Authors: Ray Rigby
“What’s those two men doing, Staff?” called out the R.S.M.
“Two prisoners for release, sir,” yelled back the gate Staff.
“Then double them over.”
On the order the two prisoners doubled the hundred and fifty yards and marked time in front of the R.S.M. The two spick and span, bursting-fit soldiers marked time with an easy effortless rhythm, arms held rigidly at their sides and staring blankly ahead.
R.S.M. Wilson watched them performing with approval. They look like bloody Guardsmen, he thought, and remembered how they had looked when they first doubled in. “About turn,” he snarled. “Double — right turn. Keep them knees up. Keep ’em up! About turn! Head up there, head up, you’re bloody soldiers now. Halt — one — one two. Still. Keep still. Right, drop your kit and let’s have your names.”
The two soldiers lowered their kit-bags from their shoulders and smartly laid them on the sandy ground. Then stamped ramrod stiff to attention.
“158. Downes, sir.”
“743. Martin, sir.”
“You’re due for release, is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Downes and Martin together.
“Leaving us, eh? Giving up the comforts and the security of the glass house, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said the two soldiers who didn’t know how to answer that one.
“Prisoners have got as far as the gate and doubled back in again before today,” said the R.S.M. and then paused to allow that good news to sink in. “Dirty kit, for example, dirty boots.” He paused again. “Glad you didn’t look down. Almost behave like a couple of soldiers, don’t you?” He walked slowly around them, searching for any minor blemishes and was delighted that he couldn’t fault them. “Not answering back, eh? Don’t want to blot your copy book at this stage, eh?”
“No, sir,” said Downes.
“What about you, Martin?”
“No, sir,” said Martin.
“Glad or sorry to be going?”
“Glad, sir,” said Downes and Martin together.
“What you in for, Martin?”
“Went absent, sir.”
“You, Downes?”
“Went absent, sir.”
“Be going absent again?”
“No, sir,” said Downes.
“What about you, Martin?”
“No, sir,” said Martin.
“There’s a big push on now,” said the R.S.M. “Plenty of vacancies for lads to die on the beaches of Italy. You’re both just about in time for it. Well?”
“Yes, sir,” said Martin and Downes.
“Think you know how to soldier now?”
“Yes, sir,” Martin and Downes hastily agreed.
The R.S.M. turned to Williams. “When they came to me they’d been on the run.” He turned sharply on the prisoners. “Living it up in Cairo, wasn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The R.S.M. smiled faintly. “Living with a couple of cabaret bints who went out whoring for them. Very tough considering they was pimps. Wasn’t going to do nothing, I told them. Were you, lads?”
Downes looked rather shifty-eyed and Martin muttered, “We sort of thought like that, sir.”
“Any complaints about any members of my staff?”
“No, sir,” said Downes.
“No, sir,” said Martin.
“Treated you well, eh? By God we have. Better than you deserve. You came in poxed-up and lousy and now look at you. You’re fit now, ain’t you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Downes and Martin.
“And you both smell sweeter. I gave you both hell, didn’t I?”
“No, sir,” said Downes.
“Could have been worse, sir,” said Martin.
The R.S.M. glared at Martin. “Who told you to make a speech? Say yes or no.”
“No, sir,” said Martin.
“Glad you didn’t complain. Know why I made you suffer? To find out if there’s any good in you. I make you hate my guts because when you hate me enough then it begins to work. You punish yourself, lads, trying to beat me. You take the hill, pack drill, you hump rocks, you take my tongue and learn about discipline the hard way. I’ve doubled in thousands like you. The dregs, the dross, the filth from the gutters, but when I’ve doubled them out, they’ve shaped up like you two. Like men. Soldiers and a credit to the uniform.” The R.S.M.’s voice had risen until he was almost shouting and his speech had thickened, then abruptly he stopped speaking and relaxed and smiled and for a moment he looked almost benign. He stepped smartly forward and inspected the prisoners for the last time. “You’d pass for the Guards. Report to the Transit camp and no more bloody nonsense, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Downes and Martin together.
“Gate!” shouted the R.S.M. “Two prisoners for release!”
“Sir!” yelled the gate Staff.
“Pick up your kit-bags.”
