The Hill

by Ray Rigby

  The desert at sunset is beautiful, thought Roberts, and at dawn, when it’s cool and fresh and the colours make you gasp. Then it’s beautiful. But the other twenty-three hours it stinks.

  Williams stopped in front of Roberts. “Well?”

  Roberts thought, ‘Your legs are too skinny. That’s where you slip up. Your legs are too skinny.’

  R.S.M. Wilson stepped forward and said to Roberts, “Pick up your kit.”

  Roberts looked at him, and then at a jog-trot he collected all his kit again and placed it in a neat pile at his feet and then slammed to attention.

  Williams moved along the line of prisoners and stopped and faced Stevens. He bent down and picked up a package of letters. He glanced at them and then held them under Stevens’s nose. “Love letters?”

  Stevens swallowed nervously. “Sir, please — those are my wife’s.”

  “Tell it to the Sergeant-Major.” Williams handed the letters to the R.S.M.

  “Sir,” pleaded Stevens. “Those letters, sir — please — they ... ”

  The R.S.M. scanned the letters. “I’ll tell you when to speak.”

  Williams stopped in front of Bokumbo and disturbed his kit with the toe of his boot. Then he bent down swiftly and picked up some postcards and looked at them; then looked at Bokumbo. “So that’s the way your bloody mind works?” Bokumbo gaped at him. “So you’d contaminate His Majesty’s Prison with these fornicating pictures, would you?”

  Bokumbo looked even more puzzled. “Sir — ?”

  “Thought we’d let you keep them for pin-ups, I suppose,” snarled Williams. “You dirty, sewer-minded bloody animal.” Williams handed the postcards to the R.S.M.

  Bokumbo was looking at the postcards. “Staff. Man. What’s this?”

  “Tell the Sergeant-Major,” said Williams.

  “Sergeant-Major, sir — ”

  The R.S.M. glanced away from the photographs and glared at Bokumbo. “Shut up!”

  Bokumbo opened his mouth to reply then changed his mind.

  Williams stopped in front of Bartlett, sorted over his kit, then straightened up and held up for the R.S.M.’s inspection a Nazi flag. Then he turned and looked at Bartlett. “So you’re one of the Gestapo boys, are you?”

  “Gave a couple of bottles of beer for that, Staff.”

  “Did you now?”

  “And a pair of good Aussie boots.”

  The R.S.M. took the Nazi flag from Williams then moved to Bartlett. “What kind of a lunatic are you? You telling me, a prison officer, that you’ve thieved a pair of boots from our allies?”

  “Didn’t thieve them, sir. I swapped a bottle of NAAFI gin for them.”

  “That so? Now you’re telling me you’re head of a black market ring.”

  “Aw no, sir.”

  “Yes, sir!” yelled the R.S.M. “You’ve just confessed.” “Fair’s fair, sir. ’Ope you’ll let me sign for that flag. I want ter keep it.”

  “Shut up,” said the R.S.M. as he walked away.

  Williams sorted over McGrath’s kit, then straightened up and glared at McGrath. “What, no hashees? You must be slipping.”

  “Nothing else, Staff?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Right.” The R.S.M. consulted his list. “Let’s have your names.”

  “132. Private McGrath, sir.”

  “736. Private Bokumbo, sir.”

  “929. Private Stevens, sir.”

  “824. Private Bartlett, sir.”

  “421. Trooper Roberts, sir.”

  The R.S.M. looked at Roberts for a good ten seconds. “Right. Now we know who we’ve got, don’t we.” He moved and faced Bokumbo, then held up the postcards in front of him. “What are you doing with these?”

  Bokumbo stared at the postcards and his eyes widened in surprise. “Sir. I don’t know where they came from and that’s the truth.”

  “They were in your kit.”

  “I don’t get it.” He still looked puzzled, then suddenly his face split into a broad grin. “Willie, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Willie. He’s my pal. Man. I bet he put those postcards in my kit.”

  “So it was Willie, was it? He planted them on you?”

  “That’s Willie, sir. He’s always dropping me in it.”

  The R.S.M. lowered the postcards from under Bokumbo’s nose. “On your charge sheet it says you’re a thief. So you’ve no respect for other people’s property, eh?”

  “I slip up this time.” Bokumbo was still grinning.

