The Hill (13 page)

He walked into the corridor, carrying the bottle of Scotch and two half-pint glasses and halted outside the R.S.M.’s room and knocked on the door and waited. Getting no reply he knocked louder and opened the door and switched on the light and stared at the R.S.M. lying on his bed. He grinned to himself and stamped to attention.

“Sir,” he said. Then louder, “SIR.”

Getting no response he crossed the room and shook the R.S.M. violently. “Sir,” he shouted and kept shaking the R.S.M. until he opened his eyes. The R.S.M. only half awake stared blindly at Williams and it was some time before he got him in focus. He stared at him.

“Thought we should have a nightcap, sir,” said Williams.

The R.S.M. slowly and carefully sat up then leaned back against the bedrail. Williams handed him a glass and filled it to within half an inch from the brim with whisky, then he filled his own glass and placed the almost empty bottle on the floor at his feet, then he straightened up and looked at the R.S.M. and waited.

The R.S.M. dug his feet down in the bed and pushed until he was sitting up straight then glanced at the glass in his hand and balanced it, then glared at Williams as he lifted the glass to his lips and shut his eyes tight as he clamped his teeth on to the rim of the glass and sucked at the whisky and felt it burning his throat and chest and guts. But his lips still sucked away and he continued to pour the whisky down his throat and felt his eyes burning and tasted vomit, then he removed the empty glass from his lips, stared blankly at Williams and watched him shiver and take on a hazy confused shape. Afraid to close his eyes he switched his gaze to the wall and watched it shimmer, change colour and almost disintegrate.

Williams lifted his glass to his lips, shut his eyes and poured the whisky down his throat. He felt his knees buckle but he managed to straighten them again and emptied his glass and looked at the R.S.M. who sat still bolt upright in bed with his cheeks blown out and a thin trickle of vomit coursing down his chin. Williams took a chance as he bent down and picked up the bottle from the floor, but he managed to straighten up again.

“Night, sir,” he said thickly and opened the door and walked out of the room.

The R.S.M. sat on looking at the wall then the glass fell out of his lifeless fingers and smashed on the floor. The R.S.M. swung his eyes from the wall and stared at the floor at the side of his bed. His eyes filled with tears and ran down his cheeks and the floor swayed and moved upwards and hit him in the face, and the vomit exploded from his guts and he lay half in, half out of bed in his own vomit, dead drunk.

*

Bokumbo, his face bathed in sweat, clutched the cell door bars and glared into the corridor.

“Staff,” he shouted. “Staff, you hear me, Staff. This is Jacko. You hear me, Jacko, and I’m on my feet. This is the different coloured bastard. You wanna take me out again? You wanna shout orders? Be the big man? O.K. Take me out and Jacko will keep doubling just as long as you keep shouting those damn orders.” He gripped the bars and shook them. “You can’t beat Jacko. No man can beat Jacko.”

A bright light shone from the centre of the cell ceiling and the other prisoners lay on the floor, face down, still wearing their packs and webbing equipment. Roberts rolled over so that he could see Bokumbo better, but he made no attempt to stand.

“He went hours ago,” he said.

Bokumbo rolled away from the cell door and supported himself against the wall as he stared at Roberts.

“Get that pack off, darkie.”

Bokumbo bunched his fists as he pushed himself away from the wall and moved towards Roberts, then fell on his knees a few feet away from him. “Darkie. Who the hell you speaking to?”

“O.K.” Roberts got to his knees and weakly balanced himself by holding on to the ground. “But get that pack off.”

Both kneeling, they stared at each other across the few feet that separated them. “Anybody call me darkie,” Bokumbo got on to one knee, “nigger, black boy — ” he pushed himself erect and stood swaying “ — and I’ll bust him in two. I’m good as any man here.”

McGrath got to his knees then pushed himself upright. “O.K. I’m ready for another basin.”

Roberts shook his head and decided not to chance standing upright yet. “Get your packs off.”

McGrath reached the wall and leaned his pack against it. “Don’t lie there shooting orders at me.” He looked at Bokumbo. “I can go it again.”

