by Ray Rigby
He ran on doggedly, looking down at his boots as he kicked up the sand. Feeling the sun striking him across the back of the neck, ‘ought to cut down on the smokes,’ he thought, ‘and the booze. I’m getting too old for this old nonsense. How the R.S.M. keeps going? He boozes his share. Don’t smoke, though. Maybe that’s the secret, and he’s older than me by a good five years. More. But he can still shift his share of booze.’
He wondered if he could make the last hundred yards. Gritting his teeth he banged his boots harder into the soft sand. ‘Who’s too bloody old? It’s easier up front though. I don’t have to stand for his old rubbish. If I have much more from him I’m getting a posting out of here. Get back with the boys.’ He slowed down and slammed to attention facing the R.S.M. “Sir,” he gasped. The run had winded him.
The R.S.M. looked at Burton’s heaving chest and the sweat running down his face.
“Staff,” he said. “Your prisoners were smoking in their cells last night. I’ve appointed Staff Williams in your place. I’m putting you on the gate where I can keep an eye on you. Anything to say?”
It was some moments before Burton could find the breath to speak. Finally he gasped, “Might have spoken to me first, sir.”
“I’m telling you now. You supervise the cleaning of the M.O.’s room as well, don’t you? M.O.’s room wasn’t cleaned. You let me down.”
Burton was quickly getting his breath back. He said in aggrieved tones, “Had trouble with some of the prisoners and by the time I’d sorted that out, there wasn’t time.”
“Had trouble with prisoners?” The R.S.M. looked at Burton as if he was raving mad. “Double over to the gate, Staff, or you’ll have trouble with me.”
“Sir,” shouted Burton, “no prisoners were smoking while I was on duty.”
“I gave you an order,” said the R.S.M.
“Sir. Any man can slip up once. You didn’t have to appoint Staff Williams — ”
“Shut up!” The R.S.M. glared at Burton then pointed with his stick to the gate. “Double.”
Burton hesitated a moment, still boiling with rage, then he turned and doubled towards the gate and with every step he gritted his teeth and said under his breath, “Bastard, you bastard ... bastard.”
*
“All right. Sit down and eat your dinner,” said Williams.
The prisoners picked up their tins and looked at the cold unappetizing mess and put the tins down on the floor again.
Williams moved about the cell then stopped and looked at Roberts. “You were a soldier once, weren’t you?”
‘That’s a brilliant remark,’ thought Roberts, but decided to humour Williams. “That’s right, Staff.”
“How come you landed in here then?”
Roberts leaned his back against the wall. “I was a bloody fool, Staff. I joined the army in peace-time. Do you want more proof?”
“Held rank once, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know it showed, Staff.”
“It don’t inside here ... what’s your crime, Roberts?”
“It’s in the office files, Staff.”
Williams nodded. “I think I know.” He moved away and touched Bokumbo’s kit-bag with the toe of his boot. “Straighten that.”
Bokumbo knelt down and moved the kit-bag half an inch then glanced up at Williams.
“More to the left.”
Bokumbo moved his kit-bag more to the left then glanced up at Williams again. Williams pulled back his foot as if to kick the kit-bag, then smiled and turned away and walked back to Roberts.
“Think I know,” he repeated. “But I’ll check to be sure.”
“It makes interesting reading,” said Roberts.
“What was your rank?”
“It’s all down in black and white in my records, Staff.”
Williams nodded. “Sergeant-Major?”
“If you know, why ask me, Staff?”
“I didn’t, but I do now.” Williams stared at Roberts. “You’re just a music-hall comic. You ain’t fit to hold rank.”
Roberts had had enough of the interrogation. “You give me a headache,” he said as he moved away.
Williams walked after him and said quietly, “I’ll give you worse than that. The Courts Martial broke you, but I’m going to finish the job. I’ll bust you wide open.”
Roberts stopped and, turning to the rest of the prisoners, said, “He’s power crazy. He’d work as a dustman if they gave him a uniform and two men to shout at.”
Stevens tried to restrain his laughter and as Williams swung round on him the smile froze on his lips.
“You think that’s funny, Stevens?”
“Sir. I didn’t mean ... ”
“I’ll teach you.”
