The Hill (10 page)

“I say, I say, the bounder’s not even waited for me to dismiss the company. He’s already caught up with the General in his staff car.”

McGrath and Bokumbo laughed.

“Look, just chucked his boots away, he hates to be hampered.” Another grinning side glance at Roberts, then he turned back to the other two. “All right, chaps. I know you’re just aching to get cracking. One last thing. If anyone tries to obstruct you in your frantic dash to freedom you will form fours and trample the bounders to death, eh, what? Company. Company dismiss.”

Still laughing, Bokumbo and McGrath sat down again.

“Find that funny, me old mate?” enquired Bartlett.

Roberts finished lacing his boots then stood up and stamped them on the tiled floor. His legs had stopped trembling and he felt the strength returning. ‘Be all right in another half hour,’ he thought. ‘Ready for another go over the hill.’

“Thought you’d be killing yourself laughing, Roberts,” said Bartlett.

Roberts looked at him. “You’re a great little comic,” he said.

“That’s why you’re in ’ere. ain’t it?” Bartlett turned to McGrath. “He bleeding well ran out of the line. That’s why they busted ’im. I caught on when I was mucking about.”

McGrath glanced swiftly from Bartlett to Roberts. ‘A bloody coward, eh,’ he thought. ‘Maybe Bartlett’s right. Maybe that’s what all the mystery’s about. The R.S.M. read out everybody’s crimes. But not Roberts’s. Not ex-Sergeant-Major bloody Roberts’s. So we’ve got a beauty here, have we? An ex-Sergeant-Major, busted for cowardice and he’s shooting his mouth off and playing it big and making it tough for the rest of us. It’s high time I had a word in his ear.’ McGrath stood up.

“So you ran out of the line, did you, Roberts?”

‘He’s the one to watch,’ thought Roberts. ‘Dangerous Dan McGrath, the punch-up maniac. I know I’m going to have trouble with him.’ He was about to answer McGrath when he saw Harris peering at him through the cell bars. He nodded a warning to McGrath and walked over to the window. Harris unlocked the cell door and walked in.

“Blimey. What are you doing ’ere, Staff Harris?”

Judging by his expression Bartlett was overjoyed at this chance encounter. Harris turned.

“Oh, God help me. Can’t I ever get away from you?”

“Not as long as they’ve got nicks for you to work in, Staff,” grinned Bartlett. “This dump don’t compare to ole Gennefeh do it? That was a right old nick, that was.”

“Let’s hope this one won’t be a grievous disappointment to you.” Harris turned to McGrath. “A little bird told me that you like knocking people about.”

“Me, Staff?” said McGrath, with a look of injured innocence on his face.

“Word of warning. Don’t try it here.” Harris glanced at Roberts. “Not even with the prisoners.”

“I’m all for a peaceful life, Staff.”

“Good. I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Roberts, here.”

“Yes, Staff.” Roberts strolled over to Harris.

“I understand you can’t stand people shouting at you. You can’t double, fight — ” A sidelong glance at McGrath, who grinned back. “ ... or fornicate. Or am I wrong about the last item?”

“I can’t here, Staff, that’s certain,” said Roberts.

“Blimey, Staff,” interrupted Bartlett. “You can’t know ’ow glad I am to see you.”

Harris laughed. “That’s the queerest compliment I’ve ever had. Roberts, take a good look at Bartlett.”

“I’ve seen it, Staff.”

Harris nodded and turned to Bartlett.

“I want you to have a word with Roberts. Learn him to double and do as he’s told. It’s not much to ask. Learn this moonstruck man the arts of survival. Learn him to cock a deaf ear to abuse and step out smartly when told before Staff Williams cripples him.”

Bartlett took it all as a great compliment and beamed with pleasure. “O.K. Staff. Cost you a fag.”

“See what I mean,” marvelled Harris as he turned to Roberts. “The vacant grin, the right shade of voice. It’s cheek, but it ain’t insolence and he’ll have me breaking the law. O.K. Bartlett, you’ll get a fag if it’s going to help save this lunatic’s life. Roberts.”

“Yes, Staff?”

