‘See, Jim, all the villagers keep a vegetable garden.’ Horace peered out over the well-cultivated land. He could see the tops of turnips and winter swedes and a few bushes of sprouts.
‘And Jim, some keep livestock.’ She grinned as she pointed to several rabbit hutches and hen huts. ‘We need to get some more meat into you, Jim Greasley.’
This wasn’t the sort of hunting Horace had in mind but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Again Rose seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t feel too bad about it, Jim – most of these villagers are German.’
That sealed it. At first they collected sprouts and a few carrots, then as many small swedes as Horace could squeeze into his pockets.
‘Next time you should bring a bag, Rose. I’ll be able to get a few turnips, too.’
‘I will. But now, darling, it’s time for meat.’
Horace pointed to a hen house ten yards from the nearest back wall of a small cottage. ‘Over there. You keep watch and give me a little whistle if you notice a light going on or a curtain moving.’
He was just about to set off when she grabbed at him. ‘Are you mad, Jim? Haven’t you heard the noise a hen makes when it’s in danger? Go for the rabbits – they are silent.’
Horace lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. ‘You’re right, Rose, not just a pretty face.’
‘I have my uses, Jim.’ She winked as Horace set off slowly on his hands and knees, taking care to keep his head down. The hutches weren’t locked: the wire meshed gates were simply held together with twine. The rabbits reminded Horace of the prisoners back at the camp. Escape would have been easy for the rabbits by simply gnawing through the rope. But they weren’t going anywhere – why should they? They had a warm bed and they were fed regularly. Why should they venture out into the great unknown?
As Horace reached in and grabbed the first rabbit he wondered whether this poor creature ever had any inclination of escape, ever thought for one moment to start chewing at the twine. He dispatched the rabbit with a familiar pull and twist at the back of its neck. The third and fourth vertebrae and the spinal column separated with little effort and life left the small creature immediately. His father had always told him not to hang back while teaching him the trick in the fields and forests of Ibstock.
Horace remembered the first few kills when he had delayed the inevitable, how he’d thought about the feelings of the rabbit and whether its offspring would miss its mother or father that night as he or she failed to return. Tonight was different. Tonight there was no remorse, nor feelings of guilt. He reached into the cage again, caught the hind legs of another rabbit and repeated the exercise. The creature fell limp but then twitched a three-second dance of death as the nerves of its body made a final protest. Horace remembered the first time this had happened to him as his father had killed a rabbit and handed it to him to hold. Reluctantly he’d held on tightly to the back legs and after a few seconds the nerve reaction had kicked in. Horace had squealed, convinced the rabbit had come back to life and instinctively threw it three feet into a ditch. His father had doubled up laughing at his son’s reaction, while Horace had stood there feeling stupid and embarrassed.
He returned to Rose, all smiles.
‘We’ll be eating well tomorrow, Rose – rabbit stew.’
Rose kissed him passionately for two or three seconds by way of a token reward and just for a second he got the urge to make love to her right there in the forest. Jesus he thought, no woman had ever made him feel this way. He wished he could fight the feelings, wished he could just go one whole day without thinking about her and one whole night without imagining the beautiful sensual folds of her body, her pert breasts and the soft feel and taste of her vagina. Just one day and night he thought, just 24 hours…
As Horace tied a rabbit down each trouser leg he thanked his lucky stars that the Russian officer’s uniform he’d been given to wear belonged to a man far bigger than him. The trousers were held up by string and the dead creatures fitted quite comfortably down each leg with enough room to manoeuvre himself through the bars. He made an undignified entrance, the extra weight causing him to lose his balance and crash to the floor.
‘Fucking hell, Jim!’ It was Flapper. ‘I don’t mind you spending every sleeping hour shagging the arse off your little German bint, but some of us want some kip.’
‘Aye, shut the fuck up,’ shouted a Scottish voice.
Horace couldn’t contain his excitement any longer as he started to loosen the string on his waist. ‘Wait till you see what I’ve got, lads.’
Jock Strain struck a match and lit the candle underneath his bed.
‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed, ‘he’s getting that cock of his out again.’
‘No wait, watch,’ Horace said as he felt for the ears of the creature down his right leg. Then, like a magician at the London Palladium, he produced the rabbit right on cue, with perfect timing. ‘Hey presto!’
Jock Strain, the prisoners’ resident chef, was fully awake now, clearly interested in the additional supplies for the early evening recipe. ‘Where the hell did you get that?’
Horace didn’t answer and instead pulled out its mate from the other leg. He stood with the two animals held aloft in triumph. ‘Once a hunter, always a hunter,’ he exclaimed. He didn’t have the heart to tell the men they were domesticated rabbits he’d simply lifted from a hutch.
‘Holy mother of God!’
‘Rabbit stew.’
‘Meat.’
‘Fucking hell!’
Most of the men were awake now, as Flapper Garwood tried to contain the noise and the men’s excitement. He looked at his watch. ‘I make it about another minute before Jerry walks past that window. If you don’t shut the fuck up nobody will get anything except a night or two in the hole.’
The warning registered and silence fell through the room. Flapper gave Horace a congratulatory slap across the back as Jock got up from his bunk to examine the catch. ‘Magic, Jim, bloody magic. What a stew we’re going to have today! If only we had a few more vegetables to pack it out a bit.’
Suddenly Horace remembered the swedes and carrots and winter sprouts, and a big smile spread across his face.
‘What? What is it now?’ Jock asked.
