Garwood took his arm and whispered quietly, ‘Watch my fucking veggies, country boy, or I’ll batter you when you get back in.’
Horace grinned. ‘I will, pal… I will.’
The men either side of him signalled and pushed together. ‘Heave…’ they whispered in unison.
Horace slid quickly over the threshold of the window. The momentum of the push propelled him forward and as he made a dive, he tucked his head and his arms into his body and the quiet, well-executed forward roll brought him back onto his feet again. He crouched down, breathing heavily, and his eyes swept the wide expanse to the front and on each side of him. All was silent, but Jesus, he cursed, it was lit up like bloody Oxford Street at Christmas time. Not for the first time he wondered what the hell he was doing, but then as always that image drifted into his head. That image of innocence, of trust, and those beautiful sad eyes. Those same sad eyes that cried out for the love of an English prisoner.
In just over six seconds he had covered the distance through the middle of the vegetable patch and stood panting just a few yards inside the break of the forest.
He’d made it. Incredibly, he’d escaped from a German prisoner of war camp. If Horace was truthful with himself, it had been quite easy. He stood in the shadow of the dark forest, looking back at the huge arc lights illuminating the barrack rooms and huts, the front gates and the other outbuildings. He slipped back behind a tree and noticed the shadows of the two German guards lengthening as they approached the camp gates. He crouched down, thinking it wise to wait a minute or two until they had started the next patrol of the perimeter.
He smelled Rose a split second before he felt her knock him to the ground. She pounced on him like a lioness taking her prey. As they embraced they spilled out into the opening of the forest. Their cover had been broken but neither cared as they kissed passionately
‘I love you, Jim. I’ve missed you,’ she whispered into his ear. The tears rolled down her cheeks as their lips locked together again. Rose clenched her hands together, her nails biting into the back of his neck.
‘What was that?’ The younger of the German guards asked as he peered into the darkness of the forest.
‘What was what?’ his partner on patrol asked.
‘I thought I heard a voice, thought I saw something over there.’ He pointed directly to where Horace and Rose lay.
The sound of a German voice brought Horace to his senses and he lay face down with his hand over his lover’s mouth. She too, could see the German soldiers peering over towards them, and her moment of lust and animal instinct was replaced by one of sheer terror. She trembled with fear, sure that her movement would give their position away. Slowly she lowered her head into the forest floor and began to weep. Horace stroked her hair gently. How could they have been so stupid, so complacent? The Germans had seen them, of that he was convinced.
‘We must go and check, Helmut.’ The young guard was keen for a little adventure, a little sport. He was bored with this duty – the same patrol, the same shift, night after night. He knew he was fortunate to be posted to this camp only four miles from his home village, and he knew he would be safe to see out the remainder of the war here, but he longed for something to happen. At times he almost craved a front line posting. He wanted to fight for the Fatherland, to further the cause of the Third Reich and the Fuehrer’s ideals and philosophy. Not Russia though… no, he would rather stay here than be posted to the frozen Russian front. He’d heard the stories, the rumours. Perhaps he was better off where he was, where the only risk of injury was from a hot pipe or a stray bit of barbed wire.
‘We must investigate,’ he repeated to the older man. ‘One of the prisoners may have escaped.’
The older man was a little bit more reluctant; he’d seen it all before. A fox calling or an owl hooting could give the impression of a human voice on the evening breeze. He let out a sigh. Nevertheless they would need to check it out. The thing was, he couldn’t see a damn thing for those huge arc lights shining in his face.
‘Why walk all the way over there, Fritz? Come, let us walk round the huts once more. We’ll check the doors and windows. If they are secure there is no use getting our boots dirty in the mud.’
‘But Helmut, we must…’
‘Shush, youngster, do as I say. If we find anything untoward then we’ll go looking in the forest.’