“Sir — please — ”
“Get into your kit. Go on.” Williams pushed Stevens and sent him staggering across the cell. Stevens miserably buckled on his webbing and big pack. “Come on, hurry up. Double out.”
Stevens doubled out of the cell and Williams followed him and slammed the cell door shut behind him.
The prisoners listened to the footsteps dying away and then they stared at Roberts. McGrath was the first to speak. “You dropped that wee laddie right in it.”
Roberts knelt down and began searching through his kitbag.
“Did you hear me, Roberts?”
Roberts still ignored McGrath as he emptied his kit-bag on to the floor.
McGrath raised his voice. “You gave Williams lip and he took it out on the lad.”
Roberts, searching through his kit, stopped for a moment to glance at McGrath. Then he picked up a pair of socks and began stuffing the rest of his clothing back into his kit-bag.
“He don’t want to know,” said Bartlett, “look at ’im.”
Roberts looked at the prisoners in turn.
“He wants me,” he said, thumbing himself on his chest. “If I say nothing, he’ll have me for dumb insolence. If I speak, he’ll still have me. He wants you.” Roberts pointed to Bokumbo. “You’re the wrong colour. The rest of you, he doesn’t find all that interesting — yet. But he’ll have you just the same. The R.S.M. likes making toy soldiers. Williams likes breaking them. Now you work out what you’re going to do.”
He sat down and removed his puttees and unlaced his boots and peeled off his wet socks and dried his feet on a towel. The prisoners watched him in uneasy silence as he put on his clean socks and laced up his boots again.
“Maybe you’re right, Roberts,” said McGrath, “but keep your mouth shut and don’t give that big slob too many chances.”
“Sure he’s right,” said Bokumbo. “Man, are we gonna need a sense of humour.”
“Roberts ain’t got one,” said Bartlett.
“Maybe he has,” said Bokumbo. “Who the hell cares.”
“Let’s find out.”
Bartlett sprang to his feet and marched over to Roberts and stamped to attention.
“Company all ready, Sergeant-Major, sir, to throw away their arms and run like hell back to Cairo. Permission to be a lot of Woody cowards, sir.”
McGrath and Bokumbo laughed. Bartlett, when he cared to be, could be quite funny and the way he stood facing Roberts, cross-eyed, and with a droll expression on his face was highly comic. Bartlett looked at them and they laughed even louder, but from where they sat they could not see Roberts’s expression. He sat glaring up at Bartlett and Bartlett got a shock. ‘That went home,’ he thought ‘Blimey, that went home.’ Grinning broadly now he turned to McGrath and Bokumbo.
“Company. Company on parade.”
McGrath and Bokumbo lined up facing Bartlett.
“Company atten-shun.” Bartlett made a big thing of inspecting their non-existent equipment. “Your equipment’s ’orrible, McGrath.”
“Aye, sir, and the same to you,” chuckled McGrath.
“After inspection,” shouted Bartlett, “fall out and get your running shoes or you’ll be left behind, soldier.”
“Don’t worry about
me, sir,” said McGrath. “I’m quick off the mark.”
“I say, I say,” said Bartlett, suddenly going all posh. “Where the devil’s our dearly beloved Sergeant-Major Roberts?”
He shielded his eyes and pretended to scan the distant horizon, taking a sidelong glance at Roberts as he did so.
“I say, I say, the bounder’s not even waited for me to dismiss the company. He’s already caught up with the General in his staff car.”
McGrath and Bokumbo laughed.
“Look, just chucked his boots away, he hates to be hampered.” Another grinning side glance at Roberts, then he turned back to the other two. “All right, chaps. I know you’re just aching to get cracking. One last thing. If anyone tries to obstruct you in your frantic dash to freedom you will form fours and trample the bounders to death, eh, what? Company. Company dismiss.”
Still laughing, Bokumbo and McGrath sat down again.
“Find that funny, me old mate?” enquired Bartlett.
Roberts finished lacing his boots then stood up and stamped them on the tiled floor. His legs had stopped trembling and he felt the strength returning. ‘Be all right in another half hour,’ he thought. ‘Ready for another go over the hill.’
