Perhaps it is not a good idea to try and meet up, it is too dangerous. But I want you to know that I think of you always and as soon as this damn war is over we can be together again. I will be waiting forever. I shall return one last time next week just to see if you received this letter. If you can, please write back and tell me that you are well.
I love you.
xxxx
The letter fell to the floor and Horace wiped at the tear that fell onto his cheek. He couldn’t comprehend what he’d just read. She was right: it was too dangerous. How could he possibly see her? No way would the Germans give him permission to abandon his barbershop in favour of forest work. His lover, his English Rose… so near and yet so far.
Horace lay on his bunk in the small staff room containing the 12 beds of the camp chef and his assistant, a cobbler, two sergeants, a smattering of other work prisoners including Flapper Garwood, who had been appointed head gardener. Horace was studying the window two feet from the bottom of his bed. Then he began dismantling the architrave that surrounded the glass pane, housing six half-inch iron bars that ran from top to bottom of the window.
‘What are you doing?’ Flapper asked as he looked up from the letter he’d received earlier that week.
‘A little bit of joinery,’ replied Horace. ‘Get back to your letter, you’ve only read it 27 times.’
It was true. Flapper had read the print off the letter since it had arrived. It was from his wife Cissie and told of the progress of young Shirley, Flapper’s little girl, three years old when he left for the war. She missed her Daddy, looked forward to her next birthday and prayed every night that Daddy would be home to celebrate it with her. Every POW devoured every word from home over and over again. It was a link with their family, their loved ones, wives and girlfriends, brothers and sisters. Words… and yet words that tore his heart from his chest. He placed the letter carefully under his mattress and walked over to where Horace was studying the bars.
‘Speak to me, country boy. What’s going through that turnip-filled head of yours?’
Horace pointed to the bottom of the bars. They ran to the length of the floor but were split in two and each one held together with a cotter pin.
‘See here, Flapper?’ he pointed at one of the pins. ‘I reckon if we could get these pins out, the bars would separate and we could get out through the window.’
‘And then what?’ Flapper asked as he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then where do we go? Straight into the arms of the Bosch, that’s where.’ Flapper relayed the all too familiar statistics. ‘Hun after fucking Hun as far as the eye can see. No one has ever escaped from this camp and made it back home. The longest escape was three days and even then they shot the poor bastard there and then in the forest because he’d dared to wear civvy clothes.’
‘I know, Flapper, I know. I’ve heard it all before.’
‘Three days, Jim. We reckon it would take at least six weeks of activity to get out of German-occupied land, then you’ve got to cross the Bering Sea or travel up as far as Norway and pray that your ship isn’t sunk on the way over to England.’
Horace whistled as he began to loosen the cotter pins. He leaned forward, spat directly at the pin securing the third bar and the moisture lubricated the pin just enough to remove it from its housing. He worked on another bar and figured that a man of his build could squeeze through quite easily. He turned around and faced his good friend with his arms outstretched.
‘Hey presto, Sir Flapper! That’s magic.’
Flapper shook his head.
‘You’re not listening to a fucking word I’m saying, are you, country boy?’
Horace grinned. ‘Not really, Flapper. When did I ever listen to anyone? I’m my own man. The last time I took notice of anything anybody said, my own sergeant major surrendered me to the fucking Germans.’
Flapper sighed. ‘Same old tune, Jim.’ He had heard the story a hundred times. He had been there on the death march when his good friend had caught up with Sergeant Major Aberfield and laid him out like a kit inspection. ‘Listen to me, Jim. You can’t…’
‘I am listening to you, Flapper. I hear what you are saying, but who said anything about making it back to England? I know it’s stupid and now that the Americans are in the war it shouldn’t be too long before it’s over. I’m sitting here tight like the rest of you, I ain’t going anywhere. But who’s to say we can’t have a few nights of excitement while we sit here waiting?’
Flapper Garwood let out a sigh and looked at Horace incredulously. He did not want to believe what he was hearing. Horace had loosened off the bars in the window and created a perfectly acceptable gap through which he could escape. The window was 50 yards from the forest and although the German guards routinely patrolled the perimeter of the camp, Flapper admitted escape was not difficult. The difficulty lay in what was beyond and as the two men faced each other, one with a stupid grin on his face, the other with a look of dismay, Garwood knew, just knew, that his friend could not have been more serious in what he was implying.
Horace replaced the bars and cotter pins and pushed the architrave back into place. He turned round and walked towards Flapper. As he drew alongside him he slapped him playfully on the cheek twice.
‘Boys will be boys,’ he grinned.
‘You’re a fucking nut, Jim,’ replied Flapper, ‘A prize fucking nut.’
The following evening Horace lay on his bunk. There was no official lights-out time in the prisoner staff hut, but the men were generally quite exhausted after their long working day with little or no break so the lights were generally turned off between 10.30 and 11pm. The POW staff quarters were slap bang in the middle of a long wooden hut. On one side were the German guards’ sleeping quarters and on the other side the larger barrack room of another hundred prisoners.