The prisoners eagerly and easily swung their kit-bags on to their shoulders.
The R.S.M. gave them one last searching look. “Now — this time when you double, you’re going somewhere. You’re doubling to — ” He paused and a grim smile played about his lips. “ — the beaches! Right turn ... Double!”
Martin and Downes doubled towards the gate, pounding their black highly-polished ammo boots into the sand, eager to reach the gate and see it open. Eager to run through it and keep running until, at a safe distance from the prison, they could stop running and tap the first soldier they saw for a fag. In a few minutes they would have a smoke. In a few hours they would be sitting over a cold beer and killing themselves laughing about the Nick and the hard times they had suffered, and when they were sufficiently drunk they would vow to get the R.S.M. and Staff Harris and Burton and all the screws and the cook and that lousy tyke of a prisoner who swept the B wing corridor who had grassed on them. Yes, one dark night they’d kick the R.S.M. to death. Drunken dreams. They didn’t know yet, that the R.S.M. had made two more soldiers; that they would jump at any order chucked at them; that he had broken their spirits and that they would fight on the beaches, and fight well, and probably die on the beaches.
Reaching the gate they marked time and threw anxious glances at the Staff.
The Staff glared at their boots.
They didn’t look down.
The Staff pointed to their boots with his cane. They halted, bent down and wiped the sand off their boots with their handkerchiefs.
The Staff nodded. “Mark time.”
They marked time like ballet dancers, afraid to get more sand on their boots.
The Staff grinned.
They did not smile back.
The Staff inspected them critically, then opened the gate wide.
Still marking time the prisoners edged towards the gate, dancing high on their toes like two little fairies.
The Staff motioned to them to move back.
With mincing steps they back-pedalled and watched the Staff as he stood dead centre in the open gateway, blocking their way to freedom.
“Double!” yelled the Staff. The prisoners ran flat out towards the open gate and then marked time again, as he shouted even louder. “Not you, you raving lunatics. Get back!” Anxious and perplexed they about-turned and doubled away a short distance and marked time again.
The gate Staff turned his back on them and shouted again. “Double!”
Five prisoners, escorted by a Corporal and a private soldier, doubled into the prison. One of the prisoners was a Negro.
“Mark time,” the gate Staff shouted. “Over here, Corporal.” The Corporal doubled over to the Staff and handed him the prisoners’ papers.
“Get fell in with the prisoners. Double.”
The Corporal ran back to the prisoners and marked time with them.
The Staff pointed to the gate and shouted, “Double!” and Martin and Downes ran through the open gateway and kept running. The Staff slowly closed the gate, then shouted, “New intake of prisoners, sir.”
The R.S.M. turned when he heard the gate Staff’s voice and for a long moment he looked at the five new prisoners marking time near the gate. “Double them, Staff. Sweat them down before you give them to me.” Then turning to Harris, he said, “Staff, you got room in B Wing for five new prisoners?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All in the one cell. Fix it.”
“I will, sir,” said Harris.
“New scum and old scum are bad mixers. I’ll assign Staff Williams to you, Harris. He can cut his teeth on this new lot.”
“Right, sir,” said Harris.
“See to it then, Staff. Get the honeymoon suite ready.”
“Yes, sir,” grinned Harris and hurried away.
The R.S.M. relaxed a little and spoke to Williams in an easy friendly manner. “I’m a fair man, Staff. All I ask is that the prisoners obey orders, at the double. Your job’s to see they do.”
“Yes, sir,” said Williams.
“Any member of my Staff’s got my full backing. There’s the Commandant, of course, but he don’t like being troubled with trivialities. So only take up serious matters with him, like arson or sudden death.”
Williams smiled. “I’m quick at catching on, sir.”
The R.S.M. nodded. “I’ll soon know if you are not. But see me first, always, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Williams.
“Right.” The R.S.M. glanced at his watch. “While the new intake’s getting a wet shirt we’ll have our tea break. Get all the fluids in you you can. You’re going to need it.” He walked away and Williams marched at his side. “You’ll be on Commandant’s orders,” continued the R.S.M., “when he gets here, that is.” He glanced sideways at Williams with a faint smile. “I find him an easy man to talk to.” He struck out with his stick at a cloud of flies and hurried on towards the Staff quarters.
