by Ray Rigby
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 bast
ards.”
“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.
“How do you think I came up?” gasped McGrath. “On a bike up the Clyde?”
“Yeah, you’d see they got a smoke,” jeered Bartlett.
“You’ll be knocking for a smoke one of these days.” Tom pushed the broom handle through the bars trying to ram it into Bartlett’s stomach. “One of these days you’ll be bloody dying for a smoke.” He easily wrested the broom out of Bartlett’s hands. Bartlett was almost helpless with laughter by now as Tom moved away, sweeping the corridor as he went.
Bartlett yelled after him, “What kind of a mug you take me for? I’ve done most of me service in the glass-house, ain’t I?” He moved away from the cell gate and slapped McGrath on the back and McGrath, with his faced screwed up with laughter nudged Bartlett in the ribs.
Stevens looked at the pair of them, quite unable to comprehend the joke. Two men are being shot, he thought. In a week’s time two men will face a firing squad in this prison and these two ... these insensitive ... How can they laugh? How can they? He turned to Bokumbo. At least he can appreciate the awful situation. Bokumbo was the first negro that Stevens had ever really met and he was faintly puzzled by him. He didn’t seem a bad chap. Those photographs, of course. Absolutely disgusting. But rather what one would expect.
They are different, of course. Not that he had anything against them, he hastily confirmed to himself being, as he honestly believed, very liberal minded. They’re just different. That’s all it is. This chap’s obviously sensitive anyway, and this surprised him. Such a huge man ... Well, one wouldn’t expect him to be sensitive.
On the way over on the boat from England, the convoy had stopped at Cape Town and Stevens, quite by mistake, had walked into a coloured bar. The negroes had crowded round him, much to his astonishment, laughing and patting him on the back and offering to buy him drinks. They couldn’t have been more friendly. But the owner of the bar, a large Dutchman, had picked up Stevens bodily and thrown him into the white man’s bar and then practically read him the Riot Act. Stevens, bruised and rather shaken up by his treatment; was most indignant. He had gone into the bar by mistake, but what harm had he done? The coloured chaps had been quite friendly and he was pretty disgusted by the big lout of a Dutchman and strongly objected, being very liberal minded, to the way the whites treated the blacks.
Remembering this, he decided to befriend Bokumbo and show him that there were some decent white people in the world. He looked at Bokumbo and took him into his confidence. “It’s true, isn’t it, Bokumbo. They are going to shoot them.”
Bokumbo looked at Stevens’s earnest eyes behind his spectacles then shrugged his shoulders. “O.K. So they’re gonna get shot.”
Stevens was indignant now. “How can you just stand there and ... ”
Bokumbo cut him short by turning his back on him and walking away.
“You heard that fella,” said McGrath. “They raped a couple of white women.”
“Oh, I know,” Stevens hastily agreed. “But I mean ... ”
Bokumbo, moving towards McGrath, pushed Stevens out of his way. “O.K.. But you don’t have to shoot them.”
“I’d give them a bloody smoke.” McGrath ran his eyes up and down Bokumbo.
“I said you don’t have to shoot them.”
McGrath smiled. “Aye. You would be in sympathy.”
“And what the hell do you mean by that?”
McGrath’s smile broadened. “You mean you canna guess?” Bokumbo stared fixedly at McGrath then turned his back on him and walked away.
“Aye. Walk away from me,” said McGrath. “You’re showing remarkable commonsense.”
Bokumbo had reached the window and was holding on to the bars. He turned and looked at McGrath again, taking in his battered, freckled face and powerful body. He slowly untwined his fingers from the bars and leaned against the wall, still looking at McGrath.
Bartlett, who was as sensitive as radar when trouble was brewing, decided for his own sake to stop the fight — if there was going to be a fight — before it started. He didn’t want the screws running into the cell and clubbing the lot of them daft and then running them over the hill. He laughed out loud and walked between McGrath and Bokumbo, then stopped and faced McGrath with an easy grin on his face.
“Aw, who cares, Mack. Just because they tried it on a coupla nurses.”
McGrath’s eyes narrowed. “So you approve, do you?” All his attention was centred on Bartlett now.
“Look,” chuckled Bartlett, standing easy and relaxed and taking McGrath into his confidence. “If you’re an officer they don’t struggle, do they? Just lay back an’ enjoy it. But if you’re just a bleeding swattie — ” He turned to grin at Bokumbo now “ — any old bleeding colour — ” He winked. “ — then they scream the place down, don’t they.”
“Listen to him, will you.” McGrath for a moment was taken in by Bartlett’s easy grin and logic. It was well known that a couple of pips on a man’s shoulder, or, better still, a crown, worked wonders with the ladies.
Bartlett made the mistake of elaborating on this theme. “Just a couple of Scotch gits.” He was taking Bokumbo into his confidence now. “I bet they wouldn’t get a second look back ’ome.” Thinking he had settled the matter once and for all he winked at McGrath and sat down and leaned against the wall.
“What was that?” McGrath stood over Bartlett, looking down at him.<
br />
“It’s a laugh.” For once Bartlett didn’t see the danger signals. “They come over ’ere. Knock-kneed, glasses ... ”
“Stand up and say that.”
“Eh?” Bartlett looked at McGrath standing over him and knew that he had said the wrong thing. He switched on his easy grip. “Now look, Mac. No need to get excited.”
“You’ll no speak of my countrywomen in that fashion.”
Blind O’Reilly, thought Bartlett. Forgot he’s a thick nutted Scot and that kind reckons Scotland’s the garden of bleeding Eden. He decided to laugh his way out of it.
“Come off it, Mac. They’re all in the ground sheet business, ain’t they. I mean — ”
McGrath grabbed Bartlett by his shirt and pulled him to his feet and said quietly, “Another crack out of you and I’ll put my head in your mush.”
Bartlett managed a sickly grin. “O.K. Mack. Didn’t mean nothing. Take it back.”
McGrath pushed Bartlett hard against the wall, still holding him by his shirt.
Stevens, afraid that McGrath would hurt Bartlett, interrupted nervously. “Didn’t we ought to get the cell straighted up? The Staff said ... ”
Bartlett, grateful for the interruption, nodded his head eagerly. “Yeah, Mack. How about straightening up our kits then?”
McGrath smiled and let go of Bartlett and walked away. Bartlett, greatly relieved, bent down and opened his kit-bag and took out his blankets and began folding them. “The screws,” he jeered, buoyant as ever now that the danger was past. ‘They’re all blow, ain’t they, Mack?”
McGrath looked at Bartlett with a condescending grin. “Watch the R.S.M. He’s a hard case.”
“Yeah,” agreed Bartlett. “What do you think about the other screw then, Mack? The one what run us up the hill?”
McGrath turned and held his nose and pulled a horrible face and everybody laughed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Roberts sat up. Already the hot sun had almost dried his clothes, but his boots and socks were still wet. He wrung out his socks and put them on, slipped his feet into his boots and tied the laces tight, glanced at Williams who stood a few feet away watching him then looked past Williams at the white buildings until his eyes watered and his head began throbbing again.