Bokumbo reached the door and held on to the bars.

“Any time. Williams won’t beat me.”

“You sand happy lunatics,” said Roberts. “It’s night. That’s not the blinding sun up there. That’s a gestapo lamp. Now get your packs off.”

McGrath squinted at the light then turned his eyes away from it. “Aye. I’m aware of it. Williams won’t see me crumble. I’m in here for doing up three of his kind. Three Redcaps.”

Bokumbo turned his head to look at him. “Six. What’s the difference.”

“I did three.” McGrath bounced his pack against the wall, trying to take some of the weight off his shoulders. “Bang, bang, bang. Three dirty big Redcaps.”

“I did Scotch, man. Three bottles Scotch. What the hell’s the difference.”

“You’re a bloody liar,” snarled McGrath. “I did three Redcaps.”

Bokumbo was trying to read the notice on the wall opposite the cell. But the print was too small. Prison rules and regs, he thought. Damn prison rules and regs. Still looking at the small print he said, “I did three bottles Scotch, Mack. Bang, bang, bang. Redcaps are easy. You try taking on three bottles Scotch.”

“Redcaps are tough.” McGrath pushed himself away from the wall and tried out his land legs. ‘Bloody feeble still,’ he thought, ‘but I’ll march up and down a bit.”

Bokumbo watched him walking with jerky steps to the other end of the cell. ‘Whisky’s tougher than Redcaps, Mack.’ He let go of the bars and walked to the far wall.

Roberts, still kneeling, watched them walking up and down. Then he pushed himself upwards and wearily moved to the cell door and held on to the bars.

Bartlett moaned and feebly kicked his arms and legs in an attempt to stand.

“Get his pack off,” said Roberts.

Bokumbo, with McGrath’s help, pulled Bartlett to his feet and as McGrath pulled on the back straps trying to ease it off Bartlett screamed. “Careful — straps — like — bleeding — knives.”

Bokumbo undid the belt and Bartlett staggered and almost fell as his pack dropped to the floor.

“Now you two,” said Roberts.

Bokumbo and McGrath slipped out of their packs and dropped them to the ground.

“Mine,” said Roberts and Bokumbo lifted the pack off Roberts’s back and threw it into the corner of the cell, then moved towards his bed space.

“Stevens,” said Roberts.

They all looked at Stevens lying on his back, his hair matted with sweat, his face ghostly white. McGrath pulled him up and unbuckled his belt and Bokumbo roughly pulled off his pack. As McGrath let him go Stevens fell down.

“Bed him down,” said Roberts. “We’d better all bed down.”

Bokumbo laid a blanket on the floor and placed a small pack on it and McGrath rolled Stevens on to the blanket. Then Roberts and the others unfolded their blankets and sat leaning against the wall. Bartlett lit a cigarette with his flint and cotton waste, and pulled hard on the cigarette.

“Bartlett,” said McGrath. “The screw’ll put you over the hill if he catches you smoking.”

The prisoners gasped and made choking noises that could be mistaken for laughter and the cigarette passed from hand to hand.

“Commandant’s inspection tomorrow,” said Roberts.

“Aye,” said McGrath. “We’ll have about three hours standing-to instead of doubling.”

“Some rest in that blinding sun,” said Bokumbo.

“My equipment’s in great shape anyways,” McGrath passed the cigarette to Roberts. “They won’t fault me.”

Roberts looked at Stevens’s filthy equipment.

McGrath turned his head. “He had the same chance as us. After tea before that last trot on the hill.”

“He was flacked out,” said Roberts.

“Aye.” McGrath nodded his head. “So he was.”

“Get the stick for it then, won’t he,” said Bartlett.

Roberts leaned forward and pulled Stevens’s pack towards him. “He can’t go on parade with this.”

“He’s no option,” said McGrath.

Roberts undid his small pack and took out his cleaning kit and placed it on the floor beside him, then he looked at the whitewashed wall, then wet his hairbrush and wiped it on the wall, then rubbed it over Stevens’s belt and stared at it. He collected all of Stevens’s equipment and rubbed away at the wall with his hairbrush and then rubbed the whitewash over Stevens’s equipment.

