by Ray Rigby
“Well ’ave a smoke tonight.”
“You may be a dirty thief, Bartlett, but you’ve got the right spirit.”
“Honest, you’re ’ard going. Mack. ’Ere, what’s the betting ’Arris fiddles me a job in the Staff Quarters?”
McGrath looked disgusted. “They only give those jobs to narks and creepers.”
“Give over. You ’eard ’Arris. I’m a flannel expert. You want fags and a cushy time. Stop knocking me.”
Bartlett carefully placed the cigarettes into the empty bandage pack and sewed it up.
“If Williams finds that lot he’ll put the lot of us over the hill.”
“Aw, Mack. They don’t turn yer cells over unless you give them trouble.” Bartlett threw a vicious glance at Roberts. “Unless you give them bleeding trouble, Roberts.”
“Why keep picking on Roberts?” said Bokumbo.
“You stepped out of line yourself, darkie.”
“Jacko’s my name.”
“O.K. Jacko.” Bartlett carefully hid the cigarettes in his kitbag.
“I stood up for my rights, man. That’s all,” said Bokumbo.
Roberts couldn’t help smiling. “The R.S.M. doesn’t think you’ve got any rights inside here, Jacko.”
“Then he’d better think again.” Bokumbo yawned and stretched, then stood up and lounged over to the window and looked out and saw Stevens in the distance, stumbling on the hill, then saw him fall and roll down the hill out of sight. Stevens had stuck it out on the hill longer than he had expected. He turned away from the window. If Williams got Stevens back on his feet again he didn’t want to see it.
“A free man’s got rights,” said McGrath. “But you forego your rights when you land up inside here.”
“We forego our pay, our allowances, and our freedom,” said Roberts. “But we’re not a complete write-off.”
“We’ve no bloody rights inside here,” said McGrath. “You try remembering that before you start belly-aching again.”
“So they can do what they like with us, can they?”
“Aye. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“Pity we’re fighting the Germans,” said Bartlett as he looked at Roberts. “I’d sooner ’ave a go at you.”
“He’s excused action,” said McGrath. “That right, Roberts. You’re excused action?”
Roberts ignored him.
“Still you’ve seen some.” McGrath stared steadily at Roberts. “He’s been a bonnie lad in his day. What happened last time you saw action?”
Roberts stared back at McGrath. “Why are you so interested?”
Bokumbo walked across the cell and said as he passed McGrath. “Pack it in, Mack. It’s none of your damn business.” He sat down and decided not to get involved in the argument.
“You pulled out, didn’t you.” McGrath didn’t take his eyes off Roberts for a moment.
Roberts’s head sank deep on his chest and he appeared to be deep in thought.
“Did anybody else run out of the line, Roberts, or only you?”
Roberts glanced up again and looked at McGrath but still said nothing.
“None too talkative, is he?” McGrath was still looking at Roberts. “Did your mob take a bashing then? The boys that went in with you, any of them still alive?” Roberts turned his head away. McGrath repeated the question. “Any of them still alive, Roberts?”
Roberts looked straight at McGrath. “I am.”
McGrath dived forward. Roberts saw him coming, but too late. He was half-way on his feet when McGrath slammed him hard in the face with his fist and Roberts fell backwards and skidded across the floor and finished up against the wall. He rolled over and lay for a moment with his face pressed against the cool tiles. Then, too dazed to think clearly, he got to his feet just in time to be slammed hard in the face again. This blow spun him round and he hit the wall with a sickening thump and the room tipped as his legs gave way and he slipped down the wall into a sitting position, then he pushed on the floor with his hands and managed to get to his knees, then his legs gave way and he fell forward on to his face and lay on the floor too dazed to move. It was a good ten seconds before his brain cleared a little and he looked up and saw McGrath standing over him. ‘I was slow that time,’ he thought. ‘I was practically asking for it. Stay where you are a bit longer. If you get up now he’ll murder you.’
“Get up,” said McGrath.
“Mac,” said Bokumbo. “Chuck it in. He’s had enough.”
“On your feet,” said McGrath stepping back a few paces. “I’ll give you room.”
