by Ray Rigby
“What’s this I hear about Stevens, Sergeant-Major?” enquired Markham.
The R.S.M. smiled. “Had a visit from Harris, sir?”
“Yes. He told me — ”
“There’s nothing to worry about, sir.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“I’ve just checked, sir. He’s doubled over for a shower.”
Markham looked puzzled. “Then why did Harris ... ”
“I’m seriously thinking of posting him out of here, sir. He’s a good man at heart but he’s in the wrong trade and every lead-swinger inside here knows it.”
Markham smiled. “I’ll leave it to you.” He walked into the corridor. “You’ll check on him, won’t you?”
The R.S.M. kept pace with him along the corridor. “I take roll call on work parade every morning, sir. If the lad’s not fit I’ll see you get him.”
Markham nodded. “Had an odd request. One of the prisoners asked me if he could wear sun glasses.”
The R.S.M. blinked and screwed up his eyes as he walked into the bright sunlight. He gazed about him and smiled.
“They don’t like the glare, sir. The white buildings and the white sand. Turn a squad of prisoners facing a white-washed wall and they don’t like that either.”
“I bet they don’t,” said Markham. “But still, we can’t have prisoners on parade wearing sun glasses, can we Sergeant-Major.”
“I wouldn’t encourage it, sir,” smiled the R.S.M. “Who sent him to you?”
“Staff Harris.”
They looked at each other and smiled.
“Him again.” The R.S.M. beat out with his cane at a swarm of flies. “I’d better get him transferred to the Red Cross.”
They walked towards the hill and stopped when they heard the chapel bell tolling.
“What’s that in aid of?” Markham enquired.
“It’s Holy Joe, sir,” said The R.S.M. “He gets queer notions. Likes to ring the changes. Kind of a hobby.”
“On one bell?” said Markham.
“I told you he gets queer notions.”
Markham laughed. “He thinks he’s doing a wonderful job. Gets a full house on Sundays and even grudges sharing the honours with the Almighty.”
The R.S.M. stole a sidelong glance at Markham. ‘Been having a little suck at your bottle again, haven’t you,’ he thought. ‘Been having a quiet booze-up on your own. Well, you’re a bloody sight more pleasant drunk than sober.’ He smiled.
“Yes, sir. He does well Sundays.”
Markham, in the mood to please the R.S.M. or anyone for that matter, laughed and said, “But why does he, eh? Why?”
The R.S.M. gripped his cane firmly in both hands and laughed.
“Last week he had his usual flock of C of E’s. Two murderers, a fistful of sex maniacs and about thirty assorted petty larceny, take off experts, bottle maniacs and the usual riff-raff, but I could see he was greedy for more so I detailed a few Jews, Wesleyans, Jehovah Witnesses, Agnostics and other similar martyrs. On paper he’s doing a great conversion job.”
Markham chuckled. “Why don’t you tell him it’s you who fills his church for him.”
“Like you said, sir,” said the R.S.M., smiling into the distance, “if he won’t even share the honours with the Almighty then he won’t share them with me.”
‘He’s quite a character,’ thought Markham. ‘Limited intelligence, but still a hard man to beat This kink of his. This need to organize everybody. The prisoners, the Commandant, the Staff, the Padre. Me. It’s more than a kink. It’s an obsession. Sometimes I’m not too sure that he’s right in the head. But he certainly is a character.’ His mood changed. ‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ he thought, ‘or I’ll go crazy. I could be doing something worth while up the front.’
“When we get a foothold in Italy,” he said, “I’m putting in for a posting.”
“So you’re set on going up front, sir?”
“Yes,” said Markham. “I’m getting out of here.”
“Let me know when your posting comes through, sir.”
“I will,” said Markham, feeling suddenly angry as he walked away.
*
Harris stood up as the R.S.M. halted at his table.
“Who’s the blind man you sent to the M.O., Harris?”
“The who, sir?”
“The fella you decided needed sun glasses.”
“Oh, Pearson, sir.”
“And say the Commandant had come face to face with some lunatic wearing sun glasses on parade?”
