The Hill

by Ray Rigby

  The R.S.M. released Roberts. “This is Roberts, sir.”

  “Oh.” Markham nodded. “Roberts, eh.”

  “He reckons he’s at Butlin’s Holiday Camp.”

  “Discipline’s your department, Sergeant-Major. I’m only concerned with the men’s health, but do we have to have all this brawling?”

  “Prisoner seems to be allergic to doubling, sir.”

  “I see.” Markham looked at Roberts. “Bad feet have you?”

  “No, sir. They can move when I tell them to.”

  “I like straight answers to straight questions. It won’t take me long to find out if you’re fit or not.”

  Roberts looked at Markham with contempt. “I’ve witnessed that, sir. You must be a bloody marvel with the undertakers’ tape.”

  Markham looked from Roberts to the R.S.M. “I’m also pretty good at detecting line dodgers,” he said.

  “Pity you ain’t expert at finding out if us poor sods are fit enough for the bloody nonsense we’re expected to stand for here,” said Roberts.

  Markham nodded to the door. “Go inside.”

  Roberts walked into the M.O.’s room. “I’ll handle this, Sergeant-Major.” He nodded to the R.S.M. and followed Roberts into the room and closed the door.

  The R.S.M. stood rocking on his heels looking thoughtful. Williams marched over to him and slammed to attention but for a good thirty seconds the R.S.M. ignored him, then he looked directly at Williams.

  “The hill, sir?” enquired Williams.

  The R.S.M. slowly nodded his head as he looked at the hill. “I want him broken, Staff.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Markham looked at Roberts standing at attention in front of him. “Shirt off,” he snapped and waited while Roberts, taking his time, pulled his shirt over his head, folded it neatly, placed it on a chair and then stood to attention again. “Vest off,” said Markham, “I shouldn’t have to tell you.” Roberts stripped to the waist and Markham gave him a reasonably thorough medical examination then nodded, “You’re in good shape. Have you ever had any serious illnesses?”

  “Do you mean recently, sir?”

  “Any time.”

  Roberts pretended to give this a great deal of thought. “Smokers’ cough,” he said finally.

  “We’ve got a cure for that here,” said Markham with a sour grin. “Anything else?”

  “I’m allergic to sadists,” said Roberts.

  Markham looked thoughtfully at Roberts, then lit a cigarette and sat down. “Ever had V.D.?”

  “What?” said Roberts and laughed.

  “Have you or not?”

  “I wouldn’t brag about it if I had.”

  “Roberts. This is one place to answer a simple question with a straight answer. Try learning that golden rule. Now, drop your trousers.”

  Roberts did so and Markham examined him. “Turn around ... Right. Get dressed.”

  Roberts slipped into his vest then pulled his shirt over his head. “So I’m fit, sir?”.

  “Yes. A.1.”

  “Where are you sending me? To a stud farm?”

  Markham lost his temper. “I’ll give you a week, Roberts. One week to curb that tongue of yours. Now, get out!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Roberts and finished dressing, opened the door and walked into the bright sunshine. He screwed up his eyes then strolled over to the line of prisoners and joined them, then stood smartly to attention.

  The R.S.M. looked at Roberts with seeming disinterest then turned to Williams. “Staff, suggest you take the prisoners on a short excursion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To the hill, Staff. Suggest you take them to the hill.”

  “Yes,” said Williams with a smile.

  “Let them walk round it, Staff. Inspect it at their leisure. Then put them up and down it ... say half a dozen times ... no more. Just a sample run. But not Roberts, Staff.”

  “Not Roberts, sir?”

  “I’ll send one of my Staff to you. He can take the prisoners to the cells. But not Roberts, Staff.”

  “Ah — not Roberts, sir.” Williams nodded.

  “No. Keep him on the hill. Give him half an hour. That’s plenty for a start.”

  “Yes, sir,” grinned Williams.

  The R.S.M. nodded, turned and marched away. Williams faced the line of prisoners and gave the order, “Left turn. Double.”

