The Hill (12 page)

*

Three lonely figures moved like ghosts on the hill and walked round the prisoner who had passed out on the crown of the hill. McGrath and Bokumbo still stuck close together but they didn’t waste their breath talking any more. They moved up and down the hill as if in a trance, and Roberts still plodded on with staring eyes and a puzzled expression on his face.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Evening and the sun dropped low in the sky in a blaze of brilliant colours that soon softened to a misty red, then orange, blue, then to a deep purple then suddenly it was black night.

The windows in the Sergeants’ Mess were wide open but the room was still humid and smoky.

R.S.M. Wilson sat at a table staring at Williams, then he picked up a glass of whisky and drank it straight down and replaced the empty glass on the table. Williams picked up his glass and replaced it empty on the table and stared impassively at the R.S.M.

“Warm,” said the R.S.M. looking at the empty glass. He picked up his swagger cane and beat it six times on the table. The mess waiter hurried over with six clean glasses and a bottle of whisky and he half filled the glasses and cleared away the used ones, then hurried away again. The R.S.M. picked up a glass and emptied it and replaced it on the table and Williams did the same. The R.S.M. smiled and sat up straight in his chair.

Harris sat at another table facing Burton. They were drinking whisky and swilling it down with beer chasers. Burton was drunk.

“My mob’s — Italy.” Burton looked dopey-eyed at his glass. “Volunteered for here. Cushy number.”

“I’ve been up front,” said Harris.

“Don’t tell me.” Burton moved his arm and knocked a glass off the table. “Wavell — with Wavell. Sidi Barani. Captured some Eyeties there. They didn’t fight.”

Harris nodded. “I was with Wavell.”

“Great days, Charlie, eh?” Burton slapped Harris hard on the back. “Benghazi, the first push, eh? Hey, what about Hell-fire Pass then? What about Tobruk and Derna then? All that green. The green hills then. Hits you, Derna. It’s green.”

“Slept with a wog bint in Derna, then worried for a fortnight,” said Harris.

“Taffy got it coming out of Derna. No — you didn’t know Taffy. He got it coming out of Derna. Poor old Taffy.”

Harris nodded. “This bint in Derna. Proud body. Blue marks though across her mouth and chin — know what? A bloody Aussie stamped on her face with his hobnail boots.”

Burton was hardly listening. He was back in Derna and seeing again the green hills and the small stunted oak trees. “Nice place, Derna. Harris.”

“No call to do that,” said Harris. “Stamping on her bloody face. She was a clean girl and a good ride.”

“Wanna get the hell out — out of here. Harris. My mob’s on the beaches.”

Harris refilled his beer glass and toasted Burton. “The R.S.M. thinks you’re useless.”

“Does he now?” Burton glared at Harris. “Bloody post me then. Bloody post me out of it. My mob’s on the beaches, mate.”

“On the beaches.” Harris spluttered into his glass and got beer up his nose and choked. “Holy Christ. On the beaches are they? What they doing on the beaches then, building bloody sand castles?”

“Fighting. What we doing here, Harris, eh? What the hell we doing?”

“‘Surviving,” laughed Harris. “Making sure we get home.”

“Yeah,” jeered Burton. ‘That’s us. Surviving. Get to be low ... lower than line dodgers. Get to be as low as the scum inside here. Bloody line dodgers.”

Harris laughed. “Get home, Burton. Get home to the wife and kids.”

A brooding look settled on Burton’s face as he played with his glass. “Some will. But not me. Mine’s settled. She’s with a Yank.”

Harris lowered his glass and looked at Burton. “Is she?”

Burton nodded “Settled. She’s got a Yankee black kid. Must look funny with my three.”

Harris gave an understanding nod of his head. “So that’s why you want the beaches, eh?”

Burton banged his glass on the table. “Sodding women. They don’t care what they do, do they?”

“The beaches, eh?” Harris looked steadily at Burton. “So that’s it.”

Burton lost his temper. “Think I’m daft? I don’t want the bloody beaches or sudden death or a medal. She ain’t worth it.”

Harris nodded and refilled his glass, then beckoned to the mess waiter and the waiter served two more pints of Stella beer. “Four mates, eh?”

A sentimental look crept into Burton’s eyes. “Yeah. Want me mates.”

