Authors: Ray Rigby
“Keep marking time,” shouted Wilson. “Prisoner reporting for medical inspection, sir.”
“Name and number,” said Markham as he faced Bokumbo.
“736 Private Bokumbo, sir.”
“Shirt off.”
Still marking time Bokumbo pulled his shirt over his head and then wondered what he should do with it.
“Drop it on the floor,” snapped Markham, “and take your vest off.”
Bokumbo slipped out of his vest and dropped his clothes on the floor.
“Lift your arms in the air.” Markham looked under Bokumbo’s armpits, then at his chest. “Drop your arms. Open your fingers.” Markham examined between Bokumbo’s fingers. “Right, drop your trousers.” Bokumbo undid his shorts and dropped them. This made marking time rather more difficult but he did the best he could. “Turn around.” Bokumbo turned around. Markham examined his back. “Bend forward.” Jesus Christ, thought Bokumbo, bending forward and still doing his best to mark time. What’s he expect to find up there? “Any serious illnesses?” enquired Markham. Funny place to look for serious illnesses, thought Bokumbo. “No, sir.”
“V.D.?” asked Markham.
Bokumbo half turned to look at him.
“The Medical Officer will tell you when to turn,” said the R.S.M.
“No, sir,” said Bokumbo, “I’ve never had a packet.”
“Turn around,” said Markham and as Bokumbo turned he picked up his swagger cane and lifted Bokumbo’s penis with it and examined it.
“Don’t drop it with a crash, sir,” begged Bokumbo. “You might break my leg.”
“Shut up,” roared the R.S.M.
Markham smiled. “Get dressed. Passed fit, Sergeant-Major, for all punishment and duties. Next.”
“Forward,” shouted the R.S.M. Then even louder, “Mark time, you lunatic. You can’t double with your trousers hanging round your boots. Pull ’em up. Come on. Double.”
Laughing, Bokumbo ran through the open doorway. The R.S.M. picked up Bokumbo’s shirt and vest and followed him and threw the clothes into Bokumbo’s face. “Pick ’em up,” he shouted. “Don’t leave your rags laying around. You’re no bloody violet. Stevens, over here. Double. Get them knees up.” He chased Stevens into the Medical Officer’s room.
Bokumbo, still chuckling, turned to Roberts. “Medical inspection. Man the only place that crazy doctor inspected — . How come he can tell I’m A.1 by just looking at my secret weapon? Or maybe he’s a genius. If that’s how they judge health, old Willie’s the healthiest soldier in the British Army.”
“No talking,” said Williams.
“Yeah,” said Bokumbo. “He’d be the healthiest soldier in any damn army. Man, I’m well blessed, but Willie ... ”
“I told you no talking. Roberts. Bokumbo, you’re on a charge.”
“Roberts didn’t speak, Staff.”
“And don’t answer me back.”
“Staff,” said Bokumbo, “you charge me. That’s O.K. But this man didn’t say nothing.”
“Bokumbo, you’re a cert for a diet of bread and water unless you stop flapping that big trap of yours.”
“Staff,” said Bokumbo. “I told you he didn’t speak.”
“Och,” said McGrath. “Why the hell don’t you shut up, darkie. You’re giving me a headache.”
“All right, McGrath,” said Williams.
“Staff. I don’t want these two dropping me in it.”
Stevens ran out of the M.O.’s room with Wilson still chasing him and ranting away. “Stevens. What the hell’s the matter? Holding on to your pants like a young bint who still believes the yarns her mother told her.”
Stevens stopped to button up his shorts, looking on the ground too upset to speak.
“You ain’t made any different from anybody else, are you?” shouted Wilson. “Gawd. I’ve met all kinds in my time. Now you cut out this bashful virgin act. Ah!” He pushed Stevens. “Get out of my sight. Next, Staff.”
“Double over, McGrath,” said Williams.
The R.S.M. doubled McGrath into the M.O.’s room and Williams turned back to Roberts and Bokumbo. “You two had a great time of it with the R.S.M., but I’ll be looking after your welfare from here on and I’ll tell you now. I hate the bloody sight of the pair of you.”
Williams walked away and faced Stevens who had dressed himself but still looked embarrassed. Stevens looked on the ground.
