Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell?

by Horace Greasley

  He winked as he started to walk away. ‘And you, Jim, are luckier than most.’

  Horace had drilled his third line when the unmistakable smell of his lover filled the air. He stretched up, wiped the sweat from his brow, and then sensed it. He turned around and there she stood like a goddess, the breeze tugging at her light dress. She rushed into his arms and they kissed passionately. He became aware of the salty tears flowing down her cheeks and the tremble of her young form.

  ‘What is it, Rosa?’ he said as he held her at arm’s length and gazed into her moist eyes.

  She turned her head, not wanting Horace to see her that way.

  He took hold of her chin gently and kissed her on the lips. ‘Tell me, Rosa.’

  Rosa pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the tears away. She’d composed herself a little, tried to smile as the tears subsided. She moved forward, kissed him again and wrapped her arms tightly around his perspiring body. The trembling started again and she whispered in his ear between sobs. ‘I thought you were dead, Jim. Father came home, said you had drowned. I thought I’d lost you, thought I would never see you again.’

  And then it became clear. At that moment Horace realised that this young girl loved him more than anything else in the world. Right there and then something changed in Horace. Something changed that he couldn’t quite put his finger on as they walked hand in hand into the forest. He felt different, he felt at ease, content. He was incarcerated in a prisoner of war camp but he could put up with whatever was necessary to get him through till the end of the war as long as Rosa was here with him.

  They made love on the grassy floor of the forest in among the dead pine needles and wild flowers. They were naked, the first time they’d experienced each other that way. They made love slowly, Horace facing his lover, looking into her hypnotic eyes. They never spoke, each enjoying the moment as their breathing intensified. In the workshop they’d had sex; here they made love.

  Horace raised himself up as his arms straightened and he took the full weight of his body. Rosa reached up and cupped her hands around his neck. He marvelled at her small perfectly shaped breasts rising and falling in time with her heavy breathing. A light sheen of moisture covered them as she began to groan gently while he continued his slow rhythmic movement. He lowered his body again and crushed her breasts with his chest as he quickened his movement. All at once they were one. Her pelvic thrusts were in time with his, lovers who instinctively each knew the exact timing necessary to climax together.

  Afterwards they lay on their backs on the forest floor, at one with nature. They were satisfied, their hands coupled together as their breathing returned to normal. They wanted to lie there forever, wanted to make love over and over again. Eventually the cool autumn breeze forced them to dress. Fifteen minutes later Horace had started drilling again with a new found energy and Rosa sat with her father as he finished the remains of his lunch.

  Willie McLachlan would never have considered himself a poofter back home in Helensburgh, just north of Glasgow and a few miles from Loch Lomond. He hadn’t given it a second thought. He’d had his girlfriends like anyone else and he remembered the day as clear as a bell when Jenny Murray had taken him into her father’s garden shed to show him her chickens. He laughed at the incident now. He’d been 13 years of age at the time, raised on a rough council estate, and had actually believed that Jenny, two years older, had chickens in her garden shed at the bottom of her father’s allotment. Why not? A few of the miners and shipyard workers and dockers kept a few hens to supplement the family’s diet.

  But something didn’t quite ring true as Jenny took his hand and led him through the door. The shed was cluttered up with rubbish save for a dirty rug sprawled out in the middle of the shed.

  ‘Whaur’s the chickens?’ he asked innocently as Jenny smiled and lifted her dress over her head.

  ‘You’re jist aboot tae see one,’ she replied and in a couple of swift movements Jenny stood with her knickers in her hand, thrusting a soft downy pubic triangle in the direction of a startled young Willie. No, he hadn’t been a poofter when Jenny had taken his hand and made him explore her inner reaches. As she’d stood and moaned while he’d willingly thrust his fingers into her secret place, he’d became aware of his own stirrings and an uncomfortable tight feeling in his trousers. Jenny noticed it too and within seconds his shorts were down by his knees and she massaged him to a hardness he’d never experienced before.