Harris nodded. “Maybe I can fix it.”

Burton leaned forward. “You’ve got magic touch with R.S.M. Get me out of here or I’ll be in.” He pushed himself up straight, looked at the door and judged the distance, then moved towards it. As he passed the R.S.M.’s table he swayed and clutched at a chair, then looked dopey-eyed at the R.S.M. “Harris,” he said solemnly, “magic touch,” then he staggered away.

The R.S.M. smiled, then glanced across the room at Harris and whacked the seat of the chair next to him. Harris stood up and walked over and sat down.

“You drunk too?” enquired the R.S.M.

“Yes, sir.”

“Stand up, Charlie.”

Harris stood up.

“Bloody liar. You’re still on your feet.”

The R.S.M. whacked the chair with his stick again and Harris sat down and watched him pick up his glass and empty it then glance at Williams.

Williams picked up his glass and replaced it empty on the table.

“You don’t want Staff Burton, do you?” enquired Harris.

“Don’t want Burton?” The R.S.M. glanced at Harris. “You a mind reader, Charlie?”

“He wants a posting back to his regiment.”

“Why?”

“He misses his mates.”

The R.S.M. allowed himself a frosty smile and pondered over Harris’s remarks for a few moments. “Has his wife gone on the batter, Charlie?”

“Yes.”

The R.S.M. nodded. “Any kids?”

“Three of his own and a black stranger.”

“So he wants to get his own back on his missus, does he?”

“Maybe,” said Harris.

“She’s got all the aces, Charlie. Tell Burton giving his missus a widow’s pension won’t make her suffer.”

“He won’t listen.”

“Posting refused.”

“Then you’ll have him in here,” said Harris.

“In here?” The R.S.M. picked up his glass and emptied it and waited for Williams to empty his. “Breaking bread with the bloody prisoners. One of my Staff in here, Charlie. Are you going mad? The boys would kick him to death.” He jabbed at Harris with his stick. “Tell him if he wants a boxwood cross just to spite his whoring missus, he can’t have it and if that don’t please him and he’s sticking for a prison cell, tell him he can’t have one here.”

Harris nodded and stood up. “I’ll pass on the good news, sir. Permission to leave.”

“Have a drink first, Charlie.”

“Had my fill, sir. I’m seeing two of you and it’s brought me out in a cold sweat.”

The R.S.M. roared with laughter and playfully poked Harris in the stomach with his cane.

“Go to bed then, but don’t have any more nightmares.”

Harris laughed and walked away. The R.S.M. whacked the table with his cane then waved it over the empty glasses indicating that he wanted them refilled, then he stood up and marched away to his bedroom and dropped his drill jacket on the floor and slipped out of his vest and plunged his face into a bowl of water and splashed his body, then dried himself and put on a fresh vest and drill jacket and combed his hair and marched back into the mess.

*

Only Williams and the R.S.M. stayed on drinking until the early hours and the mess waiter, leaning on the bar half asleep, wished to God that they would pack it in and go to bed.

Williams’s eyelids drooped and the R.S.M. smiled as Williams suddenly jerked himself awake and glared about him, then looked towards the bar and said thickly “Nother.” He pushed himself upright and knocked his chair over with a crash. The mess waiter jumped and was immediately wide awake. As Williams moved towards the bar he staggered, lost balance and fell on his knees and stayed there a few moments, swaying, before he managed to push himself upright again and hold on to a chair.

The R.S.M. stood up, held on to the table for a moment, carefully pushed back the chair and walked a pretty straight course towards the door. On the way he passed Williams but ignored him.

Williams glared after him then opened his mouth to call him back but could only make confused noises. He lunged away from the chair, determined to catch up with the R.S.M. but he moved too fast and staggered into a table and fell over it.

The R.S.M. stopped at the door and looked at Williams lying half over the table and he laughed as he opened the door and walked into the corridor. But his sense of balance suddenly went haywire and he staggered from one side of the wall to the other. But he recognized his room and after fumbling with the door-knob he managed to open the door and stagger in and slam it shut behind him. He made his way to the bed and carefully sat on it and placed his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin in his hands and sat deep in thought as he waited for the room to stop swaying. ‘Williams can drink,’ he thought. ‘He can drink. Hard man that one. First I’ve met in a long time who can stay with me. Bloody room.’ He spoke out aloud. “Keep bloody still, damn you.” But the room tilted and disobeyed his order. “Bloody room,” he repeated, then sank back into his thoughts. “Hard man, that one. Can shift his share. Fell arse over tip, though, didn’t he, eh?”

