The Hill

by Ray Rigby

  “Can’t sleep?”

  Bokumbo sat up.

  Roberts shook his head. “No.”

  “What’s Stevens doing up?”

  “Trying to get some air.”

  “Yeah.” Bokumbo nodded. “It’s hot in here and close. So the M.O. didn’t get here?”

  “No.”

  “Stevens.” Bokumbo walked over to him and put his arm about him and Stevens turned and looked at him. “You O.K. Stevens?”

  Stevens nodded his head.

  “That’s my boy.” Bokumbo walked back to Roberts and sat down again. “He looks a lot better.”

  “Yap, yap, yap.” McGrath glared at Bokumbo and sat up.

  “Maybe Harris will take Stevens to see the vet tomorrow,” said Roberts.

  “It’s a laugh.” Bartlett started chuckling as he sat up.

  “What’s the joke?” Roberts enquired.

  “All you ever get inside these dumps is medicine and duty,” Bartlett laughed.

  Roberts turned and looked at Stevens holding on to the bars at the window.

  “One lunatic at Geneffeh,” cackled Bartlett. “That was a right old nick ... Well, this fella started making his blankets up into a kind of nest, see. Then sat in it chirping out, cuckoo, cuckoo, all bloody night long.”

  “Aye,” said McGrath, “trying to work his ticket.”

  “No, Mack. Well round the bend. Think’ e’d bin frightened by a ’and grenade. Always on about them ’e was. So the screw sent for the M.O. Know what he recommended?”

  “Medicine and duty,” said Roberts, Bokumbo and McGrath in chorus and laughed.

  “Yeah,” cackled Bartlett. “Then he suddenly ’ad a bright idea. Fancied ’imself as a trick cyclist. See, so know what he done? Put a dummy grenade in cuckoo’s nest. Know what cuckoo did?”

  “Aye,” said McGrath. “Tried to hatch it out.”

  “Aw, you’ve heard it before,” Bartlett laughed. “You’ve gotter chuckle, though. All the screws are such bleeding comics. Take Williams now. Here’s Stevens on his chin straps and all Williams can give him is the old About turn! by the left, quick march!”

  Stevens dropped his arms from the bars, about turned and started marching.

  Bartlett gaped at him. “Blimey, ’e’s off.”

  “Stevens,” Roberts called out.

  Bartlett jumped up. “About turn.”

  Stevens obeyed the order and McGrath started laughing and Roberts and Bokumbo joined in. There was something very comic about Stevens marching up and down the cell in the middle of the night.

  “‘E’s a boy,” cackled Bartlett. “About turn.”

  McGrath held his side, he was laughing so much it hurt. “He’s trying to work his bloody ticket,” he spluttered.

  “Get him bedded down,” Roberts laughed, “or he’ll be on this all night.”

  Bartlett marched beside Stevens now, grinning from ear to ear and going into one of his comedy routines. “Cuckoo, cuckoo,” then aside to the prisoners, “‘Ere, wonder if ’e could hatch out a packet of Players from one of me butt ends — stick it out kidder — cert for your ticket, you are. About turn.”

  Again Stevens obeyed the order and marched back up the cell.

  “Knock it off, Stevens.”

  Roberts felt suddenly irritated.

  “Gladys,” cackled Bartlett. “Try going cross-eyed. That ought to help get you in the loony bin, mate.”

  “I said that’s enough, Stevens.” Roberts gripped Stevens by the arm and swung him round. Stevens stared blankly at him. “Come on now, time for bed.”

  Stevens stared blankly at Roberts, then an intelligent gleam came into his eyes and for a moment he seemed to understand all that was going on and where he was. “Joe. Why?” Then his knees gave way and he crashed to the floor.

  Roberts didn’t move for a few moments and Bokumbo was the first to reach him.

  “He’s out cold,” he said as Joe knelt down.

  “Garn, he’s kidding,” said Bartlett.

  Roberts felt Stevens’s pulse then put his hand on his heart. “He’s dead,” he said.

  The other prisoners could only stare at him, too stunned to speak.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Arab girl pulled her belly in, then out, then slowly revolved her belly round and round and in and out. Then her movements became faster, faster, faster, and the music kept pace with her as the lower half of her body trembled and shook violently in the frenzy of the dance.