  He’d enjoyed his experience with Jenny in the musty shed in Helensburgh all those years ago. He’d enjoyed the moment she’d eased his hardness into her and cried out in pleasure as he climaxed after a few brief seconds, grunting and groaning as his backside took on an involuntary rhythm of its own. He was no poof back then. But now, after a year’s incarceration and only an odd glimpse of a covered female breast or backside, his homosexual tendencies had risen to the surface and he’d developed an attraction to a young man from the 2nd/5th Battalion Leicesters.

  It started with a wolf whistle. Whenever Horace walked past the Scot, be it in private, in a group in the quarry, in the shower block or wherever… always a little whistle and occasionally a wink. At first Horace ignored it, not quite realising the significance of it, but then McLachlan started getting a little bolder. The whistles were getting louder, more frequent and he was doing it in front of the other men. Ernie had made a comment – albeit tongue in cheek – that Horace was ‘on the turn’. It was a term used in the camps quite often. Men were men but because of the poor conditions and inadequate food, their natural sexual appetite was suppressed. For some it was still there. Some stuck to masturbation to release the pent up sexual frustration, others turned to homosexuality.

  In general it was frowned upon. Those that turned to it kept it secret, didn’t brag or boast and any sexual activity was carefully planned so that it took place in private. Worse than the disapproval of the POWs were the rumours on the grapevine about just what the Germans thought about homosexuals. Jews, Poles, Slavs, Russians, the mentally unstable, handicapped, gypsies, freemasons, homosexuals – it was rumoured that Hitler and his henchmen were exterminating them all in the camps of Poland and Germany.

  Horace didn’t believe the grapevine. He wouldn’t believe the rumours, didn’t want to – it was just too unimaginable for words. He could understand how Hitler craved power, how he perceived Germany to be a dominant world force. Right through history, men and countries had wanted to force their ideology and beliefs on other men and women of a different creed. From Genghis Khan to the Romans, from the Christian Crusades to the Spanish Conquistadors in the New World. But if these rumours filtering through were correct, Adolf Hitler and his Third Reich were in an altogether different league. He’d witnessed their barbarity first hand on the march and at the first camp. But no… surely not? It can’t be, Horace thought to himself over and over again. But what if it was true? And what if the Scot’s actions were brought to the attention of the guards? It didn’t bear thinking about. Horace would need to take him to one side, have a little word in his ear.

  Two days later Horace took hold of his sleeve as he sat on the ground outside his hut finishing the last of his soup. ‘Can I have a word, Willie, please?’

  Willie looked up. The late evening sun cast a shadow over Horace and Willie squinted as he peered up. ‘Sure Jim, nae bother. What is it?’

  ‘In private,’ Horace replied, uncomfortable with the conversation he was about to have. McLachlan hung around with other Scots. The Scots always hung around with each other: they ate together, slept together and drank together. It was almost an exclusive club in a prisoner of war camp, and it annoyed the hell out of Horace and the other men. At times they were arrogant, even a little hostile, and while they would tell anyone who would listen how proud they were of their country and their culture, in reality they were anti everybody else (especially the English) and seemed to complain continuously. Flapper summed it up one night when he commented, ‘They’re well balanced
, these fucking Jocks. They have a fucking chip on both shoulders.’

  Willie McLachlan raised himself to his full six-foot height. He’d been captured in France a little over a year ago. Although he had lost weight, he hadn’t suffered the ravages of the death march or the harsh conditions of Fort Eight. Horace felt a little intimidated as McLachlan took a step forward and towered over him.

  ‘And what fucking word would that be, handsome?’

  ‘Over here.’ Horace turned and walked a few yards. McLachlan followed.

  Horace turned to face him. The Scotsman was smiling.

  ‘Is this our first date, Jim?’

  Horace ignored the remark. ‘Look, Willie, I just wanted to say I’m not that way inclined and would appreciate it if you would keep your whistles to yourself.’

  Willie McLachlan’s face took on a complete new look.

  ‘And what fucking way would that be?’

  Horace had dug himself a hole. He wished he’d worded it a little differently. The Scot spoke again.