“Haven’t made up my mind yet whether you’re fish or fowl,” said Williams.
Stevens sniffed but made no reply.
“One of those shy lads are you, Stevens?”
“It’s, well, sir, I — you see ... ”
“You what? One of those lads who can’t make up his mind if he’s a boy or girl, are you?”
“I’m married, sir.”
“Are you now? And who’s who in your little partnership?”
“If you think — ” Stevens looked upset. “We don’t have to be treated like this, do we? I mean, we aren’t animals.”
McGrath doubled out of the M.O.’s room followed by the R.S.M. “Next, Staff,” shouted Wilson.
“Double over, Bartlett,” said Williams, still looking at Stevens.
Bartlett doubled away and Williams stood for a long time staring at Stevens, then walked away and stood with his back to the prisoners.
Bokumbo looked at Williams’s broad back and smiled humorously to himself. Nothing Williams had said or done so far had impressed him very much. Bokumbo, like so many strong men, was by nature normally very easy-going. It took a lot to upset him. Insults, real or imagined, seldom affected him deeply. As a rule he would switch on an easy-going smile and put it down to the other man’s ignorance.
He felt sorry for Stevens. Indifferent to Bartlett, vaguely curious about Roberts, but it was McGrath that interested him most. He had summed him up the moment he had first seen him outside the Courts Martial centre and liked the way he had doubled out of the Court with a broad grin on his face after he had been sentenced. He knew a hard case when he saw one and instinctively he respected McGrath.
The R.S.M. and Williams hardly interested him at all. They were screws and Bokumbo had the greatest contempt for screws. O.K. They had a job to do but what kind of a man takes on that kind of a job? Bokumbo yawned. Suppose they’ll make it tough. O.K. I can take it. He stopped yawning and he grinned again. He knew that he was strong and fit and the hill and the insults wouldn’t get him down. To hell with the screws. Who cares about screws? They bawl and shout but they don’t do any real damage.
He swivelled his eyes as the M.O.’s door opened with a crash and watched Bartlett, looking scared out of his wits, run out followed by the R.S.M. in a fury.
“Staff,” shouted the R.S.M. “I want this one scrubbed with a yard broom. He’s blacker than a darkie.”
Bokumbo’s grin widened. Remarks like that never bothered him.
“Yes, sir,” shouted Williams.
“Right. Next.”
Williams moved to Roberts and said very softly. “Mark time.”
The R.S.M. shouted “Double over here.”
Roberts was about to take off when Williams said still in a quiet voice, “You dirty snivelling rat. Who told you to move?”
Roberts halted and looked at Williams. The R.S.M. shouted even louder “You hear me, Roberts. Staff, what the hell’s going on?”
Williams grabbed Roberts and sent him flying. “Get over there when you’re told. Get over.”
Roberts fell on his knees then slowly stood up.
“Double,” yelled the R.S.M.
“Double,” yelled Williams.
Roberts dusted himself down then slowly walked towards the R.S.M. “You two want to make up your minds.” The R.S.M. grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, all prepared to heave him into the M.O.’s room. They struggled then stood glaring at each other. “I don’t know what kind of a vet he is, Sergeant-Major, but if he sees you belting me, you never know he might feel inclined to report it.”
Captain Markham stepped out of the M.O.’s room. “What’s going on here, Sergeant-Major?”
The R.S.M. released Roberts. “This is Roberts, sir.”
“Oh.” Markham nodded. “Roberts, eh.”
“He reckons he’s at Butlin’s Holiday Camp.”
“Discipline’s your department, Sergeant-Major. I’m only concerned with the men’s health, but do we have to have all this brawling?”
“Prisoner seems to be allergic to doubling, sir.”
“I see.” Markham looked at Roberts. “Bad feet have you?”
“No, sir. They can move when I tell them to.”
“I like straight answers to straight questions. It won’t take me long to find out if you’re fit or not.”
Roberts looked at Markham with contempt. “I’ve witnessed that, sir. You must be a bloody marvel with the undertakers’ tape.”
Markham looked from Roberts to the R.S.M. “I’m also pretty good at detecting line dodgers,” he said.
“Pity you ain’t expert at finding out if us poor sods are fit enough for the bloody nonsense we’re expected to stand for here,” said Roberts.