  Williams, seated at a table with the R.S.M., stared fixedly at her shaking thighs and his tongue licked his lips, then he lifted his eyes to her shaking, thinly covered breasts and down again to her belly and down to a wisp of cloth, and he concentrated all his thoughts on that part of her.

  With a crash of music the dance ended and all the soldiers in the smoky, steamy cabaret started yelling. The girl stood quite still and looked at Williams and he stared back at her. The R.S.M. picked up his drink and gulped it down and gave a sidelong grin at Williams. But Williams was still staring at the girl and did not notice. The girl smiled at Williams and walked away and he watched her as she moved to a table and sat down and another girl took up her position in the centre of the small dance floor and the music began to play softly and the girl’s body swayed to the music.

  *

  Two prisoners lifted Stevens’s body on to a stretcher and covered him with a blanket. Roberts, watching them, could still not quite believe that Stevens was dead. The stretcher bearers moved to the cell door and Harris opened it wide and the prisoners carried away Stevens’s body. Two more prisoners entered the cell and picked up Stevens’s blankets and kit and walked out.

  Harris turned as though to follow them then he paused and looked at Roberts and threw a twenty packet of cigarettes into the cell, but no one moved, so he slammed the gate shut behind him and walked away.

  Bartlett was the first to move. He lounged over and picked up the cigarettes and opened the packet and took out a cigarette and struck sparks from his flint on the cotton waste in his tin, lit the cigarette and puffed on it and lit a second cigarette from the glowing tip and flicked it to McGrath. Then he lit another cigarette and flicked it to Bokumbo and another for Roberts. He moved back to his bed space and the prisoners smoked in silence. ‘We’re rich,’ thought Roberts, ‘sitting in our cell smoking a cigarette apiece. In our way we’re bloody millionaires.’ He didn’t want to think about Stevens.

  *

  Harris walked along a corridor and opened a door and walked into the room and a flood of light hit the dimly lit corridor. He gestured to the stretcher bearers and they followed him in. Harris pointed to a table in the centre of the room and the prisoners placed the stretcher on the floor then picked up the body and placed it on the table. They walked out of the room and waited for Harris.

  Harris pulled back the blanket and looked at the dead face. ‘And I was only telling him,’ he thought, ‘he’d need a sense of humour, or guts to survive here. The poor little sod needed more than that. He needed a heart in good working condition. He wasn’t built to tread that hill and Williams should have known it and so should the R.S.M. and what the M.O. thinks he’s bloody well doing passing this boy fit?’

  He felt sorry for Stevens but only in a disinterested kind of way. ‘It’s this job,’ he thought. ‘You have to be hard. You can’t do this job if you’re soft. Anyway, I’ve seen too many die. Fighting men. My mates. But this is pathetic. This is a real bloody waste in every sense and there’ll be a stink about this.’ Harris looked up and watched the Padre cross the room and stand and look at the corpse. ‘You’ve got a job to do at last,’ thought Harris, but he didn’t want to speak to him. He walked out of the room and gave the prisoners a cigarette each and waited until they had finished smoking them, then he marched them back to their cells.

  *

  The atmosphere in the cabaret was smokier, steamy and boozy and the soldiers were getting drunk. The belly dancer was seated next to Williams and he had his hand
over her breast, squeezing it. “I bet she’s a good shag,” he said to Wilson with a grin but he made no attempt to take her upstairs.

  Harris pushed his way through the soldiers and when he saw the R.S.M. with the belly dancer and Williams he shoved his way to the table and leaned forward to speak to the R.S.M. and as he did so the band started belting out an old ragtime number and drowned his voice.

  The R.S.M. looked impatient and leaned nearer to Harris, then he stiffened and his eyes hardened as he turned and looked at Williams. He stood up and gestured to him to follow. It was impossible to make his voice heard with the band making such a racket. As Williams stood up the girl put her arms around his neck, but he pushed her away and followed the R.S.M. and Harris, shoving his way through the soldiers.