  ‘Just what are you fucking calling me?’

  ‘Look, Willie, you’ve been whistling at me and that only means one thing. Where I come from we only use it on girls.’

  ‘And what does it mean then, pretty boy?’

  McLachlan inched closer, threateningly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Look, Willie, I don’t want any trouble. I just want you to stop whistling at me. You’ve heard the rumours about the Germans and what they do with…’

  He paused, then decided to use the word and face the consequences.

  ‘Homosexuals.’

  The Scot visibly trembled with rage, raised his voice, poked a stiff finger in Horace’s chest.

  ‘You calling me a poofter, English boy?’

  ‘No, Willie… no… I’m just saying…’

  Another finger in the chest, a little harder than the previous one.

  ‘Just what the fuck are you saying, then?’

  The adrenaline surge started deep down in Horace’s veins. He was past the point of no return and his body knew it as the chemical coursed through his body. He wanted to back off, wanted to tell the big Scot he’d been mistaken. But he wouldn’t. It wasn’t in his nature; he’d never backed down from anyone, not in a playground fight, not in the boxing ring he’d enjoyed so much in his early teens. He’d never backed away or refused a fight even when they’d thrown him in against the 15 and 16-year-olds far bigger than him. McLachlan interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Just what the fuck are you saying?’

  Be tactful, he thought to himself. He looked around. A few of the other men had begun to take notice of the raised voices, the altercation that seemed to be brewing right in front of them.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m saying,’ he paused, gathered his thoughts, tried not to antagonise the Scotsman any further. ‘I’m saying, McLachlan, that if you whistle at me just one more time I’ll fucking punch you into the middle of next week.’

  The Scot lunged forward and grabbed Horace by the collar, almost lifting him off his feet. He’d been caught unawares: he should have been more alert and remembered his boxing training – keep the bigger man at a distance. It would be a mistake he wouldn’t make twice. Garwood and one or two of the Scots rushed into the mêlée to break things up. A fight in view of the Germans would not be tolerated by the guards and generally resulted in a further skirmish with two or three German rifle butts.

  ‘Fucking cunt’s calling me a poof!’ screamed the Scot as two or three of his countrymen held him back. ‘I’ll kill the bastard, let me at him!’

  Horace regained his composure. The adrenaline felt good now as it flowed smoothly. The trembling had stopped and he spoke with a renewed confidence.

  ‘In the basement of hut number three, tonight – we’ll settle this matter once and for all.’

  Flapper looked at him incredulously and pointed at the big Scotsman. ‘You want to fight that big bugger, Jim?’

  ‘Tonight. Six o’clock.’

  McLachlan started laughing, as if he couldn’t quite believe what this small, emaciated Englishman was saying. Then an inner rage welled up as he snarled through gritted teeth.

  ‘Six o’clock, ye Sassenach bastard. I’ll be there, I’m gonna tear ya fuckin’ heed aff ya shoulders.’

  Horace walked away with Flapper as the Scots returned to their original position to draw up battle plans. Garwood had done a bit of boxing in the past too, and as the two friends prepared for the fight of the year, Garwood assumed the position of unofficial trainer and corner man, offering tips and suggestions on how to beat the big Jock. The odds were against Horace, giving away at least five stone and nearly six inches in height. McLachlan’s hands were like great shovels attached to huge powerful arms that Horace swore would trail the ground when he walked. And word filtered back from the Scottish camp that street fighting was in McLachlan’s blood, that he’d run with a gang from a tough area of Glasgow and killed a man in a street fight.

  Horace stood, boxing in the traditional stance, left hand leading as Garwood held up his heavily strapped hands covered in swathes of flannelette. Garwood tried hard to dodge and avoid each blow but Horace connected with more than he missed. At 5.30 Garwood drew to a close the training session and made Horace take to his bunk for 30 minutes’ rest. Horace felt good. The natural boxing rhythm had returned as if it had only been yesterday and he knew that if he could just keep McLachlan at a distance he’d have a chance of winning. Whatever happened he’d give it all he had.

