The Hill Page 2
“You’ll have me in tears, Staff,” said Williams.
Harris stared at Williams and thought, I can’t wait to witness the meeting between this one and the R.S.M. Then he grinned as he saw Wilson walking towards him across the parade ground.
The R.S.M. halted and shouted, “Staff, here!”
“Sir!” yelled Harris and nudged Williams. Together, keeping in perfect step, they doubled across the parade ground and stamped to attention.
The R.S.M. glanced at Williams and then addressed Harris. “You’re responsible for the M.O.’s room, aren’t you, Staff?”
“No, sir. Staff Burton.”
“Since when?”
“Since last week, sir.”
“Why the hell wasn’t I told?”
“Commandant’s orders, sir. Thought you knew.”
“I’ll say it again. Any change of orders, let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Staff Burton, eh? He’s begging to get posted. You’re in charge of B wing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you report there was a fire there last night?”
“Fire, sir?” Harris looked puzzled.
“Yes. Smoke was pouring out the cell windows. The prisoners wouldn’t be smoking themselves to death, would they now?”
Harris’s mouth twitched. “I’d like to catch them, sir.”
“Easy enough. Search everybody coming in from the outside work party.”
“I do that, sir.”
“Then it must be the bloody fairies again dropping tins of fifty Players down the chimneys. See to it in future, Staff.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilson looked at Harris’s open, friendly face and thought, not for the first time, that Harris was in the wrong trade. He turned and looked at Williams standing ramrod stiff facing him, taking in the powerful neck and shoulders and his thick arms, the skin pink and peeling. He glanced down at Williams’s bare knees. White skin. Straight out from England. This one’s in for some punishment, he thought. Straight out from England and drilling prisoners in the blinding sun. But he looked tough. “You the new Staff?”
“Yes, sir.”
The R.S.M. stared bleakly at Williams. “At ease.”
Harris and Williams obeyed the order and stood relaxed with their arms behind their backs.
Near the gate a squad of prisoners were standing at ease with the Staff facing them. Their general relaxed attitude irritated the R.S.M and he shouted, in a voice that carried clear across the prison grounds. “Staff!”
The Staff in charge of the prisoners spun around, then stamped to attention and shouted back. “Sir!”
“Staff, you gonna keep them prisoners idling all day?”
“Rest break, sir,” the Staff shouted back.
“They’re entitled to five minutes. How long have they had?”
“Aye, sir. Time’s about up.”
“Then get them doubling. Give ’em a wet shirt.”
“Sir!” The Staff turned to the prisoners. “Right, let’s have you. Attenshun — left turn — double, and no bloody yapping. No yapping in the ranks.”
The squad doubled away towards the hill.
The R.S.M. looked at Williams again. “Name, Staff?”
“Staff Williams, sir.”
“Worked in the civvy jails, haven’t you?”
“His Majesty’s prisons, yes, sir.”
The R.S.M.’s mouth tightened. “I stand corrected. But who’s do you think this is? Joe Loss’s?”
Williams made no reply. He stared blankly ahead of him and waited.
“Worked in Aldershot as well, haven’t you, Staff?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know something about the way we do things then, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
So it’s true, thought the R.S.M. The news on the grapevine’s seldom wrong. So this one’s a civvy jail screw, is he? The R.S.M. looked down his nose. He had no respect for turnkeys. He must have worked hard to get out of a reserved occupation job. “Why leave the comforts of civvy life, Staff?” he enquired politely.
“I wanted oversea, sir.”
The R.S.M.’s polite tea-party-voice didn’t fool Williams. He waited for the sting in the tail to the next question and wasn’t disappointed.
“I hear that Jerry bombed the Scrubs, Staff,” said the R.S.M. with a sardonic smile. “Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. So I believe. But he didn’t bomb the Moor.”
“You should like it here.” The R.S.M. turned and grinned at Harris. “Nice and peaceful here, ain’t it, Staff?”
“Yes, sir,” grinned Harris. “Nice and peaceful.”