The prisoners lay down and were soon fast asleep but Roberts worked on. Sometimes he nodded off and had to force himself awake again and by the time he had finished polishing the brasses and whitewashing Stevens’s kit the first light of dawn was showing in the sky. ‘Get an hour in,’ he thought, and fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER NINE

The R.S.M. marched into the mess room. Every step he took sent a signal of protest to his aching head. He seated himself at the head of the table and stared at the Staffs who were already seated and waiting, then glanced to the door as Williams followed by Harris marched in. Williams moved to the head of the table and seated himself on the left-hand side of the R.S.M. but Harris moved half way down the table and seated himself next to Burton. He couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting near Williams.

The mess waiter served the R.S.M. first, then Williams and on down the table. The R.S.M. looked at his plate. Bacon, eggs and baked beans. A greasy mess. The cook had a hangover this morning as well and was even more careless than usual. The R.S.M. glanced up and noticed Williams staring at his plate with a martyred expression on his face. This seemed to cheer the R.S.M. and he dug his fork into the baked beans with calculated gusto and took a large mouthful and swallowed, observing Williams as he did so. He took a mouthful of bacon and egg and gripped his knife and fork harder as he felt his stomach revolt.

Williams, under the R.S.M.’s baleful gaze, picked up his knife and fork and took a mouthful of food and broke out in a cold sweat. He hurriedly swilled down the food with a mouthful of tea and piled more greasy bacon and beans on to his fork and crammed it into his mouth, and as they chewed in silence they stared defiantly at each other.

*

The prisoners from A and B Wings doubled out of their cells and ran to the showers and in batches of twenty they washed themselves.

The prisoners from B Wing doubled to the pool and in the burnt grass verge they halted and, on the order, undresssed. There were sixty-three prisoners in all and the pool was hardly large enough to accommodate them.

Bokumbo, standing naked in the midst of so many white men, felt uncomfortable and very much aware of the sidelong grins of the other prisoners. He turned his head when a voice called out “Staff, is that nigger coming in with us?” He decided to ignore it.

Staff Burton pushed his way through the prisoners and stood a few feet away from Bokumbo, looked him up and down then turned his back on him. The same voice shouted: “Staff, he’ll dirty the bloody water.”

The prisoners near Bokumbo laughed and he peered into the grinning faces, trying to find the man that was insulting him.

“Shut up,” shouted Burton.

Bokumbo turned in a circle as he looked at the grinning white faces. Bartlett. Wasn’t him. McGrath. Wasn’t him either. He saw Stevens standing apart with a towel wrapped about his waist to hide his nakedness. It wouldn’t be him. He glanced downwards at his own black body.

“Why can’t he go in with the nig-nogs,” the voice called out again.

Bokumbo turned a complete circle as he glared at the laughing faces.

“You step out of line, man,” he shouted. “Say it to my face.” The muscles stood out on his chest and arms as he tensed himself.

Burton yelled over the laughter, “Shut up!” He pushed prisoners out of his way as he walked over to Bokumbo. “And you shut up as well.”

“All right, Staff,” shouted Harris. “They’ve just got a depraved sense of humour.”

“Then you keep order,” Burton yelled back.

The prisoners moved closer to Bokumbo and his nostrils twitched. Their smell disgusted him. He pushed the nearest prisoners backwards and made room for himself and came face to face with Roberts.

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” said Roberts.

“And you shut your trap,” said Bokumbo, who thought he was being patronized. Roberts shrugged and shouldered his way out of the crowd.

“I said shut up,” said Burton, still looking at Bokumbo.

“I’m not going in the pool with white trash.”

Bokumbo glared about him and the prisoners laughed even louder when one of them put his shoulder to Bokumbo and another man tried to trip him. In a fury Bokumbo hit the first prisoner in the face and sent him reeling back. Harris pushed his way through the prisoners, his stick raised in the air and as he struck out the prisoners hastily moved back and stumbled into each other.

