The Hill

by Ray Rigby

  The negro prisoners jumped sullenly into the dirty water, splashed about and then began washing themselves. Bokumbo stood on the edge of the pool. Harris walked over to him. “Well, get in.”

  Bokumbo, still looking at the pool, shook his head.

  “Can’t you make up your mind, darkie?”

  Bokumbo’s voice shook with rage as he looked at the pool. “They damn well fouled the water.”

  Harris looked at the pool and saw the filth floating on the surface of the water. Then one negro prisoner and then another shouted that the pool was fouled up and they made for the bank shouting and shaking their fists towards B Wing.

  Harris nodded. “Get dressed.”

  Bokumbo dressed himself, his fingers shaking in fury as he fumbled with his buttons.

  *

  The Union Jack hung limply on the flag post and the prisoners marched beneath it. They marched from all directions and drilled on the parade ground. They moved easily, and their webbing was snow-white and their brasses gleamed in the sun, A. B, C and D Wings marching and counter-marching, obeying orders to the split second, as clean as new-bathed babies, sun-tanned and fit. From near the gates the R.S.M. watched them with little or no affection but with a great deal of pride. He watched them halt on the parade square and kneel down, on the order, and dust their black ammo boots with spotlessly white handkerchiefs, then stand up again ramrod stiff.

  For the next two, possibly three, hours they would stand stiffly at attention beneath the blazing sun, waiting for the Commandant to inspect them and their only reprieve would be a five-minute standing at ease every thirty minutes. They would screw up their eyes and shift them from the white buildings to the white sand, to the white sand hill and feel the sweat running down their bodies and soak through their shirts and dry out again, and swarms of flies would be attracted to them and swarm over them, and sup off them and fly away and dive on them again.

  They would squirm inwardly as the heat hit them but wouldn’t dare move, yet long to move, drill, double, even run over the hill. Anything but stand still under the blazing sun. Their muscles would twitch, their throats become parched but there would be no reprieve until after the Commandant’s inspection.

  The R.S.M. marched on to the parade ground. He glanced at his watch. “A Wing,” he shouted.

  The Staff Sergeant doubled to him and slammed to attention.

  “Fifty-eight prisoners, sir, all present and correct.”

  The R.S.M. nodded. The Staff about turned and doubled back to A Wing, slammed to attention, about turned and again faced in the direction of the R.S.M.

  “B Wing,” shouted Wilson.

  Harris doubled towards the R.S.M.

  *

  The Commandant combed his hair in front of the mirror, then placed the comb on the dressing-table and slipped into his drill jacket and buttoned it up and turned and looked at the nurse who lay half asleep in bed. He walked over to her and smiled in an absent-minded way and kissed her.

  She smiled as he tenderly pulled the sheet up to her chin and in a moment she had snuggled further down the bed and fallen asleep. Leaning over her to reach for his hat he got a whiff of perfume and smiled to himself. ‘It’s amazing the number of women who use that brand,’ he thought. ‘No bloody imagination.’

  He placed his hat on his head and gave her a mocking, limp salute. The only woman he had slept with more than once was Sybil, his wife, and he hated the sight of her. He knew how to get rid of this one. He placed some money on the bedside table and marched out of the room, smiling to himself.

  *

  McGrath took a sidelong glance at Stevens and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Laddie, your kit’s a blinding wonder. You’ll have the R.S.M. jealous.”

  Stevens managed a wan grin but his face was drawn and strained. He was dizzy with the heat. He thought that if he stood in the sun much longer his brains would boil. Every muscle in his body seemed to be twitching and aching and his eyes were bloodshot staring at the white building and the white sand.

  “Stand the prisoners at ease,” shouted the R.S.M.

  Stevens almost sobbed out loud with relief as the prisoners stamped their feet and then thankfully relaxed. A cloud of flies took to the air buzzing angrily then settled back on the prisoners again.

  “Standing at attention don’t ’arf crease you, don’t it,” said Bartlett as he spat out a fly that had crawled inside his mouth.

  Roberts watched a Warrant Officer 2nd Class and three Staff Sergeants marching up and down on the Parade Ground in front of the R.S.M., canes held firmly under their arms. They marched thirty yards, about turned and marched back again. For more than two hours they had been marching up and down in front of the R.S.M.