The Commandant soaped his body, then turned the shower on full and held his face up to the cold water. Then he rinsed himself and padded into the bathroom, dripping water over the tiled floor. He picked up a bath towel but dropped it when he noticed that it was soiled. Still naked he moved to the open window and let the sun dry him. He looked contemptuously at the dingy cafés below the window and watched the natives seated at the tables on the pavement sipping coffee or mint tea. They amused him. He could never quite believe that they were really human. He looked at an old crone seated on the edge of the pavement, her skinny arm held out rigidly in front of her, her eyes encrusted with flies. Disgusting, he thought, absolutely bloody awful. Shouldn’t be allowed.
He dressed slowly gazing at himself in the full-length mirror all the time. His head throbbed and his eyes were bloodshot. Drinking too much. A wry grin — then a shrug. What else can you do in this god-awful dump? Not even a decent bar. Only the Officers’ club ... It wasn’t so bad when I could get to Cairo or Alex for the odd weekend, but the only place near here is Tripoli and anybody can have that. God. My head!
He leaned forward and inspected his chin. Must have a shave before I go on duty. Well. They do a good line in Wog barbers. Anyway — no hurry. The R.S.M. can cope. Knows his job. Funny, I haven’t heard from the wife. Almost six weeks now. He shrugged into his tunic and buttoned it then glanced about the room for his hat. God. I must get the hell out of here.
He noticed his hat on a chair and carefully placed it on his head as he looked down at the girl in the bed. She lay on her back, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open. The sheet covered her as high as her waist and he gazed down at her plump breasts. She looks a bit of a mess this morning, he thought. Didn’t look too bad last evening. He picked up his swagger cane and had a sudden impulse to beat her breasts with it. He turned away and tip-toed to the door, then remembered and tip-toed back and placed some money on the bedside table. Then, impatient to leave, he walked briskly to the door, opened it and slammed it shut behind him.
*
The Medical Officer was impatiently waiting for R.S.M. Wilson. He glanced at his watch then squinted at the sun, and glanced at his watch again as he paced slowly up and down in front of the Medical Room. The sweat trickled down from his armpits and he slipped a handkerchief inside his shirt and dried himself. His drill trousers clung to his legs. He flatly refused to wear shorts because he knew that he looked absurd in them. He stopped pacing when he saw the R.S.M. with Williams walking towards him. He waved his fly whisk, but the R.S.M. did not hurry his pace.
“Sergeant Major!” shouted Markham. Wilson merely nodded his head and lifted his cane in acknowledgement and still taking his time finally halted in front of Markham. “Sir!”
“I’ve been waiting.”
“Have you, sir?”
“The prisoner you sent me,” said Markham, fast losing his patience. “You did send him to me, I suppose?”
“I put a prisoner on sick report, sir, yes.”
“I’ve put him on light duties.”
“Very good, sir.”
“He’s an educated man. Can’t think what he’s doing here.”
“Punishment,” said the R.S.M. with no change of expression.
“Give him a job in the cookhouse.”
“I’ll detail him for a job, sir.”
“Very well. Are the new intake of prisoners here yet?”
“They are, sir.”
“Good. I’ll see them.”
“As soon as they’re ready, sir. I’ll double them in to you.”
“Sergeant-Major, I’ll see them now.”
“The Staff on the gate’s drilling them, sir.”
Captain Markham waved his fly whisk and the flies dispersed then flew back again and circled his head. He struck out at them again in suppressed fury. “I said I’ll see them nowt Sergeant-Major,” he shouted.
“Then I’ve to see them, sir. All prisoners — ”
“I know the bloody rules and regs.”
“Then you know that you’ll get them as soon as they are ready, sir.”
Markham and the R.S.M. stared fixedly at each other and then both turned as the Medical Room door opened and the fat man, still looking pretty groggy, stood in the doorway.
Markham turned to the R.S.M. and gave him an order. “Jenkins will be excused duty for the next three days, then we’ll put him on light duties.” Markham paused and waited for the R.S.M. to react to the order. But Wilson merely replied in a matter-of-fact voice, “Very good, sir.”