Without waiting for an answer the older and wiser German guard struck a match, lit up a cigarette and walked towards the prisoners’ barracks. Fritz Handell-Bosch kicked at the heels of his boots, sighed and reluctantly followed in the wake of the senior man.
Horace couldn’t believe his luck as he watched the two Germans disappear from view. He pulled Rose to her feet and they ran quietly into the dark forest. When Rose was sure she was out of sight of the camp she pulled out a torch and switched it on. They held hands; Rose led the way.
‘You look as if you know where you are going.’
She looked back, nodded and continued her progress through the forest. After about half a mile the forest opened out into a small clearing. Horace looked at the small building Rose was pointing to.
‘It’s a small church, Jim. There are many in the forests of Silesia.’
‘A church? A bloody church? I’m sorry, Rose, but I don’t feel much like praying tonight. In fact I think it’s about time I told you all about my religious views.’
Rose held a finger to his lips, ‘Be quiet, stupid, I’ve no intention of praying either. It’s warm and dry and we won’t be disturbed.’
Her smile said it all as she pulled him towards the tiny entrance. She pulled at the door handle and they walked inside. It was an exact mini replica of a large church with an altar and three small pews and even a stained glass window with a picture of Jesus on the cross looking out into the forest. One or two panes of glass were cracked but otherwise the small church was well looked after.
‘The villages surrounding the forest take turns to look after it,’ she said, by way of an explanation. ‘It’s seen as a sort of sanctuary where people can be alone, and of course it acts as a shelter in the winter for the woodcutters and the farmers.’
Horace took her in his arms. ‘Where people can be alone… I like the sound of that.’
They kissed again, a long lingering kiss. No Germans to disturb them this time. Rose felt his hardness and thrust her hips forward, moaning with pleasure as her pelvic bone came into contact with his ever stiffening penis. Horace had waited too long. Rose had waited too long. Despite the cold air hanging in the ancient place of worship they pulled each other’s clothes off, throwing them to the floor in an untidy heap. Rose took a step back, shivered a little and Horace took in the wonderful view as she lay back on the thin narrow ledge of the small pew. As he moved forward she hooked her leg over the pew in front, exposing her moist vaginal opening. Horace needed no further instruction as he lowered himself gently on top. She took his hardness in her hands and delicately guided him inside her as she gasped out loud.
Horace made love to her slowly. This time there was no hurry and he brought her expertly to the point of orgasm. As her back arched and she stiffened up, raking her nails into his back, he quickened his movement accordingly. For once she could cry out loudly with no fear of anyone hearing, and the noise of her passionate wail triggered the involuntary action deep inside that led Horace to his own earth-shattering release.
It was three o’clock in the morning before Horace made it back to the camp. He watched the guards for over 20 minutes. Their routine hadn’t changed. He waited a full four agonising minutes once they’d disappeared round the side of the hut then made a quick bolt for the window. He loosened off the temporary wooden bars and leapt through. The old bars were back in place with the architrave set firm and he was tucked up in bed with a full minute to spare before the two guards passed his window again. No one in the staff room had even heard him return. He lay with a satisfied grin on his face and thought if this was the worst the Germ
ans could throw at him then he would sit it out for the rest of the war.
Rose had cheered him up even further as she’d told him about the latest Allied victories. Reports were being heard around the world by people listening to the BBC World Service, but in the camp in Freiwaldau in Silesia, the Allied prisoners of war heard nothing. Stalingrad was now completely surrounded by German troops. However, Germany was being bombed heavily by Allied warplanes. By mutual agreement the Americans bombed in the hours of daylight, and the RAF by night.
Incredibly, Horace broke out of the camp another seven times that month, his confidence growing with each foray, his lovemaking continuing in the small church in the heart of the forest. Each night they met Rose delivered the latest developments in the war. Although the German propaganda machine tried to stifle the story of the successes of the Allied bombing raids, word filtered through the grapevine of the German civilian population, reaching right into the villages of Silesia.