“I’ll do my job anywhere I’m sent, sir,” said Williams.
The R.S.M. nodded and taking out his handkerchief he blew his nose violently.
Harris’s smile broadened and he glanced sideways at Williams.
“Enjoy prison work, Staff?” asked R.S.M. Wilson politely.
“I fancy I’m the right man for the job.” A fly settled on Williams’s nose and he shook his head, but the fly stayed where it was cleaning its wings.
“Do you?” The R.S.M. nodded to Harris. “Staff here don’t reckon himself as a man with a mission. That right, Harris?”
“There’s other jobs, sir. They can still use men up the front.”
R.S.M. Wilson looked at Harris with pitying contempt. “If you wanted up front then why the hell didn’t you join the Commandos?”
Harris stiffened. “All I meant was — ”
Wilson spoke quietly. “I’ve done twenty-five years. Where the hell do you think I’d like to be?”
“I know, sir. All I was trying to say — ”
“Don’t interrupt, Staff.” The R.S.M.’s eyes bored into Harris’s. “I know we ain’t reckoned as death-or-glory boys and nobody’s gonna pin a medal on us, but get this straight: one job’s as important as the next. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
R.S.M. Wilson stood rocking on his heels, his arms behind his back. Harris worried him. He was a decent enough man but he would open his trap and say the first damn silly thing that came into his mind. But he could be trusted and it was important to have men around you that you could trust.
Wilson watched the squad of prisoners doubling towards him and he noticed that one of the prisoners was doubling with his mouth wide open. The prisoner, a large fat man, stumbled and lurched and lost balance and fell flat on his face. The Staff in charge of the prisoners gave the order to “mark time.” The prisoners marked time and the Staff walked over to the prisoner who still lay face down in the sand. “Get up.” The Staff put the toe of his boot in the prisoner’s ribs. “On your feet.” The prisoner, his chest heaving and his mouth wide open sucking in air turned over on his back but made no attempt to stand. The Staff looked at the prisoners who were still marking time. “Two men. Get him on his feet. Double over.”
Two prisoners doubled over and lifted the fat man and he stood limply between them while they supported him. The Staff nodded to the squad of prisoners and the men led the fat man back to the squad but he still stood limply between them and still had to be supported. The Staff gave the order “Double” and the squad doubled away with the fat man hanging heavy on the two prisoners.
As the squad passed R.S.M. Wilson he called out, “Staff!”
The Staff halted. “Sir!”
“Halt your men.” Wilson spoke quietly. “Don’t you know the ropes yet?”
The Staff halted the prisoners.
Wilson marched briskly over and faced the squad of prisoners. The fat man, still supported, stood limply, his head hanging down. Wilson lifted the man’s head by his chin and looked into his eyes. “Let go of him,” he said. The prisoners let go of the fat man and he fell on to his knees and stayed there swaying for a moment and then toppled over.
“He’s trouble, sir,” said the Staff. “Bone idle.”
Wilson glared at the Staff. “He’s fat, pushing forty and u
nfit.”
“And idle, sir. An idle man, that.”
“Let the M.O. be the judge and jury,” the R.S.M. said. “I want to see the prisoners double out of here, not be carried out. Detail two men to lift him over to the M.O.”
“Sir!” The Staff stamped to attention, turned and pointed with his cane. “You two. Three paces forward, march!”
Two prisoners marched out of the ranks.
“Escort the prisoner to the M.O. Dis ... ”
The prisoners moved.
“Wait for it, wait for the order. Dis — miss!”
The prisoners picked up the fat man and one of them held on to him while the other placed the fat man’s arm around his shoulder, then he put an arm around the man’s waist and the other prisoner did the same and between them they half carried, half dragged the man away.
The R.S.M. watched the fat man’s legs dragging in the sand and as they passed he smelt the sweat from the prisoners, but it was the odour from the fat man that made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. It was like the smell that old men who have lain long in hospital beds give out. Better have him rested, he thought. A man who stinks like that can’t be fit for pack drill and field punishment. He nodded curtly to the Staff and walked away, then stopped and for a long moment he stared at Williams. “If I thought that any of my Staff wanted to skulk down base I’d have him out. Out! Understand?”