“You don’t have to,” shouted Harris, still striking out with his stick, “and you don’t have to start a bloody riot. You can wash with the darkies.”

“O.K.,” shouted Bokumbo as he pushed men away from him. “But I ain’t taking insults from this scum.”

“Then shut up,” yelled Harris as he and Burton pushed prisoners into line “and shut up, the rest of you.” He shoved the prisoner nearest to him into the pool. “Get in, all of you.” The prisoners, still laughing, jumped in. “Stand over there,” shouted Harris above the splashing and the jeers of the prisoners, and pointed with his stick. Bokumbo moved away and watched the prisoners fooling about in the pool.

From D Wing the negro prisoners doubled to the pool and on the order they undressed and waited to take their turn. Bokumbo walked over to one of the prisoners and said:

“What do you think about this crazy place, man.”

The prisoner looked at Bokumbo and laughed. “How you enjoy living with the white man, nigger? Why ain’t you in the pool with your white brothers?”

The other negro prisoners laughed.

Bokumbo walked away and stood apart. He didn’t know who he hated the most at the moment. His own race or the white men.

For the next twenty minutes the white prisoners washed and splashed in the pool and shouted obscenities at the black prisoners and the black prisoners hurled insults back. It was an ugly game that happened at every bath parade and only stopped short at the danger mark. Harris blew on his whistle and the prisoners climbed out of the pool and dried themselves, then dressed and paraded and doubled away.

The negro prisoners jumped sullenly into the dirty water, splashed about and then began washing themselves. Bokumbo stood on the edge of the pool. Harris walked over to him. “Well, get in.”

Bokumbo, still looking at the pool, shook his head.

“Can’t you make up your mind, darkie?”

Bokumbo’s voice shook with rage as he looked at the pool. “They damn well fouled the water.”

Harris looked at the pool and saw the filth floating on the surface of the water. Then one negro prisoner and then another shouted that the pool was fouled up and they made for the bank shouting and shaking their fists towards B Wing.

Harris nodded. “Get dressed.”

Bokumbo dressed himself, his fingers shaking in fury as he fumbled with his buttons.

*

The Union Jack hung limply on the flag post and the prisoners marched beneath it. They marched from all directions and drilled on the parade ground. They moved easily, and their webbing was snow-white and their brasses gleamed in the sun, A. B, C and D Wings marching and counter-marching, obeying orders to the split second, as clean as new-bathed babies, sun-tanned and fit. From near the gates the R.S.M. watched them with little or no affection but with a great deal of pride. He watched them halt on the parade square and kneel down, on the order, and dust their black ammo boots with spotlessly white handkerchiefs, then stand up again ramrod stiff.

For the next two, possibly three, hours they would stand stiffly at attention beneath the blazing sun, waiting for the Commandant to inspect them and their only reprieve would be a five-minute standing at ease every thirty minutes. They would screw up their eyes and shift them from the white buildings to the white sand, to the white sand hill and feel the sweat running down their bodies and soak through their shirts and dry out again, and swarms of flies would be attracted to them and swarm over them, and sup off them and fly away and dive on them again.

They would squirm inwardly as the heat hit them but wouldn’t dare move, yet long to move, drill, double, even run over the hill. Anything but stand still under the blazing sun. Their muscles would twitch, their throats become parched but there would be no reprieve until after the Commandant’s inspection.

The R.S.M. marched on to the parade ground. He glanced at his watch. “A Wing,” he shouted.

The Staff Sergeant doubled to him and slammed to attention.

“Fifty-eight prisoners, sir, all present and correct.”

The R.S.M. nodded. The Staff about turned and doubled back to A Wing, slammed to attention, about turned and again faced in the direction of the R.S.M.

“B Wing,” shouted Wilson.

Harris doubled towards the R.S.M.

*

The Commandant combed his hair in front of the mirror, then placed the comb on the dressing-table and slipped into his drill jacket and buttoned it up and turned and looked at the nurse who lay half asleep in bed. He walked over to her and smiled in an absent-minded way and kissed her.