  ‘We’re not the only ones doing time,” said Roberts. “All the screws are doing time. All of them.”

  “Not the Commandant,” said Bartlett.

  “Is he a regular Prison Officer?” enquired Roberts, keeping his voice down and hardly moving his lips.

  “Him,” scoffed Bartlett. “Commandant of a nick I was in two years ago. He ain’t a regular screw.”

  “What’s his trade then?”

  “Sex maniac, so they say,” said Bartlett.

  Harris walked along the line of prisoners.

  “No talking,” he said. “I can hear Stalin supping his tea in Moscow so I can hear you bloody lot, so shut it up.”

  “Staff,” said Bartlett, “can you hear King George tongue-lashing his old lady in Buckingham Palace?”

  “Watch your tongue, Bartlett. Another word out of you — ”

  Bartlett waited until Harris was a safe distance away, then said, “Like to hear your missus’s tongue lashing you, Roberts?” Roberts smiled and nodded his head. ‘Wouldn’t I just,’ he thought, ‘wouldn’t I just. She could tongue-lash me for twenty-four hours non-stop round the clock and I’d love it. No, I wouldn’t. I never could stand nagging. Still, the way I feel now I wouldn’t protest. Be like music. How much longer are they going to keep us on parade? God, these damned flies. The way they dig their heels in they must be fitted with spurs. As if we haven’t got enough to suffer.’

  “Parade. Parade — shun!”

  The prisoners slumped to attention again, and the flies took wing and hovered over them like a black cloud then swarmed back and annoyed them again.

  The Commandant marched on to the Parade Ground and stood at attention beneath the flag post. The R.S.M. marched over to him and saluted.

  “Prisoners all present and ready to be inspected, sir.”

  The Commandant returned the R.S.M.’s salute and marched briskly towards A Wing. The Staff in charge of A Wing gave the command. “Front rank — three paces forward march. Rear rank — three paces backward. March.”

  The prisoners’ boots stirred up the sand and dust.

  The Commandant with the R.S.M. walked briskly down the front rank of A Wing, glancing sideways at the prisoners. The Staff in charge tagged along behind them. The Commandant only paused twice to snap out “Take his name,” and as he marched on the Staff shouted to the prisoners, “Three paces forward march. Still. Stand still.”

  The Commandant and the R.S.M. followed by Harris walked quickly down the front rank of B Wing. As he drew almost level with Stevens he jerked his cane from beneath his arm and whacked it against Stevens’s ammo pouches. “Whitewash,” he snapped and hurried on. A small cloud of whitewash hovered for a few moments above Stevens’s head and vanished.

  “Whitewash,” shouted the R.S.M.

  “Whitewash,” yelled Harris. “Prisoner three paces forward march.”

  Stevens, looking frightened out of his wits, marched out of line.

  “Whitewash Roberts,” said McGrath.

  Harris stared fixedly at Stevens as he faced him, his cane gripped firmly in his hands behind his back.

  “What did you clean your kit with, lad?”

  “Whi-whitewash, Staff.”

  Harris shook his head sadly. “Ask you again.
What did you clean your kit with, lad?”

  “I’ve told you, Staff. Whitewash,” gulped Stevens.

  Harris whacked his cane against Stevens’s ammo pouches and another small cloud of whitewash went skywards.

  “Sand,” he yelled. “Sand and water and plenty of rub-a-dub-dub. All the prisoners use sand and water to clean their kit. Now, lad. Tell me, what did you clean your kit with?”

  “Staff,” pleaded Stevens. “I’ve confessed. I’ve told you. Whitewash.”

  Harris shook his head in wonder at Stevens’s honesty. “Lad, the Commandant knows you used whitewash. The R.S.M. knows. I know. Every bloody prisoner with eyes in his head knows, but you don’t have to be a dozy lad and own up to it. Double.”

  Harris doubled Stevens into Cell 8 and halted him.

  “All right. Show me.”

  Stevens gulped again. “Staff, honest — I — ”

  “Show me, lad.”