“Been the M.O.’s responsibility, wouldn’t it?”
“Mine. Every damn thing that happens here comes back on me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Commandant’s a bottle a day and a bint a night man. A sight like that could just about finish him off.”
Harris grinned. “You’ve got a point there. Oh. I found out where Stevens was. In the showers, sir.”
“I’ll have you transferred to the Intelligence Corps,” growled the R.S.M.
“Staff Williams is a great enthusiast, sir.” Harris watched the mess waiter place a cup of tea on the table, then sat and faced the R.S.M. across the table. “He’s got three hard cases in Cell 8 but it’s Stevens who’s getting all the stick.”
The R.S.M blew on his tea.
“Some men, sir,” continued Harris, “when they can’t dent a hard case, take it out on a soft article.”
The R.S.M. put his cup on the table, added an extra spoonful of sugar and stirred his tea. ‘So that’s the line you’re taking,’ he thought. ‘Putting the squeak in for a brother officer now, are you?’
He sipped his tea and looked at Harris over the rim of his cup. ‘The job must be getting him down. I know the signs, know them too well. When they start whining to me — ’ He replaced his cup on the table and swatted a fly and watched it drag its guts across the floor. ‘Anybody but Charlie and I’d — He’s a good man at heart. There’s the pity of it. A likeable man, but there’s no room for sentiment in this business. I’ll see the Commandant and rush through his posting.’
He smiled. It was his policy never to warn a man if he was going to post him. They got too damn careless once they knew that they were on their way out and that only created problems.
“Harris,” he said, “you’ve got an easy way with you, but I don’t hold with my staff complaining about a brother officer.”
“I do my job, sir, the best I know and pray for demob like most of us.”
“Harris, if you plan to stop on in prison service in Civvy Street, what I tell the Commandant could answer it one way or the other.”
“I’ve never murdered nobody so I’m not entitled to a life sentence.”
The R.S.M. glared at Harris and Harris grinned back at him. Then the R.S.M. tapped him on the shoulder with his cane. “Get back on duty.”
“Yes, sir. Finish my tea break.”
“All right.”
Harris sucked tea down his throat. “Did you see the M.O.?”
“You shut up about Stevens.”
“Well,” Harris shrugged. “So long as he knows.”
“He don’t know damn all. He’s leaving us.”
“What, Markham leaving?”
“He’s decided again to go up front and win the V.C.”
Harris threw back his head and laughed. “My little Millie’s got more chance and she’s only eight.”
“Now don’t judge him too harsh,” Wilson grinned.
“No, sir, being useless, he’s useful to us so I won’t sit in judgment.”
“Be a terrible world,” agreed Wilson, “if there weren’t some useless articles in it. Be a dull world.”
“Yes,” said Harris, “and be a lot of unemployment in our trade.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Roberts and Bokumbo busied themselves tidying up the cell. They were both thinking about Stevens. They had half carried, half dragged him to the showers and held him under the cold water but even a cold shower didn’t
seem to revive him. He still behaved strangely up until the moment when Williams had ordered them back to the cell with instructions to tidy it up for the M.O.’s visit.
“Joe,” said Bokumbo.
“Yes?”
“What’s a man to do in a dump like this?”
‘You should know,’ thought Roberts. “Obey orders,” he said.
“You mean the right orders, Joe?”
“If you’ve got any brains you obey any damn orders.”
“Yeah,” Bokumbo agreed. “We can’t help that boy, can we, Joe?”
“We’ve done damn all to help him so far.”
“How about going on report?”
“Do you think we’d get past the R.S.M., Jacko?”
“Oh hell.” Bokumbo moved away from his kit and started working on Stevens’s. “By tonight he’ll be in hospital, laughing.
“Stevens laughing?”
“O.K. Crying. What the hell. He’ll still be better off than us with a pretty little nurse tucking him in.”
“And a screw sitting by his bed,” Roberts said.
“Those orders we’ve got to obey, Joe. What we gonna do?”
“I’ve told you. Obey them or have flowers growing out of you.”
“Any damn order?”
“Why the hell ask me,” said Roberts. “You’re not stupid, work it out for yourself.”