“Thought you’d be killing yourself laughing, Roberts,” said Bartlett.
Roberts looked at him. “You’re a great little comic,” he said.
“That’s why you’re in ’ere. ain’t it?” Bartlett turned to McGrath. “He bleeding well ran out of the line. That’s why they busted ’im. I caught on when I was mucking about.”
McGrath glanced swiftly from Bartlett to Roberts. ‘A bloody coward, eh,’ he thought. ‘Maybe Bartlett’s right. Maybe that’s what all the mystery’s about. The R.S.M. read out everybody’s crimes. But not Roberts’s. Not ex-Sergeant-Major bloody Roberts’s. So we’ve got a beauty here, have we? An ex-Sergeant-Major, busted for cowardice and he’s shooting his mouth off and playing it big and making it tough for the rest of us. It’s high time I had a word in his ear.’ McGrath stood up.
“So you ran out of the line, did you, Roberts?”
‘He’s the one to watch,’ thought Roberts. ‘Dangerous Dan McGrath, the punch-up maniac. I know I’m going to have trouble with him.’ He was about to answer McGrath when he saw Harris peering at him through the cell bars. He nodded a warning to McGrath and walked over to the window. Harris unlocked the cell door and walked in.
“Blimey. What are you doing ’ere, Staff Harris?”
Judging by his expression Bartlett was overjoyed at this chance encounter. Harris turned.
“Oh, God help me. Can’t I ever get away from you?”
“Not as long as they’ve got nicks for you to work in, Staff,” grinned Bartlett. “This dump don’t compare to ole Gennefeh do it? That was a right old nick, that was.”
“Let’s hope this one won’t be a grievous disappointment to you.” Harris turned to McGrath. “A little bird told me that you like knocking people about.”
“Me, Staff?” said McGrath, with a look of injured innocence on his face.
“Word of warning. Don’t try it here.” Harris glanced at Roberts. “Not even with the prisoners.”
“I’m all for a peaceful life, Staff.”
“Good. I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Roberts, here.”
“Yes, Staff.” Roberts strolled over to Harris.
“I understand you can’t stand people shouting at you. You can’t double, fight — ” A sidelong glance at McGrath, who grinned back. “ ... or fornicate. Or am I wrong about the last item?”
“I can’t here, Staff, that’s certain,” said Roberts.
“Blimey, Staff,” interrupted Bartlett. “You can’t know ’ow glad I am to see you.”
Harris laughed. “That’s the queerest compliment I’ve ever had. Roberts, take a good look at Bartlett.”
“I’ve seen it, Staff.”
Harris nodded and turned to Bartlett.
“I want you to have a word with Roberts. Learn him to double and do as he’s told. It’s not much to ask. Learn this moonstruck man the arts of survival. Learn him to cock a deaf ear to abuse and step out smartly when told before Staff Williams cripples him.”
Bartlett took it all as a great compliment and beamed with pleasure. “O.K. Staff. Cost you a fag.”
“See what I mean,” marvelled Harris as he turned to Roberts. “The vacant grin, the right shade of voice. It’s cheek, but it ain’t insolence and he’ll have me breaking the law. O.K. Bartlett, you’ll get a fag if it’s going to help save this lunatic’s life. Roberts.”
“Yes, Staff?”
“Bartlett’s had about a dozen trips over the wall, he’s generously shared his services between the pox hospitals and the detention barracks, and what he don’t know about these places wouldn’t fill a tuppenny stamp. So set your ears forward and listen to him.” Harris moved back to the gate and Bartlett followed him. “Staff, you staying on this block?”
“Yes, and so’s Williams.” Harris gave Bartlett five cigarettes. “I never gave them to you and if I catch you having a drag — ”
Harris looked at Roberts. “Remember all I’ve said.”
He slammed the cell gate shut and walked up the corridor.
CHAPTER SIX
The R.S.M. walked through the prison grounds deep in thought. A line of prisoners carrying rocks jog-trotted past him but he ignored them then, glancing towards B Wing, he saw Harris and waved his cane to attract his attention. Harris changed direction and hurried towards the R.S.M. and finally caught up with him.