By mid-October 1942 the Russian system of ferrying troops across the Volga directly into Stalingrad seemed to be working. The German regiments were floundering in the city as the harsh winter began to bite. Huge battles were taking place all over the world. Montgomery was active at El Alamein and Rommel returned from his sick bed in Germany to lead his corps in Africa. On 26 October the naval battle of Santa Cruz between American and Japanese forces began. At the end of the month in London, leading clergymen would lead a protest to register public outrage over Nazi Germany’s persecution of the Jews.
If the Allies were lulled into a sense of false security, believing the end of the war may just be in sight, Winston Churchill counteracted any complacency with a speech in parliament. ‘This is not the end,’ he stated in his powerful tones. ‘It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.’
On 18 November the RAF inflicted heavy damages on Berlin. In what many believed was a turning point in the Second World War the battle of Stalingrad had turned. General Friedrich Paulus sent Adolf Hitler a telegram saying the German Sixth Army was surrounded. Hitler ordered Paulus not to surrender or retreat under any circumstances. Der Kessel – the cauldron – was the description Paulus used to describe the fighting raging in the city.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
The peace of the camp was a far cry from the frenzied activity occurring around the world. By now Horace was desperate for more information as he suspected the tide had turned in favour of the Allies. Each morning after their night-time rendezvous he happily relayed the second-hand information Rose had supplied to him. The men also wanted to hear about the gory details of his sexual encounter but Horace was ever the gentleman, refusing to disclose any information about his lusty performance and his lover’s eagerness and willingness to please.
Horace made one concession. As he crept back through the window out of the freezing cold early morning mist towards the end of November, his good friend Freddie Rogers lay wide awake on his bunk. His soft voice startled Horace.
‘Is she a pretty girl, Jim?’
Horace peered through the darkness, walked over and sat on the bottom of his friend’s bunk.
‘She is that, Fred… a real stunner, 20 years old and the body of a film star.’
‘And you’ve been shagging her, right?’
Horace grinned; he said nothing but his face told the story.
‘You lucky bastard. You don’t want to swap places and give me a ride one night, do you?’
Horace laughed, slapped his friend’s leg. ‘You couldn’t compete, Freddie boy. I’m the Leicesters’ greatest lover,’ he said as he set off to get some sleep before the seven o’clock roll call.
Fred Rogers took a hold of his trouser leg as he leaned from the bed. ‘One thing, Jim.’
‘What is it?’
‘A little favour.’
‘Go on.’
Freddie Rogers paused for a second.
‘Let me smell your fingers.’
‘What?’ Horace recoiled in shock. ‘I will not, you dirty bastard.’ He laughed, sincerely believing his friend was joking. But Freddie was not laughing; he couldn’t have been more serious.
‘Please, Jim, just let me smell them. It’s been three years since I’ve had my fingers in a fine English girl, three years, big man… please.’
Horace was caught between a rock and a hard place. His friend was invading his privacy; it was almost like him sleeping with Rose.
‘Please, Jim, three long years since I smelled a fine English quim.’
Horace wanted to tell him to piss off right there and then, to let his friend feel the back of his hand. He didn’t know what came over him. Something triggered in the inner reaches of his brain. Compassion? Pity? He didn’t know, but he found himself standing over his friend wafting the two fingers of his right hand a couple of inches from his nose.
Despite the darkness of the hour Horace noticed a fine film of tears in the man’s eyes. Memories of home, of normality, memories denied to the man for so long. Horace dropped his hand and his friend smiled and broke into a poem. It was a soft whisper, one the rest of the men couldn’t hear. It was a private toast given by Freddie Rogers to his good friend Horace Greasley.
‘Here’s to the cut that never heals, the more you touch it the softer it feels. You can wash it with soap, you can scrub it with soda, but it never loses that Billingsgate odour.’
