prisoners, but it was the odour from the fat man that made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. It was like the smell that old men who have lain long in hospital beds give out. Better have him rested, he thought. A man who stinks like that can’t be fit for pack drill and field punishment. He nodded curtly to the Staff and walked away, then stopped and for a long moment he stared at Williams. “If I thought that any of my Staff wanted to skulk down base I’d have him out. Out! Understand?”

Williams’s eyes narrowed. Old soldier, he thought. Twenty-five years’ service and all they can find for him is a job in charge of a rest home. I’ve been on the Moor, with the real villains, where nine out of ten are in for G.BH. and the rest a topping offence, and what’s he got inside here? A few take off experts, bottle maniacs, spivs, pimps and bloody cowards. Most of the scum here couldn’t get into a civvy jail even if they banged on the gates and pleaded to be admitted. I’ve been on the Moor. This lot here. This old goat. I’d like to see him take out a stone-breaking party on a foggy morning.

Williams relaxed. Confident as all professional men are when dealing with amateurs. “I’m here to do a job, sir,” he said.

The R.S.M. squinted skywards. “The job’s pleasure for nobody. Feel that sun? It hangs over you and burns you dry. The line dodgers get out sometime. But not you. Not me. We’re doing time. Time! And it drags. It drags heavy.”

He turned his back on Williams and watched two prisoners being drilled by the Staff on the gate. The prisoners wore full packs, marching order, and their webbing and brasswork was a blinding wonder and although burdened with a heavy pack and kit-bag, they still moved light-footed and easily.