  Five minutes before the scheduled fight a crowd had gathered in the basement of the hut. This was big news. There had been many a fight in the camps since Horace had been captured, sometimes one a week, but they were always broken up by the other prisoners for fear of recriminations from the Germans. This was different. There would be no Germans around to break up proceedings. A small ring had been crudely constructed in the basement and men were betting on the result. It was entertainment, a break from the normal monotonous routine of supper, rest and lights out.

  It was ten past six before Flapper Garwood allowed Horace off his bunk. The Londoner’s theory was that it would make McLachlan anxious, complacent, thinking his opponent had bottled it. At 14 minutes past six Horace and his corner man burst through the door of number three hut. ‘He’s here!’ a voice shouted down the stairs to where the restless crowd stood and jockeyed for the best view. A muffled cheer drifted up and the hairs stood up on Horace’s neck. He turned to Garwood.

  ‘Do you know, Flapper, I think I’m going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Just don’t get in too close, Jim. He’s a brawler not a fighter. Keep your distance, jab and run. Keep jabbing and keep running until you see the opportunity. Keep doing that and you’ll win and for fuck’s sake, be patient.’

  Garwood’s game plan mirrored the one Horace had devised almost as soon as the gauntlet had been thrown down. The last thing he wanted was to get in a wrestle or a brawl. Controlled, measured boxing, just like the art he’d perfected in the boxing club in Ibstock.

  McLachlan stood in the corner of the makeshift ring stripped to the waist, a huge smile on his face.

  ‘So you’ve eventually turned up, chicken shit? We thought you’d cocked, shit yer wee English pants.’

  Horace said nothing. He climbed through the ropes and skipped a little shadow boxing as Garwood placed a bucket and a tin full of water in the opposite corner. Corporal David Valentine from the Northumberland Fusiliers had assumed the position of referee as he brought the two fighters together. ‘I want a good clean fight, lads.’ McLachlan stepped forward, trying to intimidate. ‘No hitting below the belt and break when I say “break”.’

  ‘I’ll break his fucking neck,’ said the Scotsman with a grin.

  Horace said nothing.

  The referee ordered the two men to their respective corners. A gaggle of Scots surrounded McLachlan, slapped him round the shoulders and screamed encouragement. Flapper offered Horace a d
rink of water and reminded him to keep his distance. Valentine beckoned the two men forward and when they were a couple of yards apart stepped out of the way, shouting ‘Fight on!’

  Another cheer went up as Horace went into his familiar boxing stance, his eyes fixed on McLachlan. This time he was ready.

  McLachlan rushed forward, heavy-footed, his arms stretched out in front like a wrestler. Horace danced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in the right direction at the last second. As McLachlan came within range Horace powered a left jab into the bridge of his nose. It connected perfectly and the Scot’s nose popped like a balloon. In the same fluid movement Horace turned and fled before McLachlan knew what had hit him. He stood in Horace’s corner now as the blood started flowing freely down his face. Horace stood inches from the Scottish corner men.

  ‘Ye lucky cunt,’ snarled the red-haired man behind him. Horace ignored him and stalked towards McLachlan, his confidence growing by the second. The Scot was more canny this time, aware of how foolish his last move had been. He raised his fists towards his face to protect himself. He now realised he was in a real fight. Horace moved forward, within reach of his opponent. McLachlan couldn’t resist it; he lunged forward with a telegraphed swinging right hand. Horace bent backwards and the Scot’s fist flailed at fresh air. Horace counteracted with a quick combination, a left cross to the temple stunning his opponent as his right fist powered into McLachlan’s solar plexus.

  The crowd cheered. McLachlan fell to his knees. Horace walked over and bent down to speak.

  ‘Had enough, Willie? Want to call it a day?’

  McLachlan spoke. ‘Aye… right enough, geez a hand up.’

  Horace felt sorry for him. The fight was over, he’d shown the tough man up for what he really was. Horace extended his hand. As the Scot raised himself to his full height, he smiled and shook Horace’s hand. As Horace lowered his guard, McLachlan powered his forehead into Horace’s face.