The Hill (9 page)

“Don’t know his name, Staff. The Staff you was just chatting to.”

Williams turned his attention to McGrath. “So he’s responsible?”

“Aye. He went mad and kicked our kit all over the shop.”

“Watch it, McGrath.”

“I’m stating the facts of the case, Staff.”

“Clear it up then.”

“What about our grub?” Bartlett protested.

“I said clean up this cell.”

Williams stood and watched them as the prisoners sorted over their equipment and blankets and clothing.

*

Staff Burton was determined to find out exactly where he stood. He stepped out briskly, ignoring the intense heat, in search of the R.S.M. He was going to find out who was in charge of Cell 8 and get the matter settled one way or another. Seething with anger, he marched towards the hill. ‘New men coming in and trying to take over,’ he thought. ‘Making me look a fool in front of the prisoners. I’m not going to wear that.’ He saw Staff Harris standing gazing at the hill having a sly smoke, the cigarette cupped in his hand. ‘He’ll do,’ thought Burton. ‘I’ll have a ruck with him for a start.’

“Staff,” he bawled, increasing his speed. “Like a word with you.”

Harris turned and looked at Burton marching towards him, and grinned to himself. ‘What’s he in a flap about?’ he wondered. He took another sly pull at his cigarette and waited for Burton.

“Yes, Staff?”

“I want to know where I stand,” said Burton. “Am I or am I not on Cell 8?”

Harris drew hard on his cigarette and rolled smoke out of his mouth with obvious enjoyment. “Well, you are and you ain’t, Staff,” he said with a grin.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Harris dropped the butt end on to the ground and kicked sand over it. “You’re any damn place the R.S.M. sees fit to put you,” he said, looking up from the ground and gazing into Burton’s eyes.

“You put me on Cell 8.”

Harris shook his head. “I didn’t. The R.S.M. did.”

“Then I’m on Cell 8.”

Harris shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Make up your mind, Staff.”

“He put Williams on Cell 8, too.” Harris watched a prisoner, whom he recognized as one of the Staff billet cleaners, walking across the parade ground. “Double,” he yelled. The prisoner took fright and doubled away.

“Without first telling me,” said Burton, glaring angrily at Harris. “The R.S.M. gives me the job. Then gives it to this new fella. What the hell does he think he’s playing at?”

Harris squinted up at the hill then sideways at Burton. “God didn’t tell anybody when he made the world, did he?”

“I reckon I’ve got a genuine complaint, Harris,” said Burton.

“About the R.S.M.?”

“Who bloody else?”

“Face him with it then.”

“I don’t mind seeing him. I don’t scare easy like some here. But I reckon I ought to take this up with the Commandant.”

“Burton.” Harris looked at him severely. “Go over the R.S.M.’s head and — Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“O.K. I’ll complain to the R.S.M. first.”

Harris laughed and held out his hand. “I’ll say goodbye to you now, then.”

‘You’re a creeper, you are,’ thought Burton. ‘R.S.M. can’t do any wrong as far as you’re concerned.’ Even as he thought this he knew that he wasn’t being fair to Harris. Old Charlie Harris wasn’t a bad bloke. If the rest were like him this place wouldn’t be so bad. He wouldn’t do you a bad turn and that’s more than you could say for some of them. He cooled down a little but he was still angry.

“Who the hell does the R.S.M. think he is?”

Harris knew the R.S.M. as well as any man did. He knew his strength and his weaknesses, and his secret thoughts about him were not always complimentary. But in many ways he admired him and under no circumstances would he ever hear a word said against him. He got angry now.

“R.S.M. Wilson,” he said. “Twenty-five years’ service. He thinks he knows his job and he does. He thinks he can make soldiers out of muck, and he can. He thinks he’s a man and he is.”

“And he thinks he’s God,” said Burton.

“Staff, you’re joking,” smiled Harris. “He knows he is.” This was one of Harris’s favourite jokes and he had repeated it to the R.S.M.’s face more than once.

“Staff.” The voice rang out clear across the prison grounds from the far side of the parade ground.