Williams’s eyes narrowed. Old soldier, he thought. Twenty-five years’ service and all they can find for him is a job in charge of a rest home. I’ve been on the Moor, with the real villains, where nine out of ten are in for G.BH. and the rest a topping offence, and what’s he got inside here? A few take off experts, bottle maniacs, spivs, pimps and bloody cowards. Most of the scum here couldn’t get into a civvy jail even if they banged on the gates and pleaded to be admitted. I’ve been on the Moor. This lot here. This old goat. I’d like to see him take out a stone-breaking party on a foggy morning.
Williams relaxed. Confident as all professional men are when dealing with amateurs. “I’m here to do a job, sir,” he said.
The R.S.M. squinted skywards. “The job’s pleasure for nobody. Feel that sun? It hangs over you and burns you dry. The line dodgers get out sometime. But not you. Not me. We’re doing time. Time! And it drags. It drags heavy.”
He turned his back on Williams and watched two prisoners being drilled by the Staff on the gate. The prisoners wore full packs, marching order, and their webbing and brasswork was a blinding wonder and although burdened with a heavy pack and kit-bag, they still moved light-footed and easily.
“What’s those two men doing, Staff?” called out the R.S.M.
“Two prisoners for release, sir,” yelled back the gate Staff.
“Then double them over.”
On the order the two prisoners doubled the hundred and fifty yards and marked time in front of the R.S.M. The two spick and span, bursting-fit soldiers marked time with an easy effortless rhythm, arms held rigidly at their sides and staring blankly ahead.
R.S.M. Wilson watched them performing with approval. They look like bloody Guardsmen, he thought, and remembered how they had looked when they first doubled in. “About turn,” he snarled. “Double — right turn. Keep them knees up. Keep ’em up! About turn! Head up there, head up, you’re bloody soldiers now. Halt — one — one two. Still. Keep still. Right, drop your kit and let’s have your names.”
The two soldiers lowered their kit-bags from their shoulders and smartly laid them on the sandy ground. Then stamped ramrod stiff to attention.
“158. Downes, sir.”
“743. Martin, sir.”
“You’re due for release, is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Downes and Martin together.
“Leaving us, eh? Giving up the comforts and the security of the glass house, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said the two soldiers who didn’t know how to answer that one.
“Prisoners have got as far as the gate and doubled back in again before today,” said the R.S.M. and then paused to allow that good news to sink in. “Dirty kit, for example, dirty boots.” He paused again. “Glad you didn’t look down. Almost behave like a couple of soldiers, don’t you?” He walked slowly around them, searching for any minor blemishes and was delighted that he couldn’t fault them. “Not answering back, eh? Don’t want to blot your copy book at this stage, eh?”
“No, sir,” said Downes.
“What about you, Martin?”
“No, sir,” said Martin.
“Glad or sorry to be going?”
“Glad, sir,” said Downes and Martin together.
“What you in for, Martin?”
“Went absent, sir.”
“You, Downes?”
“Went absent, sir.”
“Be going absent again?”
“No, sir,” said Downes.
“What about you, Martin?”
“No, sir,” said Martin.
“There’s a big push on now,” said the R.S.M. “Plenty of vacancies for lads to die on the beaches of Italy. You’re both just about in time for it. Well?”
“Yes, sir,” said Martin and Downes.
“Think you know how to soldier now?”
“Yes, sir,” Martin and Downes hastily agreed.
The R.S.M. turned to Williams. “When they came to me they’d been on the run.” He turned sharply on the prisoners. “Living it up in Cairo, wasn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The R.S.M. smiled faintly. “Living with a couple of cabaret bints who went out whoring for them. Very tough considering they was pimps. Wasn’t going to do nothing, I told them. Were you, lads?”