Bokumbo picked up Stevens’s small pack and the contents spilled out. He picked up the photograph of Stevens’s wife then looked at Roberts.
“Look,” said Roberts. “What do you expect from me?”
“You’ve held rank,” Bokumbo said.
“So I’m supposed to know all the answers.”
“If you don’t, ex-Sergeant-Major, then who the hell does?”
“The screws, so obey orders, any orders and maybe you’ll get by.”
“Joe. Williams is giving those orders and he’s crazy.”
“I think you’re right,” said Roberts.
“So what happens?”
“Give him time and maybe the R.S.M. will catch on that Williams is crazy.”
“Joe. The R.S.M. He’s crazy too.”
Roberts turned slowly and looked at Bokumbo and saw that he was deadly serious. “No, he’s a man with a mission.”
“So’s Hitler,” said Bokumbo.
“Jacko, the R.S.M. — ”
“You told me, Joe. The R.S.M. makes toy soldiers and Williams breaks them. Take your choice. Who’s the craziest?”
Roberts continued staring at Bokumbo and thought ‘you’ve got something there. Both of them are crazy. Williams is a sadist and the R.S.M.’s a Rules and Regs maniac.’ He turned as he heard Williams’s voice in the corridor. “He’s doing all right, keep moving, Stevens.”
Stevens swayed into the cell with Williams close at his heels. Bartlett and McGrath waited at the open doorway for a moment then walked in.
“Left turn,” barked Williams. “March up and down a while, Stevens. That’s it. Head up, lad. Come on now, what are you halting for? Keep moving. That’s better.”
‘Mad as a hatter,’ thought Roberts, tearing his eyes away from Stevens and looking at Williams. ‘Mad as a March hare. Sand happy. Round the bend. Bonkers. A walking, talking, raving lunatic and we’ve got him looking after us. We have to take orders from him. We have to obey him and he’s mad. There’s no two ways about it. He’s raving bloody mad.’
Roberts’s skin prickled and he came out in a cold sweat. That’s it. There’s no other logical explanation, look at him marching young Stevens up and down the cell. What the hell does he think he’s doing?’
He had an overwhelming desire to laugh out loud. In an awful way it was funny. Stevens tattered on wobbly legs from one end of the cell to the other and this raving lunatic shouting orders at him. Yes, in a way it was damn funny.
“He looks in great shape, Staff,” Roberts said then laughed. He didn’t want to laugh but he couldn’t help himself.
“About turn and back again, lad,” shouted Williams. “Good. Very good. Stick it out, lad.”
“Get the regimental band outside, Staff,” laughed Roberts, “playing Rule Brittania, that’ll keep him going.”
“I’ll be dealing with you, Roberts ... About turn, lad, that’s it.”
“Lay him down, you lunatic. The M.O.’s the man to deal with him.” Roberts stopped laughing.
“I’ll be coming to you, Roberts, I promise you I’ll be coming to you. About turn. Good. Chin up, lad. That’s better.”
“Williams wants the M.O. to see the boy marching,” said Bokumbo, “though why the hell he wants anybody to see this — it just proves I’m right. He’s crazy.”
“You’re next, Bokumbo, you’re next,” shouted Williams. “Now, lad, smarten it up.”
Stevens marched on, dull eyed, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
“Do you think the M.O.’s going to pass him fit,” yelled Roberts. “You ought to be in a bloody strait-jacket.”
“Roberts, Bokumbo, I’ll have you both. Yes, I’ll have you,” Williams shouted. “Now move those arms, lad. You’re doing very well.”
“Jacko,” said Roberts, “how do you think Williams will explain the state he’s in to the M.O.?”
“Dead easy, Joe. The poor fella’s been out in the sun too long.”
“And what will you say, Jacko?”
“I’ll say the truth. I’ll tell the M.O. the screw boiled the boy on the hill.”
Williams swung round and grabbed Bokumbo’s arm and glared at him. “That’s enough out of you.”
“Let go my arm, Screw.”
“I’ll break you, Bokumbo — ”
Bokumbo violently broke free. “My arm, Screw. I said let go my arm.”