“Bartlett’s had about a dozen trips over the wall, he’s generously shared his services between the pox hospitals and the detention barracks, and what he don’t know about these places wouldn’t fill a tuppenny stamp. So set your ears forward and listen to him.” Harris moved back to the gate and Bartlett followed him. “Staff, you staying on this block?”

“Yes, and so’s Williams.” Harris gave Bartlett five cigarettes. “I never gave them to you and if I catch you having a drag — ”

Harris looked at Roberts. “Remember all I’ve said.”

He slammed the cell gate shut and walked up the corridor.

CHAPTER SIX

The R.S.M. walked through the prison grounds deep in thought. A line of prisoners carrying rocks jog-trotted past him but he ignored them then, glancing towards B Wing, he saw Harris and waved his cane to attract his attention. Harris changed direction and hurried towards the R.S.M. and finally caught up with him.

The R.S.M., still deep in thought, walked on and for a few moments didn’t say a word. Harris kept pace with him and waited. Finally the R.S.M. glanced at Harris and said, “Why didn’t you tell me that Burton’s useless?”

“I don’t reckon he is, sir.”

The R.S.M. halted and looked at Harris who smiled back at him. “You don’t, eh? Got a good war record, hasn’t he?”

“Done his spell up the front,” said Harris.

“Up front.” The R.S.M. turned and watched the prisoners humping rocks. Then he turned his attention on the padre who was watering a few miserable drooping flowers outside his chapel. “Up front,” he repeated. “Because he’s been up front does that make him a good Prison Officer?”

‘It might help,’ thought Harris. But he didn’t say it.

“Charlie,” said the R.S.M. “I know you’ve been up front and still have dreams of winning the V.C. I bet you’re good to your mother too, and I know you’re good to the prisoners, but you don’t have to carry useless Prison Officers.”

“He’s green, but he’s not useless, sir.”

The R.S.M. was still watching the padre. “He’ll drown his bloody weeds. Look at him killing them with kindness.”

Harris turned and watched the padre who was giving his flowers enough water to see them through until the rainy season, and he grinned. “He’s getting them drunk,” he said. “I can hear them singing Nellie Dean from here.”

“I’ll give Burton a fair crack of the whip then.” The R.SM. walked on and Harris kept pace with him. “What do you think of Williams?”

“Too soon to judge, isn’t it?”

“He’s dead keen. That’s what we need here.”

“Men with vocation, sir?” said Harris with a sly grin.

The R.S.M. stopped dead in his tracks. “Yes, Staff, and I’m not joking.” He glanced over Harris’s head and watched Stevens staggering over the top of the hill. He was faintly surprised. Stevens was the last man he had expected to give trouble. He beckoned to Williams. “Prisoner been giving trouble, Staff?”

“Yes, sir.”

The R.S.M. nodded. “Did the trip on the hill calm down Roberts?”

“No, sir.”

‘Then why isn’t he back on it again?”

“He will be, sir. Just letting him get his second wind.”

The R.S.M. watched Stevens tottering down the hill. “What about the others?”

“I can handle them, sir.”

“They’ve made it clear they don’t like discipline.”

“Give me a week, sir.”

“I will, Staff.”

The R.S.M. nodded dismissal and Williams about turned and marched back to the hill. The R.S.M. stayed on and watched Stevens as he turned and tottered towards the hill again and feebly pushed and climbed his way back up it. The R.S.M. looked away and glanced at Harris.

“Give him a free hand and let’s see what he can do.”

Harris nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He was watching Stevens and wondering what the crime was that had earned him a trip on the hill. Unless that skinny lad’s appearance was deceptive, he wouldn’t give anybody any trouble. Give Williams a free hand, eh? Ought to be very interesting. If he can give this dozy-looking lad stick, then he’ll have every prisoner in B Wing on the hill. He’ll have them living on it. Day and night service. Twenty-four hours round the clock. ‘Give him a free hand, eh? I think you’re asking for trouble, Bert.’

He stole a sidelong glance at the R.S.M. and was puzzled. He somehow hadn’t expected the R.S.M. to be impressed by Williams. ‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ he thought. The old man’s a good judge of character. To hell with it. I’m only in for the duration and when this lot’s over, I’m out quick as I can move and back home to the wife and kids. Meanwhile, this is a safe billet.’