  “You stole three bottles of whisky from your Sergeants’ Mess. Wasn’t very clever, was you?”

  “No, sir.” Bokumbo was doing his best to refrain himself from laughing out loud.

  “I suppose you were drunk.”

  “Got pinched before I had a chance to get a good drink down, sir.”

  “Daft as well as criminal?”

  Bokumbo could hold his laughter back no longer. “Unlucky, sir,” he cackled.

  “I make the jokes and here’s one,” said the R.S.M. “When you’ve served your sentence for theft, you’ll be arrested at the gates and charged with having in your possession four obscene photographs. Now start laughing.”

  Bokumbo roared with laughter.

  The R.S.M. waited until Bokumbo stopped laughing. “I could charge you with insolence. Bokumbo, you watch yourself.” He held up the postcards again. “I mean to get something else into that mind of yours before you leave here.”

  “Sir,” protested Bokumbo. “Will you listen ... ”

  “Wipe that grin away. I can forgive a man a thirst and I don’t expect everybody to be honest. But you’ve made a spectacle of your sewer mind. Bokumbo, I’ll be looking for you.”

  Bokumbo stopped smiling. “Sir, I don’t carry trash like that around. I like the real thing.”

  R.S.M. Wilson pointed his swagger stick at Bokumbo. “Another word out of you and you’re on a charge.”

  Bokumbo shut his mouth tight.

  The R.S.M. moved along the line of prisoners and stopped, facing Bartlett. “So you thieved Government property, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ten motor vehicle tyres.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Merchant Navy get themselves shot to hell transporting that stuff over here. So let’s hear what you did with it?”

  “Flogged them, sir.”

  “To the enemy?”

  Bartlett grinned. “Aw no, sir. To a shower of Wogs.”

  “Do you mean Egyptians or Arabs or what the hell do you mean?”

  “Gyppos, sir.”

  “Do you speak English, lad?”

  “Egyptians, I mean, sir.”

  “And they ain’t the enemy?”

  “The Wogs, sir? ’Course not.”

  “So you think they’re our friends? Sold them any guns so they can shoot us in the back, have you?”

  “Now, would I do that, sir?”

  “Yes. If you ever get the chance. How many times have you been inside now?”

  Bartlett had to think before he answered. “This is me ninth go over the wall, sir.”

  The R.S.M. looked disgusted. “You’re about due for your pension. What’s your other crimes apart from thieving?”

  You old berk, thought Bartlett, having a right old go at me, ain’t you. But I’d better play it crafty. Shall I tell him the truth? Better, mate. He’s got it all there in black and bleeding white. All your crimes, darling, from the time you was caught pissing in the Major’s teapot. Bartlett cleared his throat. “ — Er — knocking off stuff, sir, and fings like that.”

  “And what else?”

  “Well, sir, er ... losing meself like.”

  “Losing yourself?” yelled Wilson. “Can’t you find yourself in the dark, lad, or what?”

  “They call it A.W.O.L., sir, don’t they? You know, going absent and fings like that.”

  “Absent without leave, eh, Bartlett?”

  “That’s it, sir. A day or two, a week .
.. ”

  “When does this uncontrollable urge get the better of you, lad?”

  “Well, sir. When I’ve ’ad a bit of trouble like, you know.”

  Wilson said very quietly, “When was the last time you saw action?”

  Here we go, thought Bartlett. The bastard’s on to me. But he still played for time. He wrinkled his brow in deep thought. “Action, sir? Now, let me see.”

  “You’ve never seen any, Bartlett, have you?”

  “Well, no, sir. Never sort of got around to it, ’ave I.”

  “Another push was about due. So you got inside again, eh?”

  Crafty bleeder, thought Bartlett, picking on me. When did you last see bleedin’ action? Boer bleedin’ war? Bet you’ve never seen none outside of your kip, up your bleedin’ spout, mate. Bartlett looked at Wilson. “Luck of the game, sir, ain’t it?”

  Wilson nodded his head thoughtfully. “Let’s see how lucky you are this time. I’ll do my best to persuade you the front line’s a damn sight more comfortable than here.”

  Bartlett couldn’t repress a faint grin.

