where he stood. He stepped out briskly, ignoring the intense heat, in search of the R.S.M. He was going to find out who was in charge of Cell 8 and get the matter settled one way or another. Seething with anger, he marched towards the hill. ‘New men coming in and trying to take over,’ he thought. ‘Making me look a fool in front of the prisoners. I’m not going to wear that.’ He saw Staff Harris standing gazing at the hill having a sly smoke, the cigarette cupped in his hand. ‘He’ll do,’ thought Burton. ‘I’ll have a ruck with him for a start.’
“Staff,” he bawled, increasing his speed. “Like a word with you.”
Harris turned and looked at Burton marching towards him, and grinned to himself. ‘What’s he in a flap about?’ he wondered. He took another sly pull at his cigarette and waited for Burton.
“Yes, Staff?”
“I want to know where I stand,” said Burton. “Am I or am I not on Cell 8?”
Harris drew hard on his cigarette and rolled smoke out of his mouth with obvious enjoyment. “Well, you are and you ain’t, Staff,” he said with a grin.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Harris dropped the butt end on to the ground and kicked sand over it. “You’re any damn place the R.S.M. sees fit to put you,” he said, looking up from the ground and gazing into Burton’s eyes.
“You put me on Cell 8.”
Harris shook his head. “I didn’t. The R.S.M. did.”
“Then I’m on Cell 8.”
Harris shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Make up your mind, Staff.”
“He put Williams on Cell 8, too.” Harris watched a prisoner, whom he recognized as one of the Staff billet cleaners, walking across the parade ground. “Double,” he yelled. The prisoner took fright and doubled away.
“Without first telling me,” said Burton, glaring angrily at Harris. “The R.S.M. gives me the job. Then gives it to this new fella. What the hell does he think he’s playing at?”
Harris squinted up at the hill then sideways at Burton. “God didn’t tell anybody when he made the world, did he?”
“I reckon I’ve got a genuine complaint, Harris,” said Burton.
“About the R.S.M.?”
“Who bloody else?”
“Face him with it then.”
“I don’t mind seeing him. I don’t scare easy like some here. But I reckon I ought to take this up with the Commandant.”
“Burton.” Harris looked at him severely. “Go over the R.S.M.’s head and — Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“O.K. I’ll complain to the R.S.M. first.”
Harris laughed and held out his hand. “I’ll say goodbye to you now, then.”
‘You’re a creeper, you are,’ thought Burton. ‘R.S.M. can’t do any wrong as far as you’re concerned.’ Even as he thought this he knew that he wasn’t being fair to Harris. Old Charlie Harris wasn’t a bad bloke. If the rest were like him this place wouldn’t be so bad. He wouldn’t do you a bad turn and that’s more than you could say for some of them. He cooled down a little but he was still angry.
“Who the hell does the R.S.M. think he is?”
Harris knew the R.S.M. as well as any man did. He knew his strength and his weaknesses, and his secret thoughts about him were not always complimentary. But in many ways he admired him and under no circumstances would he ever hear a word said against him. He got angry now.
“R.S.M. Wilson,” he said. “Twenty-five years’ service. He thinks he knows his job and he does. He thinks he can make soldiers out of muck, and he can. He thinks he’s a man and he is.”
“And he thinks he’s God,” said Burton.
“Staff, you’re joking,” smiled Harris. “He knows he is.” This was one of Harris’s favourite jokes and he had repeated it to the R.S.M.’s face more than once.
“Staff.” The voice rang out clear across the prison grounds from the far side of the parade ground.
Harris and Burton turned and saw R.S.M. Wilson and both slammed to attention.
“Not you, Staff Harris. Staff Burton. Double over here.”
“See
“Staff,” he bawled, increasing his speed. “Like a word with you.”
Harris turned and looked at Burton marching towards him, and grinned to himself. ‘What’s he in a flap about?’ he wondered. He took another sly pull at his cigarette and waited for Burton.
“Yes, Staff?”
“I want to know where I stand,” said Burton. “Am I or am I not on Cell 8?”
Harris drew hard on his cigarette and rolled smoke out of his mouth with obvious enjoyment. “Well, you are and you ain’t, Staff,” he said with a grin.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Harris dropped the butt end on to the ground and kicked sand over it. “You’re any damn place the R.S.M. sees fit to put you,” he said, looking up from the ground and gazing into Burton’s eyes.
“You put me on Cell 8.”
Harris shook his head. “I didn’t. The R.S.M. did.”
“Then I’m on Cell 8.”
Harris shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Make up your mind, Staff.”
“He put Williams on Cell 8, too.” Harris watched a prisoner, whom he recognized as one of the Staff billet cleaners, walking across the parade ground. “Double,” he yelled. The prisoner took fright and doubled away.
“Without first telling me,” said Burton, glaring angrily at Harris. “The R.S.M. gives me the job. Then gives it to this new fella. What the hell does he think he’s playing at?”
Harris squinted up at the hill then sideways at Burton. “God didn’t tell anybody when he made the world, did he?”
“I reckon I’ve got a genuine complaint, Harris,” said Burton.
“About the R.S.M.?”
“Who bloody else?”
“Face him with it then.”
“I don’t mind seeing him. I don’t scare easy like some here. But I reckon I ought to take this up with the Commandant.”
“Burton.” Harris looked at him severely. “Go over the R.S.M.’s head and — Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“O.K. I’ll complain to the R.S.M. first.”
Harris laughed and held out his hand. “I’ll say goodbye to you now, then.”
‘You’re a creeper, you are,’ thought Burton. ‘R.S.M. can’t do any wrong as far as you’re concerned.’ Even as he thought this he knew that he wasn’t being fair to Harris. Old Charlie Harris wasn’t a bad bloke. If the rest were like him this place wouldn’t be so bad. He wouldn’t do you a bad turn and that’s more than you could say for some of them. He cooled down a little but he was still angry.
“Who the hell does the R.S.M. think he is?”
Harris knew the R.S.M. as well as any man did. He knew his strength and his weaknesses, and his secret thoughts about him were not always complimentary. But in many ways he admired him and under no circumstances would he ever hear a word said against him. He got angry now.
“R.S.M. Wilson,” he said. “Twenty-five years’ service. He thinks he knows his job and he does. He thinks he can make soldiers out of muck, and he can. He thinks he’s a man and he is.”
“And he thinks he’s God,” said Burton.
“Staff, you’re joking,” smiled Harris. “He knows he is.” This was one of Harris’s favourite jokes and he had repeated it to the R.S.M.’s face more than once.
“Staff.” The voice rang out clear across the prison grounds from the far side of the parade ground.
Harris and Burton turned and saw R.S.M. Wilson and both slammed to attention.
“Not you, Staff Harris. Staff Burton. Double over here.”
“See
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