“Right, right,” snarled Williams. “Keep moving, Stevens. That’s it. That’s it. Told you you could do it, didn’t I. Bokumbo, Roberts, you’re next, topping the list. Both of you will break, both of you. I’ll have you like this lad, both of you. Stevens, you’re doing well, you’ve taken your punishment, so you’ll have it easy from here on. Knock off, lad and sit down.”
Stevens walked over to a corner of the cell and slowly sat down.
Williams opened the cell door. “Bokumbo, Roberts, I’ll be back for you tomorrow ... tomorrow.”
He slammed the cell door shut behind him and walked away.
Bokumbo put down a blanket and Roberts led Stevens to it. He lay down and Bokumbo covered him with another blanket. Stevens closed his eyes.
Bartlett spat the words out. “Stevens will look like a world contender compared wiv you two, time Williams ’as finished with you.”
“Tomorrow, Roberts. Tomorrow. I’m too bloody tired to punch you daft tonight, but tomorrow, Roberts.”
McGrath pulled up his knees and leaned his head on them.
*
Wilson took a long sip of beer and looked at Williams. “You got any complaints about anybody?”
“No, sir.”
“Any of the Staff?”
Williams smiled. “No, sir.”
“Not even Harris?”
“Why would I complain about him? I can handle the prisoners and Harris.”
“How’s Stevens?”
“Still waiting for the M.O., sir. What happened to him?”
“I didn’t think it was necessary for the M.O. to see him.”
Williams nodded approval.
“Is it, Williams?”
“He’s a gutless, useless article. That’s all that’s wrong with him, sir.”
Wilson toyed with his glass. “I’ve got to rely on my Staff. Trust their judgment. So give it to me straight. Is he fit or is he in a bad way?”
“He’s on his chin straps.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve given him a hard time and now I’ll lay off him. He’ll be on parade tomorrow.”
“Right.” The R.S.M. nodded his head. “I’ll see him tomorrow when I do my rounds. I hope you’re not getting too attached
to that hill, Williams. There’s other ways.”
“Not for Cell 8, sir. You can take Stevens out if you like. I don’t need him. But the others, they reckon they can tread that hill flat and it won’t beat them.”
“Not Bartlett, Staff.”
“No, sir.” Williams smiled grimly. “The others. But I know better. I know that hill will break them. I’ll have them crying like big jube-jube babies. I’ll have them crying for their Mums. I said a week. I want a fortnight.”
“Oh. Having trouble, Staff?”
Williams bristled. “No. They’re having trouble. They don’t understand yet. They think it’s a contest. Them against me. Personal. Them against me. They don’t know yet. It’s nothing personal. It’s just them against the system and you can’t beat the system.”
“Nothing personal, Staff?” said the R.S.M.
“They don’t mean a thing,” sneered Williams. “Yobs in uniform. Yobs in civvies.” He shrugged. “Numbers doing punishment, numbers who’ve got to learn to obey orders. They don’t mean a thing.”
“But what do you learn them, Staff?”
“Not to come back.”
“Oh.” The R.S.M. nodded. “If they learn that, they’ve completed their education. We differ on one point, Staff. They ain’t numbers to me. They’re soldiers.”
“When the war’s over, sir, where I’ll be, in the civvy jails, they’ll be numbers.”
“What’s the civvy jails like?” asked the R.S.M.
“You’ll be due your pension, sir, when the war’s over?”
The R.S.M. nodded. “Yes.”
“The civvy jails, they’re too damn comfortable. With your service you’ll get a job.”
“A job!” The R.S.M. sprang up and almost knocked the table over. “Who’s looking for a job?” He turned and walked quickly out of the Sergeants’ Mess.
Williams smiled to himself. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘you’ll get a job, sweeping the bloody roads.’ He picked up his beer and took a long drink and smiled again.
*
The light bothered his eyes so Roberts rolled over on his stomach but he could not make himself comfortable so he rolled on his back again and opened his eyes, and saw Stevens standing by the window, holding on to the bars. Roberts stared at him.