  “Think I can’t? Well, let’s see.” The R.S.M. moved on and stopped in front of McGrath. “Bartlett’s a dirty bloody coward, but I see that you’re a fighting man, McGrath.”

  “Yes, sir,” said McGrath, looking at Wilson’s left ear. “You’re inside for assaulting three members of the Corps of Military Police.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Seen any other action apart from that?”

  McGrath swivelled his eyes and looked directly at the R.S.M. now. His baby-blue eyes that looked so out of place in his battered face, narrowed and looked spiteful. “If you’re asking me, sir, if I’m a bloody coward, I’ve got the answer ... ”

  “We soon find out if a man’s a coward. It’s easy proved.”

  McGrath could very quickly weigh up a man. He prided himself on being a punch-up expert, and from experience he knew that it would take a good man to beat him. He quickly ran his eyes over Wilson. I’d be giving away nearly two stone, he thought, and the old slob is still tough. Big hands, those hands could hurt. He must be forty, nearer forty-five. He’s still in good shape, but he’d have to finish the job quick. His wind can’t be all that good and he’d be slow. Och. He’s too bloody old. I could do him, no trouble, and that other loud-mouthed bastard with him. Good shoulders, the other fella, but no weight in his legs and you need good anchors for heavy punching. I could do the pair of them before breakfast. They’ll no have me greetin’ this pair of base permanent, fly boys. “I didn’t flog tyres to the enemy or sell dirty postcards on the streets of Cairo, mister,” he said.

  “No,” said Wilson. “I’ve got your crimes listed here.” He smacked McGrath’s crimesheet with his knuckles. “You got boozed up and tried to obstruct the police.”

  “I didna like the way the Redcaps were handling a young fella, so I did some thumping myself.” That night’s work still rankled. It all started in the Mogador Cabaret. A clip joint, a stone’s throw from Cairo station and a right old dump it was too, thought McGrath. This belly dancer was trying to send the boys mad by shaking everything she’d got in the middle of the dance floor, when some fella threw an empty beer tin at her and soon enough the air was full of beer tins and then the fight started.

  Now, I wasn’t looking for a punch-up, McGrath justified himself. Didn’t I get behind the bar and help myself to a few drams and let the lunatics get on with it? Then the Redcaps raided the joint so I got smartly outside, and it was outside I saw three Redcaps trying to persuade a wee fella to get into the patrol waggon, and the laddie was yelling his innocence and I know a fella-Scot when I see one. Those bloody Redcaps didn’t have to deal with him as harshly as that. Persuading a fella is one thing, but trying to break his legs with a cane because he wouldn’t let them heave him into the back of a patrol waggon is another thing altogether, and when I protested all I got for my pains was a punch in the mush. So into action I went and did three of the bloody Redcaps with my head in double quick time before the rest of them were on me. Aye. If that’s not wrongful arrest then what the hell is? And this old daftie thinks I have to be boozed up before I can go into action, does he?

  “Boozed up,” said Wilson. “Next time you want to stand up for the rights of man, try it sober.”

  “I don’t need a drink to get me in the mood for a punch-up,” said McGrath quietly.

  The R.S.M. smiled. “Your kind always need a drink, McGrath. I’ve a dozen inside here like you, with their noses punched flat and their brains scrambled and they all came in thinking they were going to run this place. I’ve just doubled a couple of them out.”

  McGrath switched on a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Aye, you may be right, sir. I’ll no argue with you and blot me copy book. It’s me intention to soldier on, do me time and get out of here.”

  “See you do,” said Wilson and moved on and faced Stevens. You poor little bastard, he thought, looking at the drooping miserable youth. You’re out of place here. “Went absent, Stevens?”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered Stevens.

  “Didn’t fancy the sound of gunfire?”

  “Sir — I ... ” Stevens’s lips trembled.

  “Speak up, lad.”

  “It wasn’t that, sir — I ... ”

  “Tried to stow away on a boat in Suez. Why?”

  “Trying to get home, sir. You see ... ”

  “Wasn’t very smart, Stevens, was you? The clever way is to get to the airport. Show a Yank twenty quid and he’d fly you to Hong Kong if you wanted it.”

  “Sir. It was home, sir, I wanted.”

  Wilson glanced at the letters in his hand. “Missing your wife, Stevens?”

  Stevens’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes — yes, sir.”