  The line of prisoners doubled away with Roberts leading them and McGrath close behind him. McGrath spoke to Roberts but kept his voice down. “You’re a clever bag of tricks you are, Roberts. No inside the glass-house half an hour and you’ve used your bloody influence and got us a ride on the hill. Aye, you’re a bonnie laddie. I bet there’s one Saturday night booze-up your father’s always regretted. Roberts, are you listening to me? If this ride on the hill leaves any marks on me, I’ll leave a bloody few on you.”

  “No talking,” said Williams.

  “Just thinking out loud, Staff,” said McGrath.

  “Save it till you’re in your cell.”

  “Aye, Staff, you’ve got something there.”

  “But I don’t want the walls defaced with bloodstains, McGrath.”

  “You have my word, Staff,” grinned McGrath. “I’m a great respecter of Government property.”

  “Now shut your big trap,” said Williams.

  “Aye, Staff. Is that the hill or bloody Mount Everest?”

  “I said shut up,” said Williams. “This is my Cook’s Tour.”

  The line of prisoners approached the hill and Williams, grinning, gestured towards it. “This is the north face, gentlemen.” He glanced sideways at Stevens. “I mean, Ladies and Gentlemen. On a clear day you can see Mother India from the north face. China from the south face. Timbuktu from the east, and right into your bedroom and a good view of your Missus having it off with a Yank from the west.”

  “It’s magic,” marvelled McGrath.

  “Still think there’s snow on the top, Roberts?” enquired Williams.

  “No, Staff. Damn funny hill, though. Nothing seems to grow on it.”

  “It’s full of surprises,” said Williams as they doubled round the hill. “The only thing that’s been known to grow on this hill, Roberts, is soldiers. They grow weary. Right!” he yelled, “double up it.”

  Bokumbo kicked his legs into action and surged past the other four prisoners and was the first on the hill. He ran with his body bent slightly forward and his boots sank into the sand and encountered the rocks beneath the sand. He grinned to himself and thought, six trips up and down, eh? Easy man, I can do six. I could do sixty. This damn hill won’t beat me.

  McGrath shouldered Roberts out of the way and went after Bokumbo. If any man’s to be first over this hill, he thought, it’s me, not a Nigger. He pushed and clawed his way up the hill and on the crown of the hill he drew level with Bokumbo, and shoulder to shoulder they ran down the hill together, boots dragging in the soft sand.

  Leaning slightly backwards to maintain balance Roberts pulled himself up and spat out sand and glared after McGrath’s retreating back. Bartlett passed him with Stevens. Neither of them, judging by their expressions, had much stomach for the hill. Williams stationed himself twenty yards from the hill and where he stood he had a good view of the prisoners as they went up and down it. Bokumbo and McGrath were steadily drawing away from the other prisoners and Williams smiled to himself.

  Staff Burton marched over, nodded to Williams and then watched the prisoners doubling over the hill with interest.

  “The R.S.M. send you over, Staff?” enquired Williams.

  “That’s right, Staff.”

  “There’s four for the cells when they’re ready. I’m keeping one on the hill.”

  “When do I get them?” enquired Burton.

  “Soon as they’re ready,” said Williams.

  “You’re new, Staff.” Burton glanced down at Williams’s white knees.

  “New here, Staff,” said Williams.

  “Yeah.”
Burton nodded his head. “I can think of better places than here.”

  “Why don’t you tell it to the R.S.M. then?”

  Burton glanced at Williams again. “It’s been in my mind.” He moved a pace or two away from Williams and watched Stevens stumbling down the hill. “There’s one feller who’s not built to last,” he said.

  “Have to build them up then, won’t we, Staff,” said Williams.

  “Yeah. They get porridge for breakfast. Maybe that’ll do it.” Burton turned to grin at Williams.

  “Time’s up for them, Staff. Take them away,” said Williams.

  Burton looked at Williams, then walked towards the hill shouting orders. The four prisoners fell into line and Burton doubled them away. Roberts about turned again and ran towards the hill and up and over the hill, taking it as easy as he could. He knew that the next half hour would drag and that he would have to save his strength.

  “Double,” yelled Williams. “Keep them feet moving.”