Horace loitered in a shadow several feet from the barred window he had so easily dismantled the previous day. About 25 yards from the perimeter of the hut were two huge arc lights which lit up that side of the camp. A four-guard patrol walked the perimeter of the camp on a regular basis. They walked in a clockwise direction past the window, passing the large barrack room to Horace’s right. After about 50 yards they took a right turn, walking around the far end of the barracks, walking another 100 yards past two more barrack rooms before turning right again, completing a big square by returning to the camp gates just to the left of Horace’s window. Horace timed the walk as averaging nine to 11 minutes, depending on how quickly the guards walked and whether they stopped to light any cigarettes.
Horace could just make out the camp gates to the left of the window. The guards always lingered for a minute or two at the gates and every so often one of them would disappear inside the guard room to relieve himself or perhaps take a quick coffee.
Horace did not have a watch. He counted the seconds and consequently the minutes with a tap of his finger on the window ledge, simulating the second hand of the clock. That first evening Horace watched the patrolling guards until three o’clock in the morning. Not once did they deviate from the route, and the timing of the patrol always fell between nine and 11 minutes. At 11pm the four guards became two as they scaled down their evening watch. Horace could not quite understand this. If anyone wanted to escape it would surely be during the hours when the night was at its quietest, the very hours the Germans relaxed the patrol. Horace looked out over the vegetable garden that stood between him and the cover of the forest 50 yards away. It was a wide open expanse. The garden was planted and tended by the prisoners but the German guards took pick of the crop, leaving what they didn’t want for the soups and stews made for the incarcerated.
There was no cover and Horace wished that the men had been allowed to plant something a little taller in order to obscure his form. A small cornfield would have been ideal but no, they had planted carrots and onions and of course cabbages – the mainstay of their diet. Horace cursed: nothing grew more than four or five inches in height.
Horace stayed u
p again the following night observing and studying the guards until sheer exhaustion forced him to collapse onto his bunk at around 4am. He watched them the next night too and the night after that, and not once did they deviate from their routine. He had to hand it to the Germans, no matter how much he hated them. They were organised and well planned, and once a plan had been cast in stone it was adhered to.
When the Germans scaled the patrol down at 11pm, Horace observed that as the four guards became two, the first patrol setting out afterwards always seemed to be a few minutes late. He figured the four guards would quite naturally be saying their goodbyes for the evening. The two remaining men on patrol also may have been a little reluctant in starting their long shift. While each circuit of the camp had a real pattern in timing, the patrol prior to 11 o’clock always lasted three or four minutes longer.
Horace decided on the optimum hour of escape. He would wait until the four-man patrol passed his window at around ten minutes to 11pm. He would give them five minutes, then check the corner of the barrack building to make sure they had not stopped for a cigarette break. He figured their five-minute walk would take them to the furthest point of the camp, a good hundred yards from the tampered window. It would take no more than two minutes to dismantle the architrave, remove the cotter pins and drop down the bars. Horace would be through the window and make good his escape across the vegetable garden and into the forest beyond. Two of the men would replace the steel bars with false bars they had made in the workshops one week before, allowing Horace to break back in. There was a two-to three-minute margin for error before the German guards passed the window again. While the plan was by no means foolproof, Horace was willing to give it a go, even though a sighting from a stray guard meant certain death from a bullet or two in the back.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Early the next morning Horace caught up with Dave Crump as he made his way over to the barber’s shop. ‘Dave!’ he shouted as the young man from Worcester turned round. ‘Are you out on the working party today?’
Dave nodded. ‘Yeah, as always, Jim. Why do you ask?’
Horace handed him a piece of paper sealed at the edges.
‘I’m figuring Rose might be around one of these days and I was hoping you might give her this letter.’
Dave smiled. ‘Sure, Jim. If she’s there I’ll see she gets it. What is it with you and her anyway? You haven’t been shagging her, have you?’
Horace did not answer. There was no need. The twinkle in his eyes told Dave Crump everything he wanted to know.
Rosa shook from head to toe as she eased the envelope from her breast pocket sitting on the train taking her back to her home village. She read the letter yet again, not quite believing the words her lover had written. The note was short and to the point. Her heart skipped a beat as she read the first line.
My English Rose
I will be escaping from the camp at around 11 o’clock next Wednesday. I will be making my way northwards into the forest. Is it likely you can meet me there? No need for another note, they are rather dangerous. Just tell our friend yes or no.
Xx
Garwood, although totally against his friend’s plan, was as ever a willing participant in its execution. Horace had studied the pattern of the guards’ patrol for over a week, keeping detailed notes of their movements. The letter had been delivered and Dave Crump had returned with a ‘yes’. Dave was in the dark. He knew nothing about the escape. He had simply delivered the one word answer from Rose. Horace lay nervously on his bed. He was aware of a slight trembling in his legs. Fear, perhaps adrenaline – he did not know what was bringing on the involuntary movement, but he hoped that it wouldn’t be there as he made the 50-metre sprint across no man’s land into the forest about an hour from now.
A voice came from behind him. It was Flapper.
‘Are you still going for that shag, country boy?’