  “Lad,” said Wilson. “If every man who wanted a cuddle and a bit of loving kindness took off for England, we wouldn’t have any bloody army left over here, would we?”

  “No ... no, sir,” muttered Stevens.

  “You’re out of place here, Stevens. Obey orders and get out soon as you can.”

  Stevens felt grateful to Wilson. “Thank you, sir. I will, sir. I promise.”

  “All right.” Wilson was suddenly irritated by Stevens. He’s too bloody wet, he thought. What’s this pink and white kid doing in the bloody army? Gawd, he can’t even take a sun tan. Milky and pink, he ought to be in the bloody girl guides. “Get yourself straightened out, lad,” he said. “You’re in uniform so I’ll expect you to behave like a man.”

  The R.S.M. moved on and stopped and faced Roberts. “You’re the mystery man, Roberts. The marvel of the age.”

  Roberts looked past Wilson and concentrated on the hill.

  “We’ll have a little chat,” said the R.S.M. “Just the two of us.” He walked away and Roberts followed him.

  McGrath watched them walk away and narrowed his eyes. What the hell is all that in aid of? he wondered.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Commandant Strolled down the main street He felt much better since he had had a shave. The hot towels and friction had worked wonders on him. The wogs were certainly damn good barbers. Tried to charge you the earth, of course. You had to watch them. Hair was going thin at the crown though. He would have to watch out for that. Massage perhaps? But nothing really worked. Only thirty-five and I’m losing my hair, he thought. It’s a damned nuisance.

  Two soldiers passed him and turned, eyes right, and saluted and the Commandant casually returned the salute. Bloody lot of rubbish, he thought. Kid’s stuff. But he would check a man if he didn’t salute him. He walked on slowly and then paused to look into a shop window. Regimental cap badges, cheap cigarette cases, brass ashtrays, perfume fly whisks. Junk.

  He walked on and then saw a nurse walking towards him. Nice legs, good figure, very neat in her walking-out uniform. Then he remembered that he had met her once at the Officers’ Club. Wilkins had been her escort. The old ram. What the hell was she doing with old Wilkins? H
e grinned to himself. She danced rather well and he had held her close to him. What had he said to her? He had been pretty tight that evening, come to think about it.

  He stepped out briskly, then a few paces from her he stopped and touched his cap with his swagger cane, standing relaxed and smiling down at her. The nurse stopped and looked puzzled for a moment until the Commandant reminded her that they had met at the Officers’ Club dance and then she remembered and smiled warmly back at him. Yes. It had been fun. A lovely evening.

  The Commandant leaned nearer, smiling into her eyes. He knew that he was making headway. He had her full attention now. Perhaps they could meet this evening? The nurse hesitated.

  “I’m on duty. I’m sorry.”

  “What a pity. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  The nurse hesitated again and glanced at her watch.

  “Tomorrow afternoon?” enquired the Commandant. “If you aren’t on duty we could go for a swim.”

  He was anxious to see her in a swim suit. The nurse nodded her head and smiled, and he shook hands and held her hand longer than necessary then stepped back and gallantly and casually touched his cap with his swagger cane and watched her walking away, concentrating on the easy rhythm of her buttocks. He knew that she would turn and look back and she did. Again he saluted gallantly and she smiled and waved and walked on. Walks well, damn good figure, thought the Commandant. Her voice grated though. A touch of disguised cockney in it somewhere, but a damn pretty girl. Should be rather nice in bed. The Commandant walked on looking well pleased with life.

  *

  The R.S.M. nodded to the line of prisoners and Roberts doubled away and joined them and stamped to attention then stared blankly into space, but after a few moments he realised that he was staring at the damned hill again. It must be fifty or sixty feet high, he thought. No more than that. A few trips over it wouldn’t be too bad but if they keep me on it.

  He watched R.S.M. Wilson slowly pacing up and down in front of him. Up and down, up and down, deep in thought. What’s he dreaming up for us now? Roberts wondered. These bloody flies, they’re living on my sweat. Don’t twitch. Keep still. A pity the R.S.M. specially picked me out for a heart to heart. Pity about that. The other lads must be wondering. To hell with them. The R.S.M. didn’t get any change out of me and neither will anybody else. I’ll do my time and get out.