Downes looked rather shifty-eyed and Martin muttered, “We sort of thought like that, sir.”
“Any complaints about any members of my staff?”
“No, sir,” said Downes.
“No, sir,” said Martin.
“Treated you well, eh? By God we have. Better than you deserve. You came in poxed-up and lousy and now look at you. You’re fit now, ain’t you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Downes and Martin.
“And you both smell sweeter. I gave you both hell, didn’t I?”
“No, sir,” said Downes.
“Could have been worse, sir,” said Martin.
The R.S.M. glared at Martin. “Who told you to make a speech? Say yes or no.”
“No, sir,” said Martin.
“Glad you didn’t complain. Know why I made you suffer? To find out if there’s any good in you. I make you hate my guts because when you hate me enough then it begins to work. You punish yourself, lads, trying to beat me. You take the hill, pack drill, you hump rocks, you take my tongue and learn about discipline the hard way. I’ve doubled in thousands like you. The dregs, the dross, the filth from the gutters, but when I’ve doubled them out, they’ve shaped up like you two. Like men. Soldiers and a credit to the uniform.” The R.S.M.’s voice had risen until he was almost shouting and his speech had thickened, then abruptly he stopped speaking and relaxed and smiled and for a moment he looked almost benign. He stepped smartly forward and inspected the prisoners for the last time. “You’d pass for the Guards. Report to the Transit camp and no more bloody nonsense, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Downes and Martin together.
“Gate!” shouted the R.S.M. “Two prisoners for release!”
“Sir!” yelled the gate Staff.
“Pick up your kit-bags.”
The prisoners eagerly and easily swung their kit-bags on to their shoulders.
The R.S.M. gave them one last searching look. “Now — this time when you double, you’re going somewhere. You’re doubling to — ” He paused and a grim smile played about his lips. “ — the beaches! Right turn ... Double!”
Martin and Downes doubled towards the gate, pounding their black highly-polished ammo boots into the sand, eager to reach the gate and see it open. Eager to run through it and keep running until, at a safe distance from the prison,
they could stop running and tap the first soldier they saw for a fag. In a few minutes they would have a smoke. In a few hours they would be sitting over a cold beer and killing themselves laughing about the Nick and the hard times they had suffered, and when they were sufficiently drunk they would vow to get the R.S.M. and Staff Harris and Burton and all the screws and the cook and that lousy tyke of a prisoner who swept the B wing corridor who had grassed on them. Yes, one dark night they’d kick the R.S.M. to death. Drunken dreams. They didn’t know yet, that the R.S.M. had made two more soldiers; that they would jump at any order chucked at them; that he had broken their spirits and that they would fight on the beaches, and fight well, and probably die on the beaches.
Reaching the gate they marked time and threw anxious glances at the Staff.
The Staff glared at their boots.
They didn’t look down.
The Staff pointed to their boots with his cane. They halted, bent down and wiped the sand off their boots with their handkerchiefs.
The Staff nodded. “Mark time.”
They marked time like ballet dancers, afraid to get more sand on their boots.
The Staff grinned.
They did not smile back.
The Staff inspected them critically, then opened the gate wide.
Still marking time the prisoners edged towards the gate, dancing high on their toes like two little fairies.
The Staff motioned to them to move back.
With mincing steps they back-pedalled and watched the Staff as he stood dead centre in the open gateway, blocking their way to freedom.
“Double!” yelled the Staff. The prisoners ran flat out towards the open gate and then marked time again, as he shouted even louder. “Not you, you raving lunatics. Get back!” Anxious and perplexed they about-turned and doubled away a short distance and marked time again.
The gate Staff turned his back on them and shouted again. “Double!”
Five prisoners, escorted by a Corporal and a private soldier, doubled into the prison. One of the prisoners was a Negro.
“Mark time,” the gate Staff shouted. “Over here, Corporal.” The Corporal doubled over to the Staff and handed him the prisoners’ papers.
“Get fell in with the prisoners. Double.”