The R.S.M., still deep in thought, walked on and for a few moments didn’t say a word. Harris kept pace with him and waited. Finally the R.S.M. glanced at Harris and said, “Why didn’t you tell me that Burton’s useless?”
“I don’t reckon he is, sir.”
The R.S.M. halted and looked at Harris who smiled back at him. “You don’t, eh? Got a good war record, hasn’t he?”
“Done his spell up the front,” said Harris.
“Up front.” The R.S.M. turned and watched the prisoners humping rocks. Then he turned his attention on the padre who was watering a few miserable drooping flowers outside his chapel. “Up front,” he repeated. “Because he’s been up front does that make him a good Prison Officer?”
‘It might help,’ thought Harris. But he didn’t say it.
“Charlie,” said the R.S.M. “I know you’ve been up front and still have dreams of winning the V.C. I bet you’re good to your mother too, and I know you’re good to the prisoners, but you don’t have to carry useless Prison Officers.”
“He’s green, but he’s not useless, sir.”
The R.S.M. was still watching the padre. “He’ll drown his bloody weeds. Look at him killing them with kindness.”
Harris turned and watched the padre who was giving his flowers enough water to see them through until the rainy season, and he grinned. “He’s getting them drunk,” he said. “I can hear them singing Nellie Dean from here.”
“I’ll give Burton a fair crack of the whip then.” The R.SM. walked on and Harris kept pace with him. “What do you think of Williams?”
“Too soon to judge, isn’t it?”
“He’s dead keen. That’s what we need here.”
“Men with vocation, sir?” said Harris with a sly grin.
The R.S.M. stopped dead in his tracks. “Yes, Staff, and I’m not joking.” He glanced over Harris’s head and watched Stevens staggering over the top of the hill. He was faintly surprised. Stevens was the last man he had expected to give trouble. He beckoned to Williams. “Prisoner been giving trouble, Staff?”
“Yes, sir.”
The R.S.M. nodded. “Did the trip on the hill calm down Roberts?”
“No, sir.”
‘Then why isn’t he back on it again?”
“He will be, sir. Just letting him get his second wind.”
The R.S.M. watched Stevens tottering down the hill. “What about the others?”
�
�I can handle them, sir.”
“They’ve made it clear they don’t like discipline.”
“Give me a week, sir.”
“I will, Staff.”
The R.S.M. nodded dismissal and Williams about turned and marched back to the hill. The R.S.M. stayed on and watched Stevens as he turned and tottered towards the hill again and feebly pushed and climbed his way back up it. The R.S.M. looked away and glanced at Harris.
“Give him a free hand and let’s see what he can do.”
Harris nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He was watching Stevens and wondering what the crime was that had earned him a trip on the hill. Unless that skinny lad’s appearance was deceptive, he wouldn’t give anybody any trouble. Give Williams a free hand, eh? Ought to be very interesting. If he can give this dozy-looking lad stick, then he’ll have every prisoner in B Wing on the hill. He’ll have them living on it. Day and night service. Twenty-four hours round the clock. ‘Give him a free hand, eh? I think you’re asking for trouble, Bert.’
He stole a sidelong glance at the R.S.M. and was puzzled. He somehow hadn’t expected the R.S.M. to be impressed by Williams. ‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ he thought. The old man’s a good judge of character. To hell with it. I’m only in for the duration and when this lot’s over, I’m out quick as I can move and back home to the wife and kids. Meanwhile, this is a safe billet.’
He still missed the Infantry mob he had been with since the outbreak of war, but the choice had been either a base job in Cairo or prison service, and he couldn’t live in Cairo on Sergeant’s pay. ‘I’d finish up trying to fiddle the old woman out of her allowance and then wouldn’t she ruck.’ He grinned at the thought of trying to diddle his old woman out of her allowance. “See how Williams works out, sir,” he agreed.
Bartlett cut open his issue bandage with a small piece of razor blade and tore the bandage into shreds, then he placed the pieces into a small tin and picked up a flint attached to a piece of wood and struck sparks from it with the piece of razor blade and the sparks fell on to the bandage and he blew gently and the sparks caught fire and glowed in the tin. Bartlett nodded his head as if he was well satisfied and looked at McGrath and winked.