She smiled as he tenderly pulled the sheet up to her chin and in a moment she had snuggled further down the bed and fallen asleep. Leaning over her to reach for his hat he got a whiff of perfume and smiled to himself. ‘It’s amazing the number of women who use that brand,’ he thought. ‘No bloody imagination.’

He placed his hat on his head and gave her a mocking, limp salute. The only woman he had slept with more than once was Sybil, his wife, and he hated the sight of her. He knew how to get rid of this one. He placed some money on the bedside table and marched out of the room, smiling to himself.

*

McGrath took a sidelong glance at Stevens and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Laddie, your kit’s a blinding wonder. You’ll have the R.S.M. jealous.”

Stevens managed a wan grin but his face was drawn and strained. He was dizzy with the heat. He thought that if he stood in the sun much longer his brains would boil. Every muscle in his body seemed to be twitching and aching and his eyes were bloodshot staring at the white building and the white sand.

“Stand the prisoners at ease,” shouted the R.S.M.

Stevens almost sobbed out loud with relief as the prisoners stamped their feet and then thankfully relaxed. A cloud of flies took to the air buzzing angrily then settled back on the prisoners again.

“Standing at attention don’t ’arf crease you, don’t it,” said Bartlett as he spat out a fly that had crawled inside his mouth.

Roberts watched a Warrant Officer 2nd Class and three Staff Sergeants marching up and down on the Parade Ground in front of the R.S.M., canes held firmly under their arms. They marched thirty yards, about turned and marched back again. For more than two hours they had been marching up and down in front of the R.S.M.

‘We’re not the only ones doing time,” said Roberts. “All the screws are doing time. All of them.”

“Not the Commandant,” said Bartlett.

“Is he a regular Prison Officer?” enquired Roberts, keeping his voice down and hardly moving his lips.

“Him,” scoffed Bartlett. “Commandant of a nick I was in two years ago. He ain’t a regular screw.”

“What’s his trade then?”

“Sex maniac, so they say,” said Bartlett.

Harris walked along the line of prisoners.

“No talking,” he said. “I can hear Stalin supping his tea in Moscow so I can hear you bloody lot, so shut it up.”

“Staff,” said Bartlett, “can you hear King George tongue-lashing his old lady in Buckingham Palace?”

“Watch your tongue, Bartlett. Another word out of you — ”

Bartlett waited until Harris was a safe distance away, then said, “Like to hear your missus’s tongue lashing you, Roberts?” Roberts smiled and nodded his head. ‘Wouldn’t I just,’ he thought, ‘wouldn’t I just. She could tongue-lash me for twenty-four hours non-stop round the clock and I’d love it. No, I wouldn’t. I never could stand nagging. Still, the way I feel now I wouldn’t protest. Be like music. How much longer are they going to keep us on parade? God, these damned flies. The way they dig their heels in they must be fitted with spurs. As if we haven’t got enough to suffer.’

“Parade. Parade — shun!”

The prisoners slumped to attention again, and the flies took wing and hovered over them like a black cloud then swarmed back and annoyed them again.

The Commandant marched on to the Parade Ground and stood at attention beneath the flag post. The R.S.M. marched over to him and saluted.

“Prisoners all present and ready to be inspected, sir.”

The Commandant returned the R.S.M.’s salute and marched briskly towards A Wing. The Staff in charge of A Wing gave the command. “Front rank — three paces forward march. Rear rank — three paces backward. March.”

The prisoners’ boots stirred up the sand and dust.

The Commandant with the R.S.M. walked briskly down the front rank of A Wing, glancing sideways at the prisoners. The Staff in charge tagged along behind them. The Commandant only paused twice to snap out “Take his name,” and as he marched on the Staff shouted to the prisoners, “Three paces forward march. Still. Stand still.”

The Commandant and the R.S.M. followed by Harris walked quickly down the front rank of B Wing. As he drew almost level with Stevens he jerked his cane from beneath his arm and whacked it against Stevens’s ammo pouches. “Whitewash,” he snapped and hurried on. A small cloud of whitewash hovered for a few moments above Stevens’s head and vanished.

“Whitewash,” shouted the R.S.M.