One elbow slipped and his head jerked forward and he fell on the floor. ‘Had a belly full,’ he thought. ‘Shifted some bloody wallop.’ He reached out for the bed and managed to get back on to it. He sat with his chin cupped in his hands again like an ancient monument that needs scaffolding to support it. The night’s boozing had put a good ten years on his face and his body looked slack instead of hard and fit. ‘Shoes off,’ he thought. ‘Let’s get some kip. Commandant’s Inspection tomorrow.’

He managed to remove his shoes and then made the mistake of trying to place them neatly by the side of the bed and leaning down he lost balance and fell on his face. He lay on the floor wondering if he had bruised his face. He felt no pain but supposed that it was highly probable that a bruise would show itself by the morning. ‘Flat on my bloody face on a stone floor,’ he reasoned. Something had to bloody give. On the third attempt he found his face with his hand, then looked at it. No blood. ‘Drunk, so I may be lucky. This won’t do,’ he thought, ‘lying here won’t bloody do.’ He got into a swaying kneeling position and managed to get out of his drill jacket and then fell over on his side.

“Won’t do,” he said aloud. “Won’t bloody do. Had my share tonight. More than my bloody share.”

He rolled over on his back and fumbled with his trouser buttons and eased his trousers down over his hips by making a bridge with his shoulders and finally he managed to kick his trousers off. Then, crablike, he crawled over to the wardrobe, pushing his trousers and drill jacket in front of him. Then near the wardrobe he straightened out his trousers and folded them and then his bush jacket, then pressing them firmly against his chest he pulled himself upwards and opened the wardrobe door and dropped his clothes inside and closed the door firmly.

He judged the distance to his bed and lurched towards it and got on to the bed and lay back. ‘Hard man, Williams,’ he thought. ‘But I saw him out.’ He closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep.

*

‘Look at that bloody moon,’ marvelled Williams as he walked on, head up, staring skywards, ‘and those bloody great stars. Never see anything like this back in Blighty ... Look at it.’ He staggered and lost balance and fell over and swore under his breath. Then sat up and looked towards the pool. ‘Laugh at me, would you, you bastard,’ he thought. ‘Laugh at me. Nobody bloody well laughs at Williams and gets away with it.’

He got to his feet and marched on a zig-zag course towards the pool. His brain was reasonably clear but his legs were misbehaving. He shouted drill orders at them. “Left, right, left, right, left, right,” but his legs weren’t in the mood to obey him. They veered left then went tip-toe forward a few paces, then tried to knock him over as they tottered a few paces to the right. “Little bastards,” said Williams, “playing me up are you, eh? But I’ll master you. Look upwards then. Don’t look down. Look upwards and keep marching.”

He staggered on, then laughed. Two bloody moons out now, eh,’ he thought, ‘and a double helping of stars. I’m a bloody worker of miracles, I am.’ The sky tilted and the stars crashed and banged into each other and suddenly there were no individual stars any more, only a bright dizzy light stretching across the universe with two moons swaying and flickering beneath the giant star. Lying on his back, Williams tried to get the universe into perspective again, without success. ‘Don’t look up then,’ he reasoned to himself, ‘don’t pay. You’ve wrecked the bloody universe, old son, and don’t look down, only fall arse over tip if you look down. Try looking straight ahead.’

He slowly got to his feet, set his sights on the pool and plodded on and reached the edge of the pool and gazed down at the dark water then lost his balance and fell in. He gasped and splashed then floated on his back and looked at the sky. Only one moon now and the usual number of stars. Better, he thought, much better.

*

The mess waiter gaped at the dripping wet figure walking towards the bar, but Williams ignored him and walked behind the bar and picked up a bottle of Scotch and two glasses, then he walked out of the Sergeants’ Mess to his bedroom and threw his sopping wet clothes on to the floor, dried himself, and changed into fresh kit.