Markham nodded to the door. “Go inside.”
Roberts walked into the M.O.’s room. “I’ll handle this, Sergeant-Major.” He nodded to the R.S.M. and followed Roberts into the room and closed the door.
The R.S.M. stood rocking on his heels looking thoughtful. Williams marched over to him and slammed to attention but for a good thirty seconds the R.S.M. ignored him, then he looked directly at Williams.
“The hill, sir?” enquired Williams.
The R.S.M. slowly nodded his head as he looked at the hill. “I want him broken, Staff.”
Markham looked at Roberts standing at attention in front of him. “Shirt off,” he snapped and waited while Roberts, taking his time, pulled his shirt over his head, folded it neatly, placed it on a chair and then stood to attention again. “Vest off,” said Markham, “I shouldn’t have to tell you.” Roberts stripped to the waist and Markham gave him a reasonably thorough medical examination then nodded, “You’re in good shape. Have you ever had any serious illnesses?”
“Do you mean recently, sir?”
“Any time.”
Roberts pretended to give this a great deal of thought. “Smokers’ cough,” he said finally.
“We’ve got a cure for that here,” said Markham with a sour grin. “Anything else?”
“I’m allergic to sadists,” said Roberts.
Markham looked thoughtfully at Roberts, then lit a cigarette and sat down. “Ever had V.D.?”
“What?” said Roberts and laughed.
“Have you or not?”
“I wouldn’t brag about it if I had.”
“Roberts. This is one place to answer a simple question with a straight answer. Try learning that golden rule. Now, drop your trousers.”
Roberts did so and Markham examined him. “Turn around ... Right. Get dressed.”
Roberts slipped into his vest then pulled his shirt over his head. “So I’m fit, sir?”.
“Yes. A.1.”
“Where are you sending me? To a stud farm?”
Markham lost his temper. “I’ll give you a week, Roberts. One week to curb that tongue of yours. Now, get out!”
“Yes, sir,” said Roberts and finished dressing, opened the door and walked into the bright sunshine. He screwed up his eyes then strolled over to the line of prisoners and joined them, then stood smartly to attention.
The R.S.M. looked at Roberts with seeming disinterest then turned to Williams. “Staff, suggest you take the prisoners on a short excursion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To the hill, Staff. Suggest you take them to the hill.”
“Yes,” said Williams with a smile.
“Let them walk round it, Staff. Inspect it at their leisure. Then put them up and down it ... say half a dozen times ... no more. Just a sample run. But not Roberts, Staff.”
“Not Roberts, sir?”
“I’ll send one of my Staff to you. He can take the prisoners to the cells. But not Roberts, Staff.”
“Ah — not Roberts, sir.” Williams nodded.
“No. Keep him on the hill. Give him half an hour. That’s plenty for a start.”
“Yes, sir,” grinned Williams.
The R.S.M. nodded, turned and marched away. Williams faced the line of prisoners and gave the order, “Left turn. Double.”
The line of prisoners doubled away with Roberts leading them and McGrath close behind him. McGrath spoke to Roberts but kept his voice down. “You’re a clever bag of tricks you are, Roberts. No inside the glass-house half an hour and you’ve used your bloody influence and got us a ride on the hill. Aye, you’re a bonnie laddie. I bet there’s one Saturday night booze-up your father’s always regretted. Roberts, are you listening to me? If this ride on the hill leaves any marks on me, I’ll leave a bloody few on you.”
“No talking,” said Williams.
“Just thinking out loud, Staff,” said McGrath.
“Save it till you’re in your cell.”
“Aye, Staff, you’ve got something there.”
“But I don’t want the walls defaced with bloodstains, McGrath.”
“You have my word, Staff,” grinned McGrath. “I’m a great respecter of Government property.”
“Now shut your big trap,” said Williams.
“Aye, Staff. Is that the hill or bloody Mount Everest?”
“I said shut up,” said Williams. “This is my Cook’s Tour.”
The line of prisoners approached the hill and Williams, grinning, gestured towards it. “This is the north face, gentlemen.” He glanced sideways at Stevens. “I mean, Ladies and Gentlemen. On a clear day you can see Mother India from the north face. China from the south face. Timbuktu from the east, and right into your bedroom and a good view of your Missus having it off with a Yank from the west.”