  *

  Harris sat on the R.S.M.’s bed and looked at Williams leaning against the wall. He jumped as the door burst open violently and the R.S.M. walked in, opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of Scotch and three glasses and quickly poured out three stiff measures and handed a drink to Harris and Williams, then sat on the bed.

  “Did you find the M.O., Charlie?”

  “No.”

  “We don’t sleep till we’ve found him.”

  “Then what?”

  “He’ll have to write out a death certificate, won’t he?”

  Harris looked at Williams. “What will he diagnose, carelessness?”

  The R.S.M. bristled. “What’s that?”

  “Careless of Stevens to drop dead.”

  “It’s a bit late for your jokes, Charlie. Word got round yet?”

  “It will,” said Harris.

  “Might be some trouble.” The R.S.M. took a drink and narrowed his eyes. “You’d all better be on your toes.”

  “I’d like to make a suggestion,” said Harris.

  “Yes?”

  “Move Williams out of the block. Put him on the gate where he can’t do so much damage.”

  Williams looked at Harris with no change of expression, then looked at the R.S.M. and finished his drink and placed the empty glass on the table.

  “Sounds reasonable,” the R.S.M. refilled Williams’s glass and his own.

  “Hoped you’d see it.” Harris shook his head. “No more for me, Bert.”

  “Very reasonable, but that would be as good as owning up that I think Williams killed the lad.”

  “And he didn’t,” said Harris with the ghost of a smile.

  “You’d better wait for the M.O.’s verdict, Charlie.”

  “He’s been rough with all the boys in Cell 8,” said Harris.

  The R.S.M. picked up his glass. “Speaks harsh to them and all that, does he?”

  “Yes, sir. Lashes them with his tongue and all that.”

  “Very naughty of him, Staff.”

  “And puts them flat out on a mortuary slab,” said Harris.

  Williams moved quickly and slammed Harris against the wall.

  “Careful with me. Careful.”

  The R.S.M. grabbed Williams and swung him away, then glared at Harris. “Get a grip on yourself.”

  “Bert. I’d sooner have Williams doing punishment in here than anybody.”

  “You listen,” said the R.S.M. “I ordered Williams to smarten up Cell 8. Me! How the hell was he to know that after a few trips over the hill Stevens would drop dead?”

  “O.K. He wasn’t to know but — ”

  “If Stevens was fit he’d still be here, wouldn’t he? The army judged him A.1. The M.O. passed him fit.”

  “Then somebody’s dropped a clanger,” Harris said. “It looks like Stevens was only fit to drop.”

  “That’s not your worry. That’s the M.O.’s.” The R.S.M. picked up his glass. “If I’d ordered you to put him over the hill you’d have put him over the hill. So shut up about Williams.”

  “Maybe so, sir, but ... ”

  “I’ve enough on my plate without you bleating, Harris. Go on. Get to bed.”

  Harris stared at the R.S.M. then put his unfinished drink on the table and walked out of the room. The R.S.M. poured two more drinks and handed a glass to Williams.

  “Thank you, sir. You said you backed your Staff.” Williams took the drink and smiled.

  “We ain’t celebrating a glorious victory, Williams, we’re patching up a bloody disaster.”

  “How was I to know, sir, that — ”

  “You said he’d be on parade tomorrow, Williams, and so the poor little sod will be, in a nightshirt and halo.”

  “I reckoned he had nothing worse than a touch of sunstroke.”

  “Sunstroke.” The R.S.M. turned his back on Williams. “Like to write to his widow and tell her that?”

  ‘You gave me five fit men, sir. Three still think they’re commandos. One’s learned better and one’s dead. I don’t question orders, and I don’t question it when I’m told a man’s fit. I’ll face the Commandant and the Court of Enquiry.”

  “You’ll see the Commandant and I’ll let you know about the Court of Enquiry.”

  “Right, sir,” said Williams.

  “And I’ll see the M.O.”

  Williams nodded. “Does his — Stevens’s widow know he’s here?”

  “I’ll check on that. Doubt it. He’s had no chance to write to her.”

  “They’ll notify her, won’t they, sir?”

