The Hill (7 page)

*

Roberts wearily clawed his way to the top of the hill, heaved himself upright and walked on, then his legs suddenly gave way and his mouth was full of sand again. He lay still and, looking down the hill, he could see the four prisoners splashing in the pool. He got to his knees and wiped the sweat from his eyes, overbalanced and fell on his face again. He lay still for a few moments, too weary to move, then rolled over on his back and spat out sand and lifted one arm to shield the sun from his eyes.

Someone in the distance was shouting but he took no notice. The voice ranted on, but still he took no notice. The sun burned through his arm and hurt his eyes so he rolled over again and looked down the hill and saw the R.S.M. Roberts lay quite still, staring at him. Then he saw the Commandant join him, and still Roberts didn’t move.

“Roberts?” enquired the Commandant.

“Yes, sir.”

“I think he’s had enough, Sergeant-Major.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Wilson.

The Commandant walked away.

“Come on down, Roberts,” shouted Wilson.

Roberts made a supreme effort to get to his feet, but his legs and arms moved like a helpless baby’s. In a rage he forced himself to his knees and slid and rolled down the hill and landed at the R.S.M.’s feet. Somehow he managed to force himself upright and stood swaying, his head hanging downwards, watching — in a detached kind of way — his trembling knees.

Williams marched over and looked at the R.S.M.

“That’s enough, Staff,” said the R.S.M.

“Yes, sir.”

“Walk him or — ” the R.S.M. threw a critical glance at Roberts, “ — carry him, but get him in the shade and rest him.”

“What about the pool first stop, sir?”

“Yes, take him to the pool, then to his cell.”

“Yes, sir. Quick march!”

Roberts staggered away like a drunken man, followed by Wilson.

*

The prisoners stood in line ready to be marched away. Bokumbo stood at ease, his shirt rolled into a bundle under one arm. Staff Burton looked at his powerful gleaming black body and shouted, “You — trying to get a suntan? Put your shirt on.”

“My shirt’s dirty, Staff.”

“I said put it on.”

*

Roberts saw the pool and tried to walk faster but he had very little control over his legs and he stumbled and almost fell, but somehow he maintained balance and reached the edge of the pool and fell in and floated, face downwards. The water was cool, but it did not revive him. He was aware only of the cool water and was content to lie on it and drift away. He was away from the hill and the blazing sun and no longer aware of his aching body and his parched throat and the pain in his chest and lungs. The water was cool and clear and he could see the green floor of the pool. Then suddenly a total blackness.

Williams walked to the edge of the pool and watched Roberts floating face downwards on the water, and Burton and the four prisoners watched him. Bokumbo was the first to notice that something was wrong. He jumped into the pool as Roberts went under for the first time, got hold of him by his hair and lifted his head out of the water. Then McGrath jumped into the pool and he and Bokumbo pulled Roberts out and laid him by the side of the pool.

Staff Burton stood looking down at Roberts.

“You going to get your prisoners to their cells, Staff?” enquired Williams.

“What about him?” Burton nodded to Roberts.

“I’ll look after him, Staff.”

“O.K.” Burton took a last look at Roberts. “Fall in, you lot. Attention. Double.”

The prisoners doubled away with Burton keeping up with them. They doubled past the hill, past A Wing, turned into B Wing, ran along the corridor and marked time outside Cell 8. Burton unlocked the door, pushed it open and the prisoners doubled into the cell, “Halt!” yelled Burton. “Lay out your kit and be smart about it. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

He slammed the door shut and walked away.

The prisoners looked at each other, then Bartlett sat down and leaned his back against the white-washed wall and whistled tunelessly under his breath. McGrath sat down, then Bokumbo and finally Stevens, shooting anxious nervous glances at the others as he did so. McGrath looked at Bokumbo, then Stevens and then Bartlett in turn and then made up his mind that all three of them were a dead loss. They sat quietly observing each other.

Now that the excitement of doubling into the prison, the drilling, the worry about what would happen next and the R.S.M.’s inspection was over, they were all suddenly aware that they were hungry. Breakfast. Tea, porridge, bread and margarine was long past and almost forgotten, and the drilling and excitement had given them an appetite; all of them were thinking about food and wondering when they would eat and what the food would be like.