“It’s magic,” marvelled McGrath.
“Still think there’s snow on the top, Roberts?” enquired Williams.
“No, Staff. Damn funny hill, though. Nothing seems to grow on it.”
“It’s full of surprises,” said Williams as they doubled round the hill. “The only thing that’s been known to grow on this hill, Roberts, is soldiers. They grow weary. Right!” he yelled, “double up it.”
Bokumbo kicked his legs into action and surged past the other four prisoners and was the first on the hill. He ran with his body bent slightly forward and his boots sank into the sand and encountered the rocks beneath the sand. He grinned to himself and thought, six trips up and down, eh? Easy man, I can do six. I could do sixty. This damn hill won’t beat me.
McGrath shouldered Roberts out of the way and went after Bokumbo. If any man’s to be first over this hill, he thought, it’s me, not a Nigger. He pushed and clawed his way up the hill and on the crown of the hill he drew level with Bokumbo, and shoulder to shoulder they ran down the hill together, boots dragging in the soft sand.
Leaning slightly backwards to maintain balance Roberts pulled himself up and spat out sand and glared after McGrath’s retreating back. Bartlett passed him with Stevens. Neither of them, judging by their expressions, had much stomach for the hill. Williams stationed himself twenty yards from the hill and where he stood he had a good view of the prisoners as they went up and down it. Bokumbo and McGrath were steadily drawing away from the other prisoners and Williams smiled to himself.
Staff Burton marched over, nodded to Williams and then watched the prisoners doubling over the hill with interest.
“The R.S.M. send you over, Staff?” enquired Williams.
“That’s right, Staff.”
“There’s four for the cells when they’re ready. I’m keeping one on the hill.”
“When do I get them?” enquired Burton.
“Soon as they’re ready,” said Williams.
“You’re new, Staff.” Burton glanced down at Williams’s white knees.
“New here, Staff,” said Williams.
“Yeah.” Burton nodded his head. “I can think of better places than here.”
“Why don’t you tell it to the R.S.M. then?”
Burton glanced at Williams again. “It’s been in my mind.” He moved a pace or two away from Williams and watched Stevens stumbling down the hill. “There’s one feller who’s not built to last,” he said.
“Have to build them up then, won’t we, Staff,” said Williams.
“Yeah. They get porridge for breakfast. Maybe that’ll do it.” Burton turned to grin at Williams.
“Time’s up for them, Staff. Take them away,” said Williams.
Burton looked at Williams, then walked towards the hill shouting orders. The four prisoners fell into line and Burton doubled them away. Roberts about turned again and ran towards the hill and up and over the hill, taking it as easy as he could. He knew that the next half hour would drag and that he would have to save his strength.
“Double,” yelled Williams. “Keep them feet moving.”
Roberts grinned to himself. If you want me to move, he thought, you’ll have to come up here after me. He knew that the hill would beat him in the end, but he wanted to stick it out as long as possible.
*
The Commandant was seated at his desk and R.S.M. Wilson stood at attention facing him. The Commandant glanced at Stevens’s case history, then read it from beginning to end and banged a rubber stamp on it. Bartlett’s was much more interesting. This one’s obviously got prison fever, he thought. He glanced at Wilson. “Some chaps never seem to learn, Sergeant-Major, do they.”
“Bartlett, sir?”
The Commandant nodded. “Have to see what we can do about him, sir, won’t we,” said Wilson.
The Commandant banged a rubber stamp on the printed details of Bartlett’s shocking life and nodded again.
“Bokumbo,” he said. “Have to transfer him to the African compound.”
“He’s a British subject, sir. West Indian.”
“Oh.” The Commandant banged a rubber stamp on Bokumbo’s, then very carefully read McGrath’s case history. He looked up at Wilson. “So he beat up three Redcaps, did he?”
“McGrath, sir? Yes.”
“Sergeant-Major, I know the staff feel pretty strongly about cases like this. But let’s have no trouble. You know what I mean.”
“He’ll be treated the same as any other prisoner, sir,” said Wilson evenly. “No better and no worse.”