Roberts kneeled on the floor and nodded to McGrath. His head was much clearer now, but his knees had started trembling again. He shook his head and wiped his arm over his bloody mouth. ‘Get it over with. I can’t lay on the deck all day.’ He pushed himself upright and covered up as he saw McGrath, his arms ready to sling punches, coming towards him. ‘Try and take it on your arms and keep moving,’ he thought. His brain was perfectly clear by now, but his legs were still weak. ‘If I can keep out of his way until my legs support me.’ Bokumbo’s broad back blocked out McGrath and he was pinned against the wall as McGrath rushed Bokumbo backwards.
“That’s all for now,” shouted Bokumbo as he held McGrath off.
“Out of my way.” McGrath tried to get past Bokumbo.
“I said that’s enough.” Bokumbo exerted all his strength and pushed McGrath backwards then moved after him, his arms held out, still blocking McGrath’s way to Roberts. “There’ll be no more fighting. Ain’t we in enough trouble? You chuck it in, Mac.”
McGrath calmed down a little. “O.K.,” he said. “Williams is gunning for Roberts. Maybe I’ll just leave it to him.” He looked past Bokumbo at Roberts. “I can’t wait to see him boil you on that hill.”
“When you’ve lived on it maybe you’ll feel different,” said Bokumbo, then turned to Roberts. “You sit down and let’s have no more trouble.”
Roberts dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief then moved to the other end of the cell away from McGrath.
“I can’t wait to see it,” jeered McGrath.
“This is my second time over the wall,” said Bokumbo. “Last time I saw two boys doubled over the hill till they couldn’t stand then the Staff said to the prisoners, ‘Bury those boys in the sand.’ ”
“I can’t wait to see it happen to you, Roberts,” shouted McGrath.
“So the boys buried them in the sand. You hear me. They buried them.”
Bokumbo walked away with Roberts. Many times he had remembered that day. The hill and the hot sun and the prisoners working with him, shovelling sand on the hill and building it for the next batch of unlucky prisoners who would have to run over it. He remembered looking towards the gates as two new prisoners doubled in and the prisoners with him grinned at one another but carried on working. Bokumbo with easy, powerful movements shovelled sand on the hill and watched out of the corner of his eye the two new prisoners being doubled and sweated down. They were only boys. No more than eighteen or nineteen years old and he felt sorry for them. He noted that they were taking their first taste of punishment well, running easily and obeying the orders. The Staff finally shouted at them to halt and inspected their kits and then, pointing with his stick, yelled, “Double over to A Wing.”
One of the youngsters gave the Staff a cheeky grin. “O.K. Titch,” and the Staff looked at the boy. He was small for a screw right enough. Five feet seven inches tall. No more, but broad shouldered, deep chested and powerfully built. He stood nodding his head as he looked at the two boys, then he shouted “To the Hill. Double.”
Bokumbo watched the two grinning boys doubling towards him and watched them run up it and over it and back and over it again, and he watched the cheeky smile fade from their lips as he moved around the hill shovelling away at the sand. He knew the hill and he knew what it was doing to the boys as he watched them slow down until finally they stumbled and fell. He listened in disbelief as the Staff gave the order and watc
hed the prisoners who were working with him, climb the hill and look down at the two bays who lay on their backs with their mouths wide open gasping for air and he watched the prisoners shovel sand over the boys until they were completely buried and when they had finished burying them the prisoners waited and no one moved.
Bokumbo stood looking at the mounds of sand and held his breath. No movement. Were the boys still breathing? Did the bastard of a screw mean to kill them? How long would he keep them buried? He was suddenly aware that he was gripping his shovel tightly and firmly in his hands and he had an almost irresistible impulse to smash the Staff’s head in with the blade of the shovel.
But he didn’t move. His eyes were riveted on the mounds of sand. Why didn’t they move, for Chrisake? Why didn’t they get out? How much longer is the screw going to keep them buried? Then, finally, the Staff gave the order to dig them out. The prisoners threw down their shovels and Bokumbo ran quickly up the hill and clawed at the sand with his bare hands and uncovered a boy’s face, and lifted him gently up. The boy’s mouth was still open and choked with sand and he was unconscious. Bokumbo held the boy upside down and sand fell out of his mouth and he groaned. Then four prisoners carried the boys away and on the order Bokumbo picked up his shovel and carried on working on the hill.