Markham smiled. “I’m glad that we’re in agreement.” He beckoned to the waiting prisoners with his fly whisk. “He can bed down. Take him back to his cell.”
The prisoners led Jenkins away.
Markham turned to the R.S.M. with a sarcastic smile. “When you’re quite ready, Sergeant-Major, I’ll vet the new prisoners.” He walked away striking at the air with his fly whisk.
The R.S.M. waited until Captain Markham had closed the door, then he turned to Williams. “Don’t forget. Always see me first.”
Williams nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The R.S.M. turned towards the gate and shouted, “Staff, let’s have them now.”
“Sir,” yelled back the Staff on the gate, and gave the order to the weary prisoners to double.
The R.S.M. waited and as the prisoners drew level he inspected each man in turn. “Mark time.” The prisoners obeyed the order.
“Prisoners’ escort forward. Double!” The Corporal and soldier doubled over to the R.S.M. and he halted them and accepted the prisoners’ case histories from the Corporal. Wilson quickly scanned the names. Bokumbo. That would be the Nigger, of course. McGrath. So we’ve got another Scot, have we? Yes, the fellow with the punched-in face, that will be him. Bartlett. Could be the spiv, or the chap with the glasses. A useless wet-looking article. He’ll need smartening up. Bloody nearly on his knees already. Roberts. Ex-Sergeant-Major Roberts. There’s no mistaking you, Roberts. By Christ, there’s no mistaking you.” Wilson glared at the prisoners’ escort. “About turn, double. Gate. See them out.”
“Sir!” yelled the Staff on the gate as the prisoners’ escort doubled towards him.
The R.S.M. nodded to Williams. “Take over, Staff.”
“Sir!” Williams stamped to attention, then moved towards the prisoners. “About turn, keep marking time. Put them boots down hard. Keep them knees up. Up, or by God, I’ll sting them. Lef’, lef’, lef’ lef’, lef’. Keep in time. Not getting tired, are you? Right turn, forward. I haven’t started on you yet. Left turn, keep your head up. You — head up, four eyes, head up. Better. Left turn — lef’, lef’, lef’. About turn. Now ... wait for it. Halt. One one two. Hold it, don’t move. Stand still. Still, I said. Stand still!”
George Stevens wearily dropped his kit-bag. Williams moved to him and said quietly, “I’ll tell you when to drop that.”
Stevens, on the third attempt, managed to get his kit-bag back on his shoulders. He stood there, eyes half shut, his knees trembling.
Williams moved back again and looked at the prisoners. “Hot are you? Go a drink I bet. You won’t get one.” He squinted at the sky then back to the prisoners. “It’s warming up, but I don’t have to tell you that. Must be about a hundred and ten in the shade, only we don’t cater for shade here. You ... you, the second man ... Don’t all turn and look. What’s up? Can’t you count? It’s the Darkie I’m speaking to and stand still, all of you. Darkie, is the flies worrying you? They’re entitled to a drink ain’t they? Though why the hell they want to sup off you ... Stop twitching like a lot of young virgins who can’t make up their minds. All right, I know it’s murder standing at attention after a double. Drop your kit and stand easy.”
The five prisoners, with visible relief, dropped their kit-bags and stood at ease.
Williams paced up and down and looked at the prisoners in turn. The fella with the glasses. He’s scared rotten. He stopped and glared at Stevens and Stevens swallowed nervously. This one won’t give me any trouble. Williams moved on and faced Bartlett. This shifty-eyed character’s been in before and by the look of his kit he hasn’t been long out. Likes it inside, does he? I’ll soon change his mind. Who’s this joker? Lost his pack, has he? I’ll have a word with him about that. He moved on. This one looks more interesting. Punched-in face. Mouth like a rat trap. Bet he thinks he’s an iron man. I’ll soon prove him wrong. A Nigger. He looked at Bokumbo’s boots then examined every inch of him until he was staring into Bokumbo’s face. Big boy, this one. Pity I won’t have him. He’ll have to go into the Niggers’ compound, I suppose. Pity. He moved on and finally halted in front of Roberts, stared hard at him and then gave the order, “About turn!”
Roberts obeyed the order.
Williams repeated the order. “About turn!”
Again Roberts obeyed the order.
“Name?”
“Roberts.”