Harris and Burton turned and saw R.S.M. Wilson and both slammed to attention.

“Not you, Staff Harris. Staff Burton. Double over here.”

“See if you can beat the quarter mile world record,” grinned Harris as Burton doubled away.

Burton fixed his sights on the R.S.M. as he ran, still seething with anger. ‘The lunatic doesn’t have to make us run ourselves into the bloody ground,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Who’s doing punishment here, us or the prisoners? Out in the blinding sun all day, doubling prisoners, keeping up with them. We work damn nearly as hard as they do. Then the R.S.M. pulls tricks like this.’

He ran on doggedly, looking down at his boots as he kicked up the sand. Feeling the sun striking him across the back of the neck, ‘ought to cut down on the smokes,’ he thought, ‘and the booze. I’m getting too old for this old nonsense. How the R.S.M. keeps going? He boozes his share. Don’t smoke, though. Maybe that’s the secret, and he’s older than me by a good five years. More. But he can still shift his share of booze.’

He wondered if he could make the last hundred yards. Gritting his teeth he banged his boots harder into the soft sand. ‘Who’s too bloody old? It’s easier up front though. I don’t have to stand for his old rubbish. If I have much more from him I’m getting a posting out of here. Get back with the boys.’ He slowed down and slammed to attention facing the R.S.M. “Sir,” he gasped. The run had winded him.

The R.S.M. looked at Burton’s heaving chest and the sweat running down his face.

“Staff,” he said. “Your prisoners were smoking in their cells last night. I’ve appointed Staff Williams in your place. I’m putting you on the gate where I can keep an eye on you. Anything to say?”

It was some moments before Burton could find the breath to speak. Finally he gasped, “Might have spoken to me first, sir.”

“I’m telling you now. You supervise the cleaning of the M.O.’s room as well, don’t you? M.O.’s room wasn’t cleaned. You let me down.”

Burton was quickly getting his breath back. He said in aggrieved tones, “Had trouble with some of the prisoners and by the time I’d sorted that out, there wasn’t time.”

“Had trouble with prisoners?” The R.S.M. looked at Burton as if he was raving mad. “Double over to the gate, Staff, or you’ll have trouble with me.”

“Sir,” shouted Burton, “no prisoners were smoking while I was on duty.”

“I gave you an order,” said the R.S.M.

“Sir. Any man can slip up once. You didn’t have to appoint Staff Williams — ”

“Shut up!” The R.S.M. glared at Burton then pointed with his stick to the gate. “Double.”

Burton hesitated a moment, still boiling with rage, then he turned and doubled towards the gate and with every step he gritted his teeth and said under his breath, “Bastard, you bastard ... bastard.”

*

“All right. Sit down and eat your dinner,” said Williams.

The prisoners picked up their tins and looked at the cold unappetizing mess and put the tins down on the floor again.

Williams moved about the cell then stopped and looked at Roberts. “You were a soldier once, weren’t you?”

‘That’s a brilliant remark,’ thought Roberts, but decided to humour Williams. “That’s right, Staff.”

“How come you landed in here then?”

Roberts leaned his back against the wall. “I was a bloody fool, Staff. I joined the army in peace-time. Do you want more proof?”

“Held rank once, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know it showed, Staff.”

“It don’t inside here ... what’s your crime, Roberts?”

“It’s in the office files, Staff.”

Williams nodded. “I think I know.” He moved away and touched Bokumbo’s kit-bag with the toe of his boot. “Straighten that.”

Bokumbo knelt down and moved the kit-bag half an inch then glanced up at Williams.

“More to the left.”

Bokumbo moved his kit-bag more to the left then glanced up at Williams again. Williams pulled back his foot as if to kick the kit-bag, then smiled and turned away and walked back to Roberts.

“Think I know,” he repeated. “But I’ll check to be sure.”

“It makes interesting reading,” said Roberts.

“What was your rank?”

“It’s all down in black and white in my records, Staff.”

Williams nodded. “Sergeant-Major?”

“If you know, why ask me, Staff?”

