his knees bent and trembling, his eyes glazed, he shivered and inwardly prayed that the Staff wouldn’t put him over the hill again.
Williams opened the cell door and Roberts walked in. Williams stopped in his tracks when he saw the disorder in the cell and his face tightened with rage. He walked out of the cell and slammed the door and waited.
*
The prisoners doubled to the Field Kitchen and on the order they marked time. Facing them was a trestle table and on it stood a stew pot, a dixey of tea and a basket filled with hunks of dry white bread. The cooks stood by with ladles ready to serve the prisoners. Still marking time, the prisoners turned their heads when they heard drill orders shouted and watched a squad of prisoners, flanked by Staffs, double towards the cookhouse. On the parade square they marked time then the Staffs drilled them. They marched and counter-marched, doubled, turned and turned again. The Staffs were giving the prisoners a wet shirt and an appetite for dinner.
The four prisoners, on the order, doubled away, then doubled back to the Field Kitchen and slow marked time as the watery stew and dark brown tea was ladled into their mess tins. Then a hunk of bread was dropped into the stew which overflowed over the rim of the mess tins. They doubled away towards their cell trying hard to balance the mess tins, but the tea and watery stew slopped on to the sandy ground. They doubled along the corridor and Bartlett grinned to himself. From long experience he had learned how to balance his mess tins and not spill a drop of the precious food. They marked time outside Cell 8 and Burton unlocked the door and they doubled in. Burton was about to follow when Williams walked out of a cell along the corridor and called out, “I’ll see to them, Staff.”
“What?” Burton turned and looked at him.
“I said I’ll see to them.” Williams rattled the keys in his hands.
“Staff Harris told me to — ”
“I take my orders from the R.S.M., Staff.”
Burton looked at the new man standing a few feet away from him. ‘Cocky boy, this one,’ he thought, ‘needs taking down a peg. Not been inside the place five minutes and thinks he’s running it. Telling me — me ... ’ His face reddened and he felt his ears burning and a muscle twitched on the side of his jaw.
“You’re new here, right enough,” he said, “but how about getting some service in before you tell me ... ”
Williams interrupted him. “R.S.M.’s orders. I’m in charge of Cell 8. If you don’t like it then take it up with him.”
“I will that.” Burton gave Williams a searching look. “But don’t try to come the old soldier with me, son. I’ve been up there fighting. Gawd knows where you’ve been.”
Burton turned on his heels and walked away.
Williams watched his retreating back until he walked out of the main door into the sunlight and out of sight. Then he walked into the cell and looked at the prisoners seated on the floor, eating greedily. They looked at Williams as they spooned food into their mouths.
“On your feet.”
The prisoners regretfully placed their mess tins on the floor and stood up. Roberts, who had been looking out of the window at the hill and secretly marvelling that he had run up and down it for so long, turned and looked at Williams.
Williams addressed Bartlett. “Who’s responsible for the state this cell’s in?”
“The Staff, Staff.”
“Staff who?”
“Don’t know his name, Staff. The Staff you was just chatting to.”
Williams turned his attention to McGrath. “So he’s responsible?”
“Aye. He went mad and kicked our kit all over the shop.”
“Watch it, McGrath.”
“I’m stating the facts of the case, Staff.”
“Clear it up then.”
“What about our grub?” Bartlett protested.
“I said clean up this cell.”
Williams stood and watched them as the prisoners sorted over their equipment and blankets and clothing.
*
Staff Burton was determined to find out exactly
Williams opened the cell door and Roberts walked in. Williams stopped in his tracks when he saw the disorder in the cell and his face tightened with rage. He walked out of the cell and slammed the door and waited.
*
The prisoners doubled to the Field Kitchen and on the order they marked time. Facing them was a trestle table and on it stood a stew pot, a dixey of tea and a basket filled with hunks of dry white bread. The cooks stood by with ladles ready to serve the prisoners. Still marking time, the prisoners turned their heads when they heard drill orders shouted and watched a squad of prisoners, flanked by Staffs, double towards the cookhouse. On the parade square they marked time then the Staffs drilled them. They marched and counter-marched, doubled, turned and turned again. The Staffs were giving the prisoners a wet shirt and an appetite for dinner.
The four prisoners, on the order, doubled away, then doubled back to the Field Kitchen and slow marked time as the watery stew and dark brown tea was ladled into their mess tins. Then a hunk of bread was dropped into the stew which overflowed over the rim of the mess tins. They doubled away towards their cell trying hard to balance the mess tins, but the tea and watery stew slopped on to the sandy ground. They doubled along the corridor and Bartlett grinned to himself. From long experience he had learned how to balance his mess tins and not spill a drop of the precious food. They marked time outside Cell 8 and Burton unlocked the door and they doubled in. Burton was about to follow when Williams walked out of a cell along the corridor and called out, “I’ll see to them, Staff.”
“What?” Burton turned and looked at him.
“I said I’ll see to them.” Williams rattled the keys in his hands.
“Staff Harris told me to — ”
“I take my orders from the R.S.M., Staff.”
Burton looked at the new man standing a few feet away from him. ‘Cocky boy, this one,’ he thought, ‘needs taking down a peg. Not been inside the place five minutes and thinks he’s running it. Telling me — me ... ’ His face reddened and he felt his ears burning and a muscle twitched on the side of his jaw.
“You’re new here, right enough,” he said, “but how about getting some service in before you tell me ... ”
Williams interrupted him. “R.S.M.’s orders. I’m in charge of Cell 8. If you don’t like it then take it up with him.”
“I will that.” Burton gave Williams a searching look. “But don’t try to come the old soldier with me, son. I’ve been up there fighting. Gawd knows where you’ve been.”
Burton turned on his heels and walked away.
Williams watched his retreating back until he walked out of the main door into the sunlight and out of sight. Then he walked into the cell and looked at the prisoners seated on the floor, eating greedily. They looked at Williams as they spooned food into their mouths.
“On your feet.”
The prisoners regretfully placed their mess tins on the floor and stood up. Roberts, who had been looking out of the window at the hill and secretly marvelling that he had run up and down it for so long, turned and looked at Williams.
Williams addressed Bartlett. “Who’s responsible for the state this cell’s in?”
“The Staff, Staff.”
“Staff who?”
“Don’t know his name, Staff. The Staff you was just chatting to.”
Williams turned his attention to McGrath. “So he’s responsible?”
“Aye. He went mad and kicked our kit all over the shop.”
“Watch it, McGrath.”
“I’m stating the facts of the case, Staff.”
“Clear it up then.”
“What about our grub?” Bartlett protested.
“I said clean up this cell.”
Williams stood and watched them as the prisoners sorted over their equipment and blankets and clothing.
*
Staff Burton was determined to find out exactly
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