“Good.” Bang went the rubber stamp again. The Commandant picked up Roberts’s papers, read them through once, then read them again and looked puzzled. “Twelve months — is that all?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Commandant pressed a buzzer on his desk and a door opened and Corporal Bates entered and stood to attention a pace behind the Commandant’s chair and waited. The Commandant handed all five case papers to Bates and then nodded dismissal to the R.S.M., who saluted smartly, about turned, and marched out. Bates opened a filing cabinet, dropped the case papers into it, slammed it shut, then walked back to his office. The Commandant leaned back in his chair and yawned.
*
Roberts, with his mouth wide open, clawed his way up the hill. Sand clung to his face and chin where he had slipped and fallen. Reaching the top he staggered as the sun hit him like a physical blow. He squinted up at the sun as he paused for a moment, then quickly lowered his eyes. It was too bright. It burnt down on him and seemed to fill the sky.
A breeze stirred the sand a few yards ahead of him and he waited for it to reach him. Now the sands erupted all about him as a wind, more powerful and as hot as an open oven door, hit the hill and swirled about him, stinging him and burning his eyes, then it quickly died down. He still waited, but standing still was even more agonizing than keeping on the move. He could feel his muscles jerking and he was more aware of the intense heat and his aching lungs. He staggered as he moved forward, then forced some kind of control over his unsteady limbs and managed a slow trot along the crown of the hill.
On the downward slope he had trouble keeping upright, so he leaned backwards and half slid down the hill, holding his arms out as he tried to maintain some kind of balance and not giving a damn about the rocks any more. He was afraid that if he fell over he would never get up again. He reached the foot of the hill, straightened up and doggedly trotted towards Williams. He almost reached him as Williams gave the order, “About turn.” Roberts slowly trotted back to the hill and, gazing up it, was convinced that he would never reach the top this time.
Williams stepped out briskly so that he could watch Roberts descend. Roberts clawed his way up the hill again, and from the top he saw McGrath, Bokumbo, Stevens and Bartlett. They were doubling and carried towels around their necks. He followed the direction they were travelling and for the first time he saw the pool. The water sparkled in the sun and looked cool, crystal clear and inviting. The fountain in the centre of the pool gushed water. Roberts shivered and his skin felt dry as he stared at the water.
He moved unsteadily along the crown of the hill then half slid down it, determined to catch up with the prisoners and follow them to the pool, but when he was faced with Williams again he obeyed the order, “About turn.” Puzzled, he went up and over the hill again, moving like a zombie. Even his ability to think clearly had deserted him but he stubbornly clung to one thought: the pool — after this trip — the pool. But again and again, when confronted with Williams, he turned back to the hill and went up it and over it.
*
R.S.M. Wilson marched at his usual speed towards a white building and when he reached it he pushed open a door and walked along the corridor and pushed open another door and entered his bedroom. The room was very simply furnished. A bed, wardrobe, washstand, bowl and water jug, a towel rack, a small mirror hanging on the wall. A table by the window and a chair.
A prisoner turned a frightened face towards Wilson and quickly dropped a lurid magazine on to the table and sprang to attention. Wilson slipped out of his bush jacket and vest. The prisoner hastily placed fresh ones on the bed, then hurriedly poured water into the bowl and stood by, ready with a clean towel.
Wilson dipped his head in the bowl of water, soaped his face and body, rinsed himself; the prisoner handed him a towel and Wilson dried himself and slipped into his clean clothes.
Wilson combed his hair in front of the mirror, placed his cap on his head and for the first time looked at the prisoner. Then he glanced at the magazine on the table, picked it up and tore it in half and scattered the pages all over the floor. He walked to the door and slammed it shut behind him. The prisoner, still standing at attention, listened to Wilson’s footsteps fading away. Then in suppressed fury he kicked Wilson’s soiled bush jacket from one end of the room to the other.
*
The four prisoners ran to the edge of the pool, jumped in and fooled about ducking each other. Bokumbo floated away on his back, opened his mouth wide and drank the water as it gushed from the fountain. Staff Burton moved to the edge of the pool and shouted, “No larking. Wash your filthy sins away.” The prisoners sat up in the pool and soaped themselves. Burton turned his back on the prisoners, then slammed to attention and saluted. “Four prisoners, all present and correct, sir.” The prisoners sat at attention in the pool and looked at the Commandant who stared hard at them for a moment; then casually acknowledged Burton’s salute and strolled away.