It was the funniest poem Horace had ever heard but neither man laughed. Freddie Rogers hadn’t wanted to crack a joke; he could not have been more serious. As Horace walked away to catch a few hours’ sleep he wondered what three years’ captivity and being deprived of everything that was natural to a man was doing to these men’s minds.
Over the coming months, if Freddie Rogers was awake when Horace returned from the forest (and normally he was), it would become a bizarre ritual, an expected practice. Each time Fred would thank him, tell him it gave him something to look forward to. And of course he never stopped reminding Horace that he was the luckiest prisoner of war in the country.
Even the encroaching winter weather didn’t curtail Horace’s eagerness to get out of the camp and meet with Rose. Horace couldn’t help noticing that each time they entered the small inner sanctuary of the forest church it was obvious that a new candle had been placed, the pews had been dusted or one of the many Bibles re-arranged. Clearly this was a special place and well looked after by the villagers. Rose had hidden a thick woollen rug under one of the pews at the back of the church and she’d take it out and spread it in front of the altar. More often than not Rose would bring a few candles of her own and place them strategically around the church and turn off the lights. They’d make love totally naked, no matter how cold it was. Their natural exertions increased their body temperature and blocked out the cold. It would allow them to lie, still naked, sometimes for 20 minutes, gazing into each other’s eyes or caressing their hair without saying a word as the light from the candles cast tantalising shadows over their bodies. They were special moments, very special indeed, even more special than the act they’d followed.
On one occasion Rose had managed to bring a bottle of wine and some Silesian cheese. They made love and afterwards, sitting by the light of the candles, they sipped gently from the bottle and took turns to nibble at the block of strong-smelling cheese. They sat, still naked, as they edged ever closer to each other so that their lips were only inches apart. Their legs were intertwined, their arms locked around each other the way a groom and bride hold a glass of champagne, and they barely moved as their eyes locked together. As they neared the end of the bottle Horace experienced the dizziness and light-headed feeling so long denied him. The wine was too sweet, too cold and the cheese was far from fresh but it could have been dinner at the Ritz, such was the feeling. The best maître d’ in the world couldn’t have improved on the ambience of that small room in the heart of a Silesian forest in the depths of winter with the woman he’d kill a thousand men for.
But Horace still couldn’t control the urge to escape for good. Making his way back into the camp and through the window to rejoin his fellow prisoners grew ever harder. He took another sip from the bottle of wine, swirled it round his mouth and spoke.
‘I must get out of there, Rose, I must escape.’
Rose remained silent.
‘I need maps, compass and money, papers and civilian clothes.’
Tears were forming in her eyes, as they did every time Horace broached the subject. As he continued Rose began shaking her head, broke the eye contact. They’d had the discussion a hundred times and each time Rose would tell him how impossible it was. She’d get a map and some money and quite possibly some stolen Polish paperwork and a compass. But the only way to cover the 420 miles of German occupied land was by train. Roadblocks and patrols were set up every ten miles and making the journey through the dense pine forests of Silesia and Poland was simply impossible. Rose explained that even on the short, hour-long journey from her village to the camp, German guards would sweep through the train two or three times, inspecting each passenger’s paperwork.
‘You can’t speak Polish, Jim,’ she’d plead with him. ‘The first time you are questioned you’ll be caught. Can’t you see how stupid it is?’
And she’d sit in front of him with those big, sad, doleful eyes and beg him to sit the war out in the camp. She had her own selfish reasons. He was safe, free from the guns and the bombs and the artillery the rest of his countrymen were facing. They met regularly and made love and she gave him extra food, and each night like the one they were sharing made the war bearable. And of course she couldn’t wait to tell him of the Allied successes and of how the end of the war was in sight.
‘Please, Jim,’ she begged, ‘stay here with me. I couldn’t live if …’
Her voice tapered off in a whisper as she kissed him. They parted and she pressed her cheek into his. He felt the wetness of her tears as they came, each one tugging at his heart strings, each one pleading with him to stay.
Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? Page 18