  Roberts grinned to himself. If you want me to move, he thought, you’ll have to come up here after me. He knew that the hill would beat him in the end, but he wanted to stick it out as long as possible.

  *

  The Commandant was seated at his desk and R.S.M. Wilson stood at attention facing him. The Commandant glanced at Stevens’s case history, then read it from beginning to end and banged a rubber stamp on it. Bartlett’s was much more interesting. This one’s obviously got prison fever, he thought. He glanced at Wilson. “Some chaps never seem to learn, Sergeant-Major, do they.”

  “Bartlett, sir?”

  The Commandant nodded. “Have to see what we can do about him, sir, won’t we,” said Wilson.

  The Commandant banged a rubber stamp on the printed details of Bartlett’s shocking life and nodded again.

  “Bokumbo,” he said. “Have to transfer him to the African compound.”

  “He’s a British subject, sir. West Indian.”

  “Oh.” The Commandant banged a rubber stamp on Bokumbo’s, then very carefully read McGrath’s case history. He looked up at Wilson. “So he beat up three Redcaps, did he?”

  “McGrath, sir? Yes.”

  “Sergeant-Major, I know the staff feel pretty strongly about cases like this. But let’s have no trouble. You know what I mean.”

  “He’ll be treated the same as any other prisoner, sir,” said Wilson evenly. “No better and no worse.”

  “Good.” Bang went the rubber stamp again. The Commandant picked up Roberts’s papers, read them through once, then read them again and looked puzzled. “Twelve months — is that all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Commandant pressed a buzzer on his desk and a door opened and Corporal Bates entered and stood to attention a pace behind the Commandant’s chair and waited. The Commandant handed all five case papers to Bates and then nodded dismissal to the R.S.M., who saluted smartly, about turned, and marched out. Bates opened a filing cabinet, dropped the case papers into it, slammed it shut, then walked back to his office. The Commandant leaned back in his chair and yawned.

  *

  Roberts, with his mouth wide open, clawed his way up the hill. Sand clung to his face and chin where he had slipped and fallen. Reaching the top he staggered as the sun hit him like a physical blow. He squinted up at the sun as he paused for a moment, then quickly lowered his eyes. It was too bright. It burnt down on him and seemed to fill the sky.

  A breeze stirred the sand a few yards ahead of him and he waited for it to reach him. Now the sands erupted all about him as a wind, more powerful and as hot as an open oven door, hit the hill and swirled about him, stinging him and burning his eyes, then it quickly died down. He still waited, but standing still was even more agonizing than keeping on the move. He could feel his muscles jerking and he was more aware of the intense heat and his aching lungs. He staggered as he moved forward, then forced some kind of control over his unsteady limbs and managed a slow trot along the crown of the hill.

  On the downward slope he had trouble keeping upright, so he leaned backwards and half slid down the hill, holding his arms out as he tried to maintain some kind of balance and not giving a damn about the rocks any more. He was afraid that if he fell over he would never get up again. He reached the foot of the hill, straightened up and doggedly trotted towards Williams. He almost reached him as Williams gave the order, “About turn.” Roberts slowly trotted back to the hill and, gazing up it, was convinced that he would never reach the top this time.

  Williams stepped out briskly so that he could watch Roberts descend. Roberts clawed his way up the hill again, and from the top he saw McGrath, Bokumbo, Stevens and Bartlett. They were doubling and carried towels around their necks. He followed the direction they were travelling and for the first time he saw the pool. The water sparkled in the sun and looked cool, crystal clear and inviting. The fountain in the centre of the pool gushed water. Roberts shivered and his skin felt dry as he stared at the water.

  He moved unsteadily along the crown of the hill then half slid down it, determined to catch up with the prisoners and follow them to the pool, but when he was faced with Williams again he obeyed the order, “About turn.” Puzzled, he went up and over the hill again, moving like a zombie. Even his ability to think clearly had deserted him but he stubbornly clung to one thought: the pool — after this trip — the pool. But again and again, when confronted with Williams, he turned back to the hill and went up it and over it.