Bokumbo had seen many worse things in his time. Men dying, screaming as they held their guts in their hands. Men killed in battle. But this day had impressed itself on his mind because the prisoners had obeyed the Staff’s orders. Bokumbo had learned that day that you can make men do anything, and that day Bokumbo lost something that he highly prized: his pride and his courage. He had not buried the boys in the sand, but he hadn’t had the guts to try and stop it happening.
“For you I’d do it. For you, Roberts,” shouted McGrath.
Roberts still had a picture in his mind of the two soldiers being buried on the hill. In a sudden fury he shouted “For me? For anybody if you were ordered. You’re a real thick-nutted soldier, McGrath, you’d shoot up the kids in the next street.”
“This time I’ll — ” McGrath tried to get past Bokumbo again.
“Let him go,” shouted Roberts.
He felt stronger now. He rammed his shoulder into Bokumbo to get him out of the way and was aiming a blow at McGrath when a crashing noise from the cell gate stopped them all in their tracks. They turned and saw Williams smashing his heavy bunch of keys against the bars on the door.
Williams opened the door then gestured and Stevens tottered into the cell. He was wet with sweat and his eyes were dazed. Williams pushed him and he fell down. Roberts looked at Stevens lying on his back, his mouth open gasping for air. He poured water into a tin mug and kneeling down by Stevens, he gently lifted him and gave him a drink. Stevens drank the water greedily and looked at Roberts, his eyes pleading for another cup, but Roberts shook his head and lowered him down on to the floor again.
Williams turned to Bokumbo. “You’re a liar. You didn’t see nobody buried on the hill.”
Bokumbo shrugged and turned his back on him. “It didn’t happen to me, Staff.”
“You dreamed it.”
Bokumbo turned and looked at Williams. “More like a damn nightmare, Staff,” he said quietly.
“Nightmare, eh? Change for you to have healthy thoughts you dirty bloody postcard maniac.” Williams turned to Roberts. “You. Who knocked you about?”
“I walked into the wall, Staff.”
“Did you? Well, if you keep bumping into walls let me know who’s pushing you. I’ll not stand for any punch-up experts. Do you hear me, McGrath?”
“Aye. I heard you, Staff.”
“Right, all of you get into your kits.”
The prisoners buckled on their webbing and big packs and jumped up and down as they tried to settle the packs high up on their backs.
Williams looked at Stevens who was still lying flat on his back, breathing through his open mouth. “Get him up.”
Roberts looked at Williams. “Are you joking. He’s in no fit state for another helping.”
“Bartlett. Get him up.”
“Yes, Staff.” Bartlett pulled Stevens to his feet and tightened his straps and all the time Stevens, bent slightly forward, moaned, “No, no, please no ... ”
Williams grinned at Bokumbo. “If you find any buried soldiers on the hill, we’ll hold a wake. Outside, all of you.”
The prisoners doubled into the corridor and lined up and Williams inspected them.
“I’ve got a week to straighten you lot out. A week, left turn. Double.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A squad of prisoners were doing maintenance work on the hill. Throwing sand on it, smoothing down the sides with their shovels around the base and making a great show of working hard on another useless task. They glanced towards B Wing when they heard Williams shouting, then all together they put their heads down and their backs into it and grunted as they pretended to work even harder.
The prisoners from Cell 8 doubled towards the hill. Stevens ran with his eyes half closed. The hill shimmered in the heat and he was dizzy and felt ill and could hardly bear to look at it and he knew that he could not run over it again but somehow he managed to keep pace with the other prisoners. Lightheaded and heavy-footed he forced himself to run. Now he was on the hill, slipping and clawing his way to the top but no longer able to keep pace with the other prisoners. The squad of prisoners moved round the base of the hill as they threw sand on to it, working hard now that Williams was watching them.