“I didn’t, but I do now.” Williams stared at Roberts. “You’re just a music-hall comic. You ain’t fit to hold rank.”

Roberts had had enough of the interrogation. “You give me a headache,” he said as he moved away.

Williams walked after him and said quietly, “I’ll give you worse than that. The Courts Martial broke you, but I’m going to finish the job. I’ll bust you wide open.”

Roberts stopped and, turning to the rest of the prisoners, said, “He’s power crazy. He’d work as a dustman if they gave him a uniform and two men to shout at.”

Stevens tried to restrain his laughter and as Williams swung round on him the smile froze on his lips.

“You think that’s funny, Stevens?”

“Sir. I didn’t mean ... ”

“I’ll teach you.”

“Sir — please — ”

“Get into your kit. Go on.” Williams pushed Stevens and sent him staggering across the cell. Stevens miserably buckled on his webbing and big pack. “Come on, hurry up. Double out.”

Stevens doubled out of the cell and Williams followed him and slammed the cell door shut behind him.

The prisoners listened to the footsteps dying away and then they stared at Roberts. McGrath was the first to speak. “You dropped that wee laddie right in it.”

Roberts knelt down and began searching through his kitbag.

“Did you hear me, Roberts?”

Roberts still ignored McGrath as he emptied his kit-bag on to the floor.

McGrath raised his voice. “You gave Williams lip and he took it out on the lad.”

Roberts, searching through his kit, stopped for a moment to glance at McGrath. Then he picked up a pair of socks and began stuffing the rest of his clothing back into his kit-bag.

“He don’t want to know,” said Bartlett, “look at ’im.”

Roberts looked at the prisoners in turn.

“He wants me,” he said, thumbing himself on his chest. “If I say nothing, he’ll have me for dumb insolence. If I speak, he’ll still have me. He wants you.” Roberts pointed to Bokumbo. “You’re the wrong colour. The rest of you, he doesn’t find all that interesting — yet. But he’ll have you just the same. The R.S.M. likes making toy soldiers. Williams likes breaking them. Now you work out what you’re going to do.”

He sat down and removed his puttees and unlaced his boots and peeled off his wet socks and dried his feet on a towel. The prisoners watched him in uneasy silence as he put on his clean socks and laced up his boots again.

“Maybe you’re right, Roberts,” said McGrath, “but keep your mouth shut and don’t give that big slob too many chances.”

“Sure he’s right,” said Bokumbo. “Man, are we gonna need a sense of humour.”

“Roberts ain’t got one,” said Bartlett.

“Maybe he has,” said Bokumbo. “Who the hell cares.”

“Let’s find out.”

Bartlett sprang to his feet and marched over to Roberts and stamped to attention.

“Company all ready, Sergeant-Major, sir, to throw away their arms and run like hell back to Cairo. Permission to be a lot of Woody cowards, sir.”

McGrath and Bokumbo laughed. Bartlett, when he cared to be, could be quite funny and the way he stood facing Roberts, cross-eyed, and with a droll expression on his face was highly comic. Bartlett looked at them and they laughed even louder, but from where they sat they could not see Roberts’s expression. He sat glaring up at Bartlett and Bartlett got a shock. ‘That went home,’ he thought ‘Blimey, that went home.’ Grinning broadly now he turned to McGrath and Bokumbo.

“Company. Company on parade.”

McGrath and Bokumbo lined up facing Bartlett.

“Company atten-shun.” Bartlett made a big thing of inspecting their non-existent equipment. “Your equipment’s ’orrible, McGrath.”

“Aye, sir, and the same to you,” chuckled McGrath.

“After inspection,” shouted Bartlett, “fall out and get your running shoes or you’ll be left behind, soldier.”

“Don’t worry about me, sir,” said McGrath. “I’m quick off the mark.”

“I say, I say,” said Bartlett, suddenly going all posh. “Where the devil’s our dearly beloved Sergeant-Major Roberts?”

He shielded his eyes and pretended to scan the distant horizon, taking a sidelong glance at Roberts as he did so.