The Hill (14 page)

“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 helping 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.

Harris stood in the cell doorway and watched Burton walking towards him. “Thought you were on the gate, Staff.”

Burton stopped and stared at Stevens. “Taken me off it.”

“Oh, has he?”

“Suppose he thought I’d make a run for it,” said Burton bitterly.

Harris grinned. “The workings of the R.S.M.’s mind are a bloody mystery to me.”

“You had a talk to him, didn’t you?”

Harris nodded his head.

“Didn’t do any good. Still, thanks all the same.”

“He could post you.”

“But he won’t.”

“Suppose not. Well, soldier on then.”

“Call this soldiering?” Burton sniffed the air. “Who’s been smoking?”

“Me. You back on Cell 8?”

“No. I wouldn’t take it on even if it was offered.”

“Why?”

“The nigger,” said Burton.

“Go on,” laughed Harris, “he’s not a Yank.”

“He’s a nigger,” said Burton, “and I’d bloody take it out on him.”

“Suppose so,” said Harris. “It’s only human nature.”

*

McGrath held back on the hill and waited until Roberts caught up with him, then ran with Roberts along the crown of the hill and down it. “Whitewash,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for your bright ideas we wouldn’a be on this hill. Stevens would have been doing a solo but we wouldn’a be on the hill, you clever bloody article.”

They ran towards Williams and about turned and ran back towards the hill and Roberts watched Stevens staggering down the hill and said nothing.

“Save your breath, McGrath,” shouted Williams after them, “you’re going to need it.”

McGrath about turned and ran back to Williams and marked time in front of him. “Permission to speak, Staff.”

“You’re doing punishment. About turn. Double.”

McGrath continued marking time in front of Williams with a stubborn expression on his face. “Permission to speak, Staff,” he repeated.

“All right. Sit it out.”

“If you’ve already dug a grave for me in the prison grounds, Staff, I’ll bloody see you in it before me.”

Williams smiled. “I don’t want your bones, I want your guts. About turn. Double.”

“The man and woman who made you, Staff, could have been better occupied,” said McGrath, and smartly about turned and ran up the hill and marked time and waited for Roberts. As Roberts climbed the hill and ran along the top McGrath joined him. “Roberts.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve just told Williams his fortune so you can have the next run on me.”

“Thanks,” said Roberts.