All, that is, except Bartlett. He knew, but even the dismal prospect of unappetising meals for many months to come could not diminish his hunger. Mentally he went over meals that he had enjoyed in the past. He licked his lips and savoured tender chicken, fat juicy steaks, eels and mash with hot parsley sauce. One of his favourite dishes.

But he felt the need for something more substantial at this moment. The smell of hot coffee got up his nose and the aroma of crisp bacon, eggs, fried bread, tomatoes, cut in half and cooked until the edges crinkled, and kidneys. He was very fond of kidneys. His belly rumbled and sharp hunger pains almost made him groan out loud. A good old nosh-up, he thought, and a smoke to follow. He could contain himself no longer but he didn’t speak to anyone directly. “Go a fag,” he said. “Go a packet of fags. Go a pint. Chicken, peas and chips. Fruit salad and custard and a packet of fags and a bunk up to foller.”

McGrath threw a boot at him and it just missed his head.

“Oi — watch it, you daft bleeder,” said Bartlett indignantly.

McGrath grinned as his eyes flicked from Bartlett to Stevens to Bokumbo. “It’s a great place they put us into.”

It was a large cell with iron bars at both windows. The walls were white-washed and looked cool, but the tiled floor helped the illusion of coolness but the roof was flat and the sun beating down on it made the room oppressively hot. There was no furniture in the cell.

“Daft bleeder,” repeated Bartlett, “might ’ave bleedin’ brained me.”

“You’ve been in before, haven’t you, Bartlett,” said Stevens. “What do we do?”

‘Time, mate.”

“I only asked you.”

“Aw, piece of cake.” Bartlett leaned back and yawned.

“Tell that to Roberts,” said McGrath.

Stevens was looking at the bare cell. “Don’t we even get a mattress?”

“Phone up the Commandant,” said Bartlett, “and tell ’im you want a bed.”

“Very funny.” Stevens looked about him helplessly.

“You sleep on that floor, man,” said Bokumbo.

“Won’t break ’im to do a bit of soldiering. Sleep in sheets his shower do.” Bartlett moved to the window and looked out. “‘Ere, see the flag post from ’ere. What yew know, they’re flying the Union Jack and I fort we’d fallen into the ’ands of the Gestapo.”

Everyone laughed then McGrath suddenly stopped laughing. “What the hell am I laughing about? It’s bloody true, we have.”

Bokumbo moved to the window and looked out. “They’re flying the Union Jack at full mast, man. Don’t that mean the King’s in residence?” He nudged Bartlett in the ribs and they both laughed.

“Thank God for new faces.”

Everyone turned and looked at the cell door. A small man was peering through the bars at them. His face was lined and he could be any age between thirty-five and sixty. He looked furtively up and down the corridor, then back into the cell and leaned on his broom handle. “The last shower what was in here — I’m telling you — wasn’t worth a light. Narks, the lot of them.” Another furtive glance up and down the corridor. “Got any snout, have you?”

“Maybe we have,” said McGrath, “and maybe we haven’t.”

“You’re a Jock. That’s great news. I’ve never yet known a Jock to be a nark.”

“If you mean am I a Scot?”

“Smart, you Jocks are. Smart. Me name’s Tom, by the way. I bet you’ve got some snout.”

“Are you wanting a swap or something?”

“Listen,” said Tom, lowering his voice, “you know them two Darkies they’re gonner shoot?”

“How the hell would we, seeing we’ve just been doubled in,” said McGrath.

“What’s that you said?” Bokumbo moved to the cell door.

“No, you wouldn’t know them. Jock,” said Tom, completely ignoring Bokumbo, “seeing you’ve just arrived, and nobody’s gonna know them soon. Raped a couple of Scotch nurses, see. So it’s a firing squad for them.”

“What the hell do you mean?” said Bokumbo, “a firing squad?”

“Why don’t you listen?”