  *

  R.S.M. Wilson marched at his usual speed towards a white building and when he reached it he pushed open a door and walked along the corridor and pushed open another door and entered his bedroom. The room was very simply furnished. A bed, wardrobe, washstand, bowl and water jug, a towel rack, a small mirror hanging on the wall. A table by the window and a chair.

  A prisoner turned a frightened face towards Wilson and quickly dropped a lurid magazine on to the table and sprang to attention. Wilson slipped out of his bush jacket and vest. The prisoner hastily placed fresh ones on the bed, then hurriedly poured water into the bowl and stood by, ready with a clean towel.

  Wilson dipped his head in the bowl of water, soaped his face and body, rinsed himself; the prisoner handed him a towel and Wilson dried himself and slipped into his clean clothes.

  Wilson combed his hair in front of the mirror, placed his cap on his head and for the first time looked at the prisoner. Then he glanced at the magazine on the table, picked it up and tore it in half and scattered the pages all over the floor. He walked to the door and slammed it shut behind him. The prisoner, still standing at attention, listened to Wilson’s footsteps fading away. Then in suppressed fury he kicked Wilson’s soiled bush jacket from one end of the room to the other.

  *

  The four prisoners ran to the edge of the pool, jumped in and fooled about ducking each other. Bokumbo floated away on his back, opened his mouth wide and drank the water as it gushed from the fountain. Staff Burton moved to the edge of the pool and shouted, “No larking. Wash your filthy sins away.” The prisoners sat up in the pool and soaped themselves. Burton turned his back on the prisoners, then slammed to attention and saluted. “Four prisoners, all present and correct, sir.” The prisoners sat at attention in the pool and looked at the Commandant who stared hard at them for a moment; then casually acknowledged Burton’s salute and strolled away.

  *

  Roberts wearily clawed his way to the top of the hill, heaved himself upright and walked on, then his legs suddenly gave way and his mouth was full of sand again. He lay still and, looking down the hill, he could see the four prisoners splashing in the pool. He got to his knees and wiped the sweat from his eyes, overbalanced and fell on his face again. He lay still for a few moments, too weary to move, then rolled over on his back and spat out sand and lifted one arm to shield the sun from his eyes.

  Someone in the distance was shouting but he took no notice. The voice ranted on, but still he took no notice. The sun burned through his arm and hurt
his eyes so he rolled over again and looked down the hill and saw the R.S.M. Roberts lay quite still, staring at him. Then he saw the Commandant join him, and still Roberts didn’t move.

  “Roberts?” enquired the Commandant.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think he’s had enough, Sergeant-Major.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Wilson.

  The Commandant walked away.

  “Come on down, Roberts,” shouted Wilson.

  Roberts made a supreme effort to get to his feet, but his legs and arms moved like a helpless baby’s. In a rage he forced himself to his knees and slid and rolled down the hill and landed at the R.S.M.’s feet. Somehow he managed to force himself upright and stood swaying, his head hanging downwards, watching — in a detached kind of way — his trembling knees.

  Williams marched over and looked at the R.S.M.

  “That’s enough, Staff,” said the R.S.M.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Walk him or — ” the R.S.M. threw a critical glance at Roberts, “ — carry him, but get him in the shade and rest him.”

  “What about the pool first stop, sir?”

  “Yes, take him to the pool, then to his cell.”

  “Yes, sir. Quick march!”

  Roberts staggered away like a drunken man, followed by Wilson.

  *

  The prisoners stood in line ready to be marched away. Bokumbo stood at ease, his shirt rolled into a bundle under one arm. Staff Burton looked at his powerful gleaming black body and shouted, “You — trying to get a suntan? Put your shirt on.”

  “My shirt’s dirty, Staff.”

  “I said put it on.”

  *

  Roberts saw the pool and tried to walk faster but he had very little control over his legs and he stumbled and almost fell, but somehow he maintained balance and reached the edge of the pool and fell in and floated, face downwards. The water was cool, but it did not revive him. He was aware only of the cool water and was content to lie on it and drift away. He was away from the hill and the blazing sun and no longer aware of his aching body and his parched throat and the pain in his chest and lungs. The water was cool and clear and he could see the green floor of the pool. Then suddenly a total blackness.