‘I’m afraid so, Flapper. I’m past the point of no return.’
‘What do you mean by that, Jim?’
‘I mean, pal, my cock is harder than a blacksmith’s anvil and a cat would have difficulty getting its claws into it, it’s so damned hard.’
The two men laughed to disguise their nervousness. Horace had told his immediate sleeping partners in the POW staff quarters about his grand plan to escape and return to the camp, so of course he had no option but to tell them the reason he was doing so.
They had been astounded as he told them about his sexual escapades in the quarry camp. Dave Crump had backed up Horace’s story as he explained how the young attractive German girl had asked for him by name. Horace was a little concerned. Some of these men had been locked up for nearly three years. The nearest they had been to a woman had been a glimpse of Rose in camp two or a village civilian worker passing through the camp occasionally. Of course, most of the men resorted to masturbation but the memories and the imagination needed to perform such an act had long since dulled. The poor diet did not help either.
As 11pm approached ever nearer Horace wondered if he was expendable, if any of his fellow roommates were willing to turn him in or even throw a spanner in the works of his grand plan so he would be shot as he ran to the forest. It would be easy to do. A pan dropped on the concrete floor would bring the guards running, as would removing one of the iron bars from the window. It was all so easy. He would be caught like a rabbit in the headlights. He felt so vulnerable. If he was taken out of the equation, would that allow one of his fellow prisoners to step into his shoes and possibly the arms of Rose? Dave Crump, perhaps? What if he had read the note, given it to Rose resealed, and perhaps whispered into the ear of the nearest German guard? Bang! One shot and Horace Greasley would be no more and Dave Crump would comfort the grieving German girl and worm his way into her affections. Horace bit his lip. He cursed himself for thinking such a thing. Dave had stuck his neck out by simply passing the notes on. He cursed himself for doubting Garwood, too, and the other boys in the room.
‘Are you ready?’
Garwood checked his watch. It was the only watch among the roommates of the staff quarters. Flapper had managed to hide it in each of the three camps and hung onto it for dear life. Horace would have liked it to help him with his return timing but he simply would not ask to borrow what was the big man’s pride and joy. He hoped Rose would be in possession of her own timepiece; if not, the moon and the stars would help. Horace stood by the window and looked up into the sky. It was a clear night; the moon as well as the arc lights illuminated the entire area and the forest beyond.
Two of the other men had risen from their bunks and stood in the darkness next to the table they had placed under the barred window.
‘Any second now,’ Garwood whispered.
Horace brushed a small insect from the left breast pocket on his jacket. Incredibly, he could feel his heart beating through the thick material. It was towards the end of September and a noticeable chill lingered in the air as it penetrated the wooden walls of the hut. But Horace felt as if he was in the heat of a furnace. His hands were hot and clammy and perspiration ran down the back of his neck. Flapper noticed the sheen on his friend’s brow.
‘It’s not too late, Jim. You can call it off, you know.’
Horace shook his head. He wanted to call it off, put a stop to all this nonsense. The war might be over in a few months’ time. It was not long to wait. Surely he did not need to risk his life for a few moments of passion? He felt a lump in his throat. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and his damned legs were still shaking. He was not doing this for a few minutes’ passion; he was doing this because he wanted to spend time with the woman he loved. He wanted to touch her, smell her, see her smiling face again and yes, he wanted to caress her naked body and feel himself between her naked thighs. The war might well be over in a few months… it might not. But this was a love that would not wait. It would not wait ten weeks, ten hours or even ten minutes. His English Rose was waiting somewhere in that darkene
d forest, a tantalising 50 yards away and if a whole regiment of Waffen SS stood between the barred window and the edge of the forest, he would still be prepared to give it a go.
Garwood gripped his arm. The four men instinctively ducked down as the smell of a strong German cigarette permeated the air. A few seconds later the patrol of four German guards slipped quietly past the window. The prisoners waited, eyes fixed on Garwood. He signalled as each minute passed. On two minutes Horace unlocked the shuttered glass panes and eased them slowly onto the back of the wooden walls securing them with a tiny bolt on each side. Ever so gently he pressed his face up to the barred window and craned his neck to get a glimpse of the far end of the barrack wall where occasionally the patrol would stand on the corner and light a cigarette.
Nothing.
There was no glow from any matches nor a cigarette. No smoke polluted the air. The guards had disappeared. They would be making their way down to the far end of the camp and in another few minutes would be the furthest possible distance from Horace’s escape route.
The men stood together without uttering a single word. Garwood studied the face of his precious watch. Three minutes passed and he gave the nod. Horace and another prisoner began loosening the architrave, exposing the cotter pins that held the bars in place. Horace’s hands were slippery and the task seemed to take a little bit longer than normal. The minute or so he took to remove the pins and lower the bars seemed to last an hour. Nevertheless, the bars slipped out effortlessly and they were placed directly on the floor underneath the window. They only had to remove two bars. Horace was not a big man – the Germans and their rations had seen to that – and as he lay on the table next to the window, the men either side of him prepared themselves.
Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? Page 17