“Aw, belt up, Darkie,” said Bartlett, pushing his way to the cell door. “When’s it gonna ’appen then?”

“A week’s time.”

“Week’s time, eh? Gonner do them ’ere, are they?”

Bokumbo glared at Bartlett. “Why? You want tickets? You want to see it?”

“I said belt up, Darkie. So they’re gonner get done ’ere are they?”

“Where else,” said Tom. “Now listen. The screws ain’t looking after them boys too well and that’s a fact.”

Bartlett threw back his head and laughed.

Stevens moved away from the cell door. “I don’t believe it. They don’t shoot ... ” He stopped and looked as if he wanted to be sick, then he moved to the window and looked out.

“So you think it’s a great joke, Bartlett,” said Bokumbo.

“Ain’t looking after them right,” cackled Bartlett.

“They don’t shoot people. Not for that,” called Stevens, trying to convince himself.

“Aw — shut up!” Bartlett yelled back.

“You listening, Jock?” said Tom.

“Aye, I’m listening.”

“Who’s these men they’re shooting. Who the hell are they?”

Tom looked at Bokumbo. “Cape Coloureds. I said to them you’re in the wrong army.”

“What the hell’s Cape Coloureds?”

“Next time,” continued Tom, “join the British Army, I said to them. In our mob you get mentioned in dispatches for tricks like that.”

“What the hell’s Cape Coloureds?” shouted Bokumbo.

“Don’t get excited,” said Tom. “Here. They’re in the Niggers’ Compound, see. All the Blacks in the South African Army are in the Niggers’ Compound, and if they drag it out and say to a white girl, cop this, they get shot. Satisfied now?”

“South African Army,” said Bokumbo. “Those white bastards.”

“Watch your tongue,” said McGrath.

Bokumbo ignored him. He walked away and sat down in a corner of the cell and stared blankly ahead of him.

Tom looked at McGrath. “I mean, it ain’t right, is it? The poor bastards are gonner get shot and they ain’t even got a smoke.”

“I don’t believe it,” Stevens called out again. “You’re lying.”

Tom peered through the bars. “What’s up with her?”

Bartlett grinned. “Gets on yer nerves, don’t she?”

“You listening, Jock?” said Tom.

“Aye.”

“I mean. If you’re gonner get shot you wanner smoke, don’t you.”

“You want a bullet-proof vest and a tin hat,” cackled Bartlett

“They won’t, will they, Bokumbo?” said Stevens.

“How would I know?”

“Shut up you two,” said Bartlett. “They shoot them inside this dump or take them out?”

“I don’t make the arrangements,” said Tom. “All I know is they ain’t got a smoke.” He sniggered and glanced sideways at Bartlett, almost preening himself as he waited for the expected laugh. Tom had a high opinion of his own dry humour. But Bartlett was too much obsessed with his own thoughts to notice Tom. He was mentally picturing the scene and his eyes gleamed as he said, “Put a cloth over their eyes, do they, and the bandsman plays Tiger Rag on the drums.”

Bokumbo stood up and threw a disgusted look at Bartlett. “Careful what you say.”

Bartlett looked surprised. “What’s up with you then?”

“Jock, listen,” interrupted Tom, coming back to the subject that interested him most at the moment. “Can I count on you for some snout seeing you’ve just got in. I bet you’ve got some hidden away.”

McGrath nodded his head as if to indicate that he was in complete agreement and sympathy with Tom. “For the poor wee fellas who’re gonna be shot you mean?”

“That’s so,” Tom agreed hastily. “You slip the snout to me and I’ll see they get it.”

“Aye. It’s a good cause,” said McGrath with an almost pious look on his face. “Put me down for a tin of fifty Players.”

Tom, who believed by now that he had them eating out of his hand, stared at McGrath blankly. “Eh?”

“And put me down for a box of Corona cigars, mate,” chuckled Bartlett.

“Why you dirty rotten … “ Tom spat through the bars and Bartlett danced out of the way just in time. “I ask you to do a turn for a coupla poor niggers who’re gonna be shot. All right — ”

McGrath and Bartlett were convulsed with laughter.