  The R.S.M. frowned. “That he died in jail, you mean? Make her feel proud, wouldn’t it? Good men dying up the front but hers had to crawl into a jail to die. No. If she doesn’t know he’s inside — she’ll get a telegram. Died on active service. Well, it looks better.”

  Williams nodded. “Yes, sir. If you don’t need me any more?”

  “Why are you so interested in his widow?”

  Williams lit a cigarette then looked the R.S.M. square in the eyes. “Some women might take it up with their M.P.”

  “Oh.” The R.S.M. sat down on his bed and thoughtfully nodded his head.

  “Good night, sir.” Williams walked out and quietly closed the door behind him.

  *

  The Medical Officer was getting into bed when he heard a knock on his door. “Come in.”

  The R.S.M. entered and closed the door behind him. “Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, sir, but Stevens is dead.”

  “I know, Sergeant-Major. The Padre told me and I’ve certified that he’s dead so there’s nothing more I can do.”

  “That’s all right then, sir. I didn’t know if you knew or not.”

  Markham smiled thinly. “Seems you were wrong.”

  “Wrong, sir?”

  “You assured me that Stevens was perfectly fit.”

  The R.S.M. spoke harshly. “Who am I to assure you if a man’s fit or not? It’s your job to assure me.”

  Markham blinked nervously. “Sergeant-Major, when I went to Cell 8 to see Stevens you — ”

  “He wasn’t there was he, sir, and we both thought he was making daisy chains with his mates.”

  “Next time, Sergeant-Major,” spluttered Markham.

  “Next time, sir?” The R.S.M.’s face twisted into a sour grin. “You’re not expecting another sudden death, are you? Because if you are, let’s have his name and number and let’s get him into dock before it’s too late.”

  “Are you? — are you?” Markham choked on the words.

  “Am I what, sir?”

  “Next time try to be more co-operative.”

  “I’m always that, sir.” The R.S.M. smiled blandly. “When can I have him?”

  “Have him?” Markham glared at Wilson.

  “In this intense heat, sir, it’s more respectful to the dead to bury them as soon as possible, and I’d like to make arrangements for a burial with full military honours.”

  “Hasn’t it dawned on you,” sneered Markham, “that there will have to be a full enquiry?”

  “That’s the correct procedure, sir,” Wilson agreed, “but Stevens won’t be attending it. When can I have him?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Mar
kham after a pause.

  “Thank you, sir.” Wilson turned to open the door.

  “You do realise that I will have to make a full report, Sergeant-Major.”

  Wilson nodded. “We all will, sir.”

  “He was fit when I examined him.”

  The R.S.M. had opened the door. “When you did what?” He slammed the door shut again.

  “Made my ... ex — examined him.”

  “You only looked at his bloody watch and chain,” Wilson growled.

  “Now, look here, Sergeant-Major ... ”

  “You’re supposed to be a medical officer — not a pox doctor. You gave him a short arm inspection but you didn’t examine him where it counted.”

  “He — he was fit.”

  “You passed him fit so I handed him over to Staff Williams. Hope you’re not hinting that he murdered Stevens?”

  “No, no,” Markham protested. “Stevens was ... he was kept out in the sun too long. I’ve checked his records. Base office job, one could see that, then suddenly he’s drilling hour after hour in the blazing sun. Fatal in his case.”

  “Sounds like accidental death, sir.”

  “Yes. Stevens was A.1. But from a soft office job to this place — ”

  Wilson nodded. “You understand these things better than me, sir. Accidental death, eh? Just what I thought.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well, was it or not, sir? You’re the expert.”

  “I said I hope so.”

  “I’ve dented a few,” said the R.S.M. with a grim smile, “but I’ve never murdered any.”

  “I wasn’t referring to you.”

  “And that goes for my Staff too.” Wilson walked out and banged the door behind him.

  Markham poured himself a stiff drink and as he drank it he noticed that his hand was shaking.

  *

  Williams lay on his bed wearing only his underpants. As the door opened he got off the bed and stood up.

  “Accidental death,” said the R.S.M.

  Williams poured two large whiskies and handed a glass to the R.S.M. then picked up his own glass and raised it in the air. The R.S.M. tossed his drink back.