He still missed the Infantry mob he had been with since the outbreak of war, but the choice had been either a base job in Cairo or prison service, and he couldn’t live in Cairo on Sergeant’s pay. ‘I’d finish up trying to fiddle the old woman out of her allowance and then wouldn’t she ruck.’ He grinned at the thought of trying to diddle his old woman out of her allowance. “See how Williams works out, sir,” he agreed.

Bartlett cut open his issue bandage with a small piece of razor blade and tore the bandage into shreds, then he placed the pieces into a small tin and picked up a flint attached to a piece of wood and struck sparks from it with the piece of razor blade and the sparks fell on to the bandage and he blew gently and the sparks caught fire and glowed in the tin. Bartlett nodded his head as if he was well satisfied and looked at McGrath and winked.

“Well ’ave a smoke tonight.”

“You may be a dirty thief, Bartlett, but you’ve got the right spirit.”

“Honest, you’re ’ard going. Mack. ’Ere, what’s the betting ’Arris fiddles me a job in the Staff Quarters?”

McGrath looked disgusted. “They only give those jobs to narks and creepers.”

“Give over. You ’eard ’Arris. I’m a flannel expert. You want fags and a cushy time. Stop knocking me.”

Bartlett carefully placed the cigarettes into the empty bandage pack and sewed it up.

“If Williams finds that lot he’ll put the lot of us over the hill.”

“Aw, Mack. They don’t turn yer cells over unless you give them trouble.” Bartlett threw a vicious glance at Roberts. “Unless you give them bleeding trouble, Roberts.”

“Why keep picking on Roberts?” said Bokumbo.

“You stepped out of line yourself, darkie.”

“Jacko’s my name.”

“O.K. Jacko.” Bartlett carefully hid the cigarettes in his kitbag.

“I stood up for my rights, man. That’s all,” said Bokumbo.

Roberts couldn’t help smiling. “The R.S.M. doesn’t think you’ve got any rights inside here, Jacko.”

“Then he’d better think again.” Bokumbo yawned and stretched, then stood up and lounged over to the window and looked out and saw Stevens in the distance, stumbling on the hill, then saw him fall and roll down the hill out of sight. Stevens had stuck it out on the hill longer than he had expected. He turned away from the window. If Williams got Stevens back on his feet again he didn’t want to see it.

“A free man’s got rights,” said McGrath. “But you forego your rights when you land up inside here.”

“We forego our pay, our allowances, and our freedom,” said Roberts. “But we’re not a complete write-off.”

“We’ve no bloody rights inside here,” said McGrath. “You try remembering that before you start belly-aching again.”

“So they can do what they like with us, can they?”

“Aye. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“Pity we’re fighting the Germans,” said Bartlett as he looked at Roberts. “I’d sooner ’ave a go at you.”

“He’s excused action,” said McGrath. “That right, Roberts. You’re excused action?”

Roberts ignored him.

“Still you’ve seen some.” McGrath stared steadily at Roberts. “He’s been a bonnie lad in his day. What happened last time you saw action?”

Roberts stared back at McGrath. “Why are you so interested?”

Bokumbo walked across the cell and said as he passed McGrath. “Pack it in, Mack. It’s none of your damn business.” He sat down and decided not to get involved in the argument.

“You pulled out, didn’t you.” McGrath didn’t take his eyes off Roberts for a moment.

Roberts’s head sank deep on his chest and he appeared to be deep in thought.

“Did anybody else run out of the line, Roberts, or only you?”

Roberts glanced up again and looked at McGrath but still said nothing.

“None too talkative, is he?” McGrath was still looking at Roberts. “Did your mob take a bashing then? The boys that went in with you, any of them still alive?” Roberts turned his head away. McGrath repeated the question. “Any of them still alive, Roberts?”

Roberts looked straight at McGrath. “I am.”

McGrath dived forward. Roberts saw him coming, but too late. He was half-way on his feet when McGrath slammed him hard in the face with his fist and Roberts fell backwards and skidded across the floor and finished up against the wall. He rolled over and lay for a moment with his face pressed against the cool tiles. Then, too dazed to think clearly, he got to his feet just in time to be slammed hard in the face again. This blow spun him round and he hit the wall with a sickening thump and the room tipped as his legs gave way and he slipped down the wall into a sitting position, then he pushed on the floor with his hands and managed to get to his knees, then his legs gave way and he fell forward on to his face and lay on the floor too dazed to move. It was a good ten seconds before his brain cleared a little and he looked up and saw McGrath standing over him. ‘I was slow that time,’ he thought. ‘I was practically asking for it. Stay where you are a bit longer. If you get up now he’ll murder you.’