“Where’s your pack?”
“I lost it.”
“Lost it, what?”
“Lost it up the front.”
“Lost it, Staff. Got that? Staff. You address me as Staff. Got that?”
“Yes, Staff.”
“Threw it away, I suppose, Roberts. So you could run faster.”
Roberts made no reply. He was staring past Williams at the hill.
Williams suddenly shouted. “Turn out your kit. All of you.” The five prisoners hastily opened their kit-bags and emptied the contents on to the ground. Then they emptied the contents of their packs. Roberts was the first to finish. He straightened up and slammed to attention.
Williams stared at the heap of army issue clothing at Roberts’s feet. The soiled spare shirt and vest and pants. The spare socks, shorts, drill jacket, plimsolls, puttees, shaving kit, housewife, soiled handkerchiefs, battle dress, boots. A photograph of a woman with two small children. The woman was on the plump side but she had an open friendly smile. A few letters, limp and smudged with much reading and a book. The cover faded. Williams picked up the book and opened it and read.
Leaves
of
Grass
, by Walt Whitman. He turned a
few
pages, then grinned. “Poetry, eh?”
Roberts made no reply.
“Like reading poetry, Roberts?”
Roberts was still staring at the hill. That hill’s damned high, he thought. They certainly made a job of it.
Williams threw the book down. “Thought you said you lost your kit?”
“They issued me with this lot, Staff.”
“But not a pack?”
“No, Staff. They were out of packs.”
“We ain’t. I’ll see you get a pack, Roberts.”
Roberts made no reply. He was still staring at the hill and thinking. That’s a bloody useless hill. Sand and rock. You’d never get anything to grow on that.
“You’ll pay for this kit,” said Williams.
“Yes, Staff.”
Williams picked up the photograph of the woman and two children and looked at it. Roberts stiffened as Williams held it further away so that he could see it better. “Wife and kids?”
“Yes, Staff.”
“You’re allowed to keep one photograph.” Williams handed the photograph to Roberts and Roberts slipped it into his shirt pocket. “She won’t be drawing any pay or allowance all the time you’re in here. You know that.”
Roberts took his eyes off the hill for a moment to look at Williams but made no reply.
Williams stared again at the heap of clothing at Roberts’s feet and suddenly went into action. He played football with the book and it finally rested about thirty yards away. Then he scattered the rest of Roberts’s belongings in all directions.
Roberts willed himself to concentrate on the hill and pretend that it hadn’t happened.
Williams slowly walked back to Roberts. Then shouted at him. “You! Pick it up. What the hell’s it doing all over the yard.”
Roberts moved away and picked up a shirt and then a sock.
“At the double!”
Roberts increased speed and picked up all his clothing and belongings and ran back and dropped them in a pile at his feet, then slammed to attention.
Williams stared at Roberts’s expressionless face for a long while and then went into action again and kicked Roberts’s kit even further afield.
Roberts concentrated all his thoughts on the hill. The hill had changed colour. Now it was red. Blood red. And he had a strange thought that it was not safe to look at it. He watched Williams, and his mouth was suddenly dry. He noted Williams’s thick neck and heavy shoulders and thick powerful arms.
Roberts stared blankly at the hill. Sand. He concentrated all his thoughts on sand. Sand underfoot and in your eyes, food, up your nostrils. Sand everywhere, and look at that damned great sand hill. His mind went blank and he tried desperately to think about any damn thing except Williams. The wall, ah, and on the wall barbed wire. The wall is to keep us in and the screws’ job is to keep us in order, and what’s outside? Damn all sand and scrub and dried burnt grass and a few parched trees.
The wasted years trooped through his brain. The dole queues. The closed factory door. An eighteen-year-old boy mooched through London streets, hands in pockets. The young untried Roberts. Pale-faced, skinny, workless, homeless, idle. But I survived somehow, Roberts thought. Hammersmith, meat pie, eels and mash, sixpence. Cup of tea and slice, threepence. I survived and put flesh on my big bones. I joined the bloody army. Trooper Roberts, nineteen years old and Trooper Roberts again ten years later. Time passes and I stand still. All the dead years gone — where are they? They’ve meant nothing. Alice and two kids. Well, I’ve been lucky there.