The prisoners from Cell 8 ran up the hill, along the crown and down it. Williams watched Stevens as he moved along the crown of the hill, mouth open, eyes still half closed, and he knew that Stevens wouldn’t last long. He shouted to the prisoners nearest to him.
“You, you and you. Buckets of water, double.”
The prisoners doubled away as Williams detailed another half-dozen prisoners to go with them, and they collected buckets and filled them with water from a nearby tap and jog-trotted back to the hill, slopping water on the way, and they watched expectantly.
Harris stopped to look at the prisoners trotting towards the hill with the buckets of water. He put his hands on his hips and watched Bokumbo and McGrath running neck and neck along the crown of the hill followed by Roberts then Bartlett. All four ran down the hill and a good twenty yards away from it then about turned and ran towards it and up it and along the crown and down it again. Then Stevens appeared on the crown of the hill. He was crying. He took a few faltering steps and collapsed and fell half way down the hill, then waved his arms and legs feebly and lay still.
Harris watched a prisoner climb the hill and throw a bucket of water over Stevens, and Stevens half sat up, gasped, tried to get to his feet, then rolled down the hill and lay still, his face in the sand, his arms extended.
“Jack and Jill went up the hill,” Harris heard himself saying aloud, then he swore and turned and walked away very fast.
R.S.M. Wilson looked up and frowned as the door burst open and Harris halted facing him across his desk.
“Don’t bloody well knock,” he said.
Harris leaned both hands on the desk. “Williams has got all the mob from Cell 8 on the hill.” Then he remembered and stood to attention facing the R.S.M.
Wilson leaned back in his chair. “Well?”
“Including the lad he had on it a while back.”
“Has he?”
“I don’t think the lad’s up to it, sir,” said Harris, calming down a little.
Wilson nodded and pushed back his chair and stood up, then beckoned to Harris as he opened the door leading to the Commandant’s office. He opened the filing cabinet and thumbed through it then took out a dossier and opened it and carefully read it. He said as he glanced at Harris, “Stevens is A.1. Fit for punishment and all duties.”
“He don’t look that way right now, sir.”
“It’s here in black and white.” Wilson tapped the dossier with his knuckles then replaced it in the fi
ling cabinet and closed it. “And the M.O. passed him fit,” he added as he walked back into his office and seated himself at his desk.
“Thought it was my duty to report it, sir.”
Wilson smiled. “Think I’m losing my touch, Staff?”
“I didn’t say that, sir.”
Wilson moved to the window and looked towards the hill. “You never seen a prisoner flaked out on the hill before, Charlie?”
“I’ve seen a few,” said Harris, “but this fella — Stevens.” He shook his head.
“What about him?”
“Well, if he’s fit — ” Harris shrugged.
“Do you think I’d let anyone run a sick man over that hill?”
“No, sir. Thought I ought to check, that’s all.”
Wilson was still looking at the hill.
“The nigger and the flying Scotsman are trying to prove something.” He turned and smiled at Harris. “That hill can bring out the best in a man. It’s a great invention, Charlie, and never you forget it.”
“Are you taking credit, sir? I thought God invented the hill.”
Wilson laughed as he turned and looked at Harris.
“I’ll decide if the Staff’s giving them too much stick. That understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Get back to your prisoners.”
Harris nodded and opened the door.
“And smarten them up a bit, Charlie. Getting idle, your men are. Next thing you’ll be having them in the mess for a Saturday night piss up.”
Harris’s face cracked into a grin. “Give you my word, Bert. That’s one thing I’ll never do.”
Wilson sat at his desk. “Charlie, you’ve got an easy way with you, but don’t come the old soldier with me. Now get out or I’ll have you doubling with your mates.”
Harris laughed. “Not over that hill. Even you wouldn’t get me doubling on the hill.”
Still laughing he closed the door behind him.
Wilson smiled to himself, then picked up Roberts’s case papers and read his Army history and his crimes again.
*
Bartlett lay on his back and a prisoner threw a bucket of cold water over him. Bartlett yelled and gasped and staggered to his feet and half ran up the hill, then slipped and slid down it again. Another grinning prisoner threw a bucket of water over him and Bartlett rolled over, swearing horribly, but made no attempt to stand.