  Stevens pointed a trembling finger to a large black mark on the wall. Harris stared at the black mark.

  “Gawd,” he groaned, “another ten minutes and you’d have rubbed your way clean through the wall.”

  “Staff — I was ... Staff, only trying to ... ” Stevens in his panic hardly knew what he was saying.

  “You maniac,” shouted Harris, “So you’d steal Government property, would you?”

  “Staff — I — I — Staff, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “Lad, if you’d pinched the crown jewels the R.S.M. might have forgiven you. If you’d given him his share. But pinching Government whitewash and defacement of crown property, that’s second on the list of heinous crimes, next to treason.”

  “I’m going bonkers, Staff. Bonkers.”

  “Double out.”

  “Bonkers,” shouted Stevens as he doubled out of the cell.

  *

  “Front rank three paces backward, march. Rear rank three-paces forward, march,” shouted Williams.

  “Bet Harris is giving the lad stick. You’re too clever, Roberts. That’s your trouble,” said McGrath.

  Roberts looked worried.

  “Stevens’s kit was dirty,” said Bokumbo out of the corner of his mouth, “so he’d have got stick anyway.”

  “He’s still too clever, Jacko. Too damn clever by half.”

  “Yeah,” said Bartlett, “see that cloud of bleeding whitewash. Nearly as good as a snow-storm. See the Commandant’s face?”

  “Aye,” said McGrath, “and did you see Williams’s?”

  “Yeah. Thought ’e was gonna give birth for a minute — Mack.”

  Williams walked along the front rank and looked at Roberts, then Bartlett, McGrath and Bokumbo.

  “Little chatterboxes, ain’t you. I’ll see you after inspection parade.” He prodded Bartlett in the stomach with his cane. “Keep it in. Chest out.” He walked on down the line of prisoners.

  *

  Stevens made the last brush stroke on the wall and looked at Harris.

  “Lovely, lad. Look as good as new When it dries out,” said Harris.

  Stevens dropped the whitewash brush into the bucket and wiped his hands on his handkerchief and looked gratefully at Harris.

  “Broken the king’s heart, lad, if the R.S.M. phoned him and told him you’d been defacing his walls.”

  Stevens managed a small grin. “Would it, Staff?”

  “Course it would. He’s as proud as any other landlord.”

  Harris’s friendly, easy manner made Stevens reckless. “Staff, do you think he’s proud of this place?”

  Harris’s mood changed. “Careful.”

  Stevens panicked. “I ... I didn’t mean ... ”

  “I know you’re bonkers and you’re proving it trying to give me lip.”

  “Staff — honest I — ”

  Stevens screwed up his face in agony as he tried to beat a stammer brought on by his fear of offending Harris.

  Harris looked at Stevens’s contorted mouth and staring, frightened eyes and suddenly felt sorry for him, but he still spoke sharply. “The R.S.M.’s proud of this place, lad, and he’s the one who counts. So if you don’t like it here then get out and get up front.”

  Stevens was still having trouble with his speech. He banged his hand against his leg and managed to choke out, “Y-y-yes, Staff.”

  Harris said gently, “You shouldn’t be here, lad. You shouldn’t even be in the army.”

  Stevens eagerly nodded his head in agreement, indifferent to the fact that Harris’s kindly remark was more an insult than a compliment. All he knew was that he must avoid trouble at all cost. He mustn’t give offence to anyone. He must try and steer a safe course. He must show that he was eager to obey orders and do exactly as he was told. He smiled and kept nodding his head as he pleaded for understanding and forgiveness.

  Harris, watching him, felt ashamed for the lad. No man should be as wet and spiritless as this one. He suddenly thought that he had the answer and said, “We had a nancy in here a few weeks back — ”

  Stevens’s eyes filled with tears. He was so hurt and angry by this remark that he almost burst into tears. “I’m not a nancy. You’ve no right to call me that.”

  Then what the hell are you,’ wondered Harris. “I know you’re not, lad,” he said sternly. “Why don’t you listen. That nancy had a way with her. She sang and laughed all day. Put her on punishment drills and she’d go into a bloody dance routine better than them belly dancers in the cabarets.” He glanced along the corridor, then lit a cigarette and flicked it to Stevens.