“Get up,” said McGrath.

“Mac,” said Bokumbo. “Chuck it in. He’s had enough.”

“On your feet,” said McGrath stepping back a few paces. “I’ll give you room.”

Roberts kneeled on the floor and nodded to McGrath. His head was much clearer now, but his knees had started trembling again. He shook his head and wiped his arm over his bloody mouth. ‘Get it over with. I can’t lay on the deck all day.’ He pushed himself upright and covered up as he saw McGrath, his arms ready to sling punches, coming towards him. ‘Try and take it on your arms and keep moving,’ he thought. His brain was perfectly clear by now, but his legs were still weak. ‘If I can keep out of his way until my legs support me.’ Bokumbo’s broad back blocked out McGrath and he was pinned against the wall as McGrath rushed Bokumbo backwards.

“That’s all for now,” shouted Bokumbo as he held McGrath off.

“Out of my way.” McGrath tried to get past Bokumbo.

“I said that’s enough.” Bokumbo exerted all his strength and pushed McGrath backwards then moved after him, his arms held out, still blocking McGrath’s way to Roberts. “There’ll be no more fighting. Ain’t we in enough trouble? You chuck it in, Mac.”

McGrath calmed down a little. “O.K.,” he said. “Williams is gunning for Roberts. Maybe I’ll just leave it to him.” He looked past Bokumbo at Roberts. “I can’t wait to see him boil you on that hill.”

“When you’ve lived on it maybe you’ll feel different,” said Bokumbo, then turned to Roberts. “You sit down and let’s have no more trouble.”

Roberts dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief then moved to the other end of the cell away from McGrath.

“I can’t wait to see it,” jeered McGrath.

“This is my second time over the wall,” said Bokumbo. “Last time I saw two boys doubled over the hill till they couldn’t stand then the Staff said to the prisoners, ‘Bury those boys in the sand.’ ”

“I can’t wait to see it happen to you, Roberts,” shouted McGrath.

“So the boys buried them in the sand. You hear me. They buried them.”

Bokumbo walked away with Roberts. Many times he had remembered that day. The hill and the hot sun and the prisoners working with him, shovelling sand on the hill and building it for the next batch of unlucky prisoners who would have to run over it. He remembered looking towards the gates as two new prisoners doubled in and the prisoners with him grinned at one another but carried on working. Bokumbo with easy, powerful movements shovelled sand on the hill and watched out of the corner of his eye the two new prisoners being doubled and sweated down. They were only boys. No more than eighteen or nineteen years old and he felt sorry for them. He noted that they were taking their first taste of punishment well, running easily and obeying the orders. The Staff finally shouted at them to halt and inspected their kits and then, pointing with his stick, yelled, “Double over to A Wing.”

One of the youngsters gave the Staff a cheeky grin. “O.K. Titch,” and the Staff looked at the boy. He was small for a screw right enough. Five feet seven inches tall. No more, but broad shouldered, deep chested and powerfully built. He stood nodding his head as he looked at the two boys, then he shouted “To the Hill. Double.”

Bokumbo watched the two grinning boys doubling towards him and watched them run up it and over it and back and over it again, and he watched the cheeky smile fade from their lips as he moved around the hill shovelling away at the sand. He knew the hill and he knew what it was doing to the boys as he watched them slow down until finally they stumbled and fell. He listened in disbelief as the Staff gave the order and watched the prisoners who were working with him, climb the hill and look down at the two bays who lay on their backs with their mouths wide open gasping for air and he watched the prisoners shovel sand over the boys until they were completely buried and when they had finished burying them the prisoners waited and no one moved.

Bokumbo stood looking at the mounds of sand and held his breath. No movement. Were the boys still breathing? Did the bastard of a screw mean to kill them? How long would he keep them buried? He was suddenly aware that he was gripping his shovel tightly and firmly in his hands and he had an almost irresistible impulse to smash the Staff’s head in with the blade of the shovel.