  Stevens bent down and picked it up and eagerly nodded his thanks, humbly grateful for the unexpected kindness.

  “I’ll watch out.” Harris stationed himself so that he had a good view of the corridor. “She wasn’t any stronger than you — ” he glanced quickly at Stevens’s thin shoulders and arms, “ — but she knew how to survive, and you’d better learn that quick. Learn how to survive, lad.”

  The cigarette made Stevens feel giddy and light-headed and calmed his nerves. Again he nodded his head gratefully.

  Harris glanced along the corridor again. “Stevens, I’ve seen strong men pack it in and skinny little fellas with guts beat it. You’ll have to find a sense of humour and guts, or God help you.”

  *

  The Commandant watched the prisoners marching and counter-marching and was well pleased. If anyone decides on a snap inspection here, he thought, there would be little or nothing that they could fault. Any brass hat could walk through the gates any day he liked and we’d be ready for him. He turned to R.S.M. Wilson and smiled.

  “Very smart turn-out, Sergeant-Major.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Carry on.”

  “Sir.”

  The R.S.M. threw up a salute and the Commandant returned it and marched away. The R.S.M. concentrated for a few more moments on the prisoners’ precision drilling, then shouted:

  “Staff Williams.”

  “Sir.”

  “Over here.”

  “Staff, take over,” said Williams and doubled over to the R.S.M.

  The R.S.M. turned his attention from the prisoners to Williams. “Seems to have smartened up the prisoners from Cell 8, Staff, in double quick time.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But what about Stevens, eh? Missed that old whitewash trick, didn’t you.”

  Williams was ready for the question and didn’t attempt to make any excuses. “Yes, sir, I missed that.”

  The R.S.M. nodded his head, pleased with Williams’s frankness. “I bet you didn’t think Stevens would try to pull that one, eh?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  “And he wouldn’t, Staff, he’s too wet. Somebody put him up to it.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Williams. “That’s about the strength of it.”

  “Who do you think it was then, eh?”

  “Well, Bartlett knows the ropes.”

  “Bartlett?” The R.S.M. scratched his chin. “No. I can’t see him helpi
ng anybody.”

  “No. But I can see him trying to drop somebody in it.”

  They looked at each other in complete misunderstanding. Two experts who knew every dodge and trick in the trade. The whitewash episode was a matter of supreme importance to them and wasn’t to be easily dismissed. The real culprit must be found and punished. The R.S.M. weighed up the pros and cons.

  “You’ve got a point there, Staff. Find out who put Stevens up to it.”

  “Yes, sir, and if the culprit’s slow at owning up I’ll take them all out and be sure of getting the right man.”

  The R.S.M. nodded his head and switched on his benign smile. “That’s right, Staff.”

  “The Commandant will want to see Stevens, sir.”

  The R.S.M. shook his head. “I’ve told you, Staff, never take up trivial matters with the Commandant.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “He’s a gentleman, Staff,” said the R.S.M., with a grim smile. “So God made him different from you and me.”

  “Did he, sir.” Williams waited, fully prepared to have a little laugh at the R.S.M.’s jokes.

  “Yes,” said the R.S.M. looking into the distance then cocking a humorous eye at Williams, “he thinks manual labour’s a Spaniard.” The jokes he enjoyed best were old chestnuts. “Mind you, I wouldn’t call him an idle man.”

  “You wouldn’t, sir?” said Williams, playing up gallantly. His early morning hangover had passed and left him half drunk and somewhat light-headed. “He looks idle to me.”

  The R.S.M. shook his head and the humorous look came to life again in his eyes. “No. He’s a night-shift worker, Staff.”

  Williams was well ahead of him by now, so he allowed his face to crack into an understanding grin. “So that’s why he’s saving his strength during the daytime, sir.”

  The R.S.M. prodded Williams gently in the stomach with his cane and winked and nodded his head and they both turned and watched the prisoners drilling.

  *

  Stevens sat on the floor. Beside him stood a bucket of water and a tin of sand and the scrubbing his equipment and praying that he would have the job completed before Williams returned.