Jock Strain cooked for just over 95 men. The Germans normally supplied the provisions early in the morning with the chef preparing the vegetables, meat and stock during the course of the day. They’d talked long and hard about saving one of the rabbits for another day but Horace had boasted there were plenty more where that had come from. He felt he owed the men something for helping him with his escape plan every time he broke out and he felt it was the least he could do. He vowed to bring a little something back each time, even if it was just a few extra vegetables.
So the men had voted for a feast and nothing had been wasted. Every single last morsel of flesh from the two rabbits went into the stew. Brains, heart, liver, kidney, lungs – even the genitals from the male rabbit. The carcasses had been left in the pot until the very last minute so that every ounce of goodness had soaked in to the stew.
The smell from the pot was different; the men noticed the extra meat and vegetables straight away. Suddenly the one-ladle ration had become two. Jock made a point of telling each man receiving the extra ladle that there would be more of the same if they kept their mouths shut. The German guards didn’t seem to notice – they were too occupied discussing their fears about the way the war was progressing. Horace wasn’t just imagining it; there was definitely an attitude change coming over the guards. Telltale signs: anxiety, a certain nervousness, an occasional smile in the direction of a prisoner. Were they preparing for the end of the conflict? Were they getting ready for defeat?
Late the following afternoon Horace was approached by one of the most senior prisoners in the camp. Sergeant Major Harris was with the regiment of the 10th Lancers. Almost to a man his comrades had been wiped out at Abbeville in France in the early days of the war.
Ser
geant Major Harris asked Horace to take a walk as the rest of the men queued up for the evening ration. They walked slowly around the perimeter of the camp, Sergeant Major Harris half a step ahead of Horace with his hands behind his back.
The Sergeant Major stopped and looked around. Horace took that as his cue to stop too.
‘Not too many Huns around here, Greasley, are there?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. What I want to talk to you about is rather sensitive.’
Horace felt he knew what was on the Sergeant Major’s mind.
‘I know all about you, Jim Greasley, and I know what you’ve been getting up to.’
Horace felt like a ten-year-old schoolboy waiting outside the headmaster’s office. Horace was waiting for a lecture, for six of the best. But the tirade never came.
‘I know how many times you’ve escaped and what it is you’ve been doing.’ He gave a little grin and Horace had to concentrate hard to keep his face straight.
‘And I know all about the rabbits too, and the extra bits and pieces you put in the pot for the chaps.’
The Sergeant Major placed a hand on Horace’s shoulder and squeezed gently.
‘Do you have any idea what you have done for the men’s morale?’
Horace opened his mouth to deliver an apology, but the Sergeant Major continued.
‘You’re a hero, Greasley. You give a glimmer of hope to the poor wretched souls in here.’ He smiled again. ‘Me included. You’re giving a stiff two fingers to Jerry every time you break out of here and the effect you are having on the men is magnificent.’
The Sergeant Major seemed to pause for a second or two, as if he was choosing his words carefully. ‘You realise that it is the duty of every prisoner to try and escape and make it back to England, don’t you?’
Horace wanted to say yes, wanted to tell Sergeant Major Harris that it was the first thought that crossed his mind as soon as he broke from the cover of the camp. He wanted to tell him how Rose would be bringing him a map and money too, and that a compass and clothing would follow soon. He wanted to tell Sergeant Major Harris how he’d begged the escape committee for help and that he wanted to get back to England, he really did. The next sentence from Sergeant Major Harris’s lips stunned him.
‘I don’t want you to make it back to England, Greasley.’
‘What, sir? I… I don’t understand. I was…’
‘I want you to stay put, continue what you’re doing. The war is all but over; you’ll be home quick enough.’
‘But, sir…’
‘That’s an order, Greasley.’
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Horace continued his meetings with Rose. They made love on a regular basis and continued with their forays into the surrounding villages to supplement the prisoners’ soup pot. The map and money and the other items were seldom mentioned and never materialised. Rose continued supplying the details of the events of the war as they were relayed over the airwaves. Horace lapped up the information voraciously but felt a profound frustration that he couldn’t hear the information first hand, detail by detail.
It was summer of 1943, the fourth Horace had spent in captivity. Deportation of Jews from the Warsaw ghetto to Treblinka extermination camp had begun, even as German civilians were being evacuated from Berlin. Rome had been bombed by the Allies for the first time and by the end of August Italy was drawing up plans to surrender. It all seemed to be going well for the Allies but the Germans showed no signs of letting up their offensive. In a worrying development, scientist Wernher von Braun briefed Hitler on the V2 rocket and the project was approved as a top priority.
Horace and Rose lay completely naked on top of the rug that had been stored for so long in the back of the small church. Rose lay with her head on Horace’s chest, breathing lightly, slowly recovering from her exertions. Horace stroked her hair, trying to control his own breathing too. Both were bathed in perspiration from the unusually sultry evening. Horace studied the beautifully formed small of her back as it blended perfectly into her buttocks. He stretched down and caressed her backside. She purred with approval. In one swift movement, Horace reached under her hip bone and flipped Rose onto her back, then lay over her with his arms supporting his weight. Rose was taken by surprise as the wind was knocked from her lungs.
‘That’s a little rougher than I’m used to, Jim, but if you want to make love to me again then I submit.’
It was a pleasant thought, but the last thing on his mind.
‘Can you get me a radio, Rose?’
‘A what?’
‘A radio.’
‘I heard you, Jim. I heard you the first time.’
‘Well, can you?’
Rose reached across for her underwear and began to dress herself. Horace followed suit as he pulled his trousers from the back of the pew. Rose was thinking; he didn’t want to interrupt her thoughts. After a few minutes she spoke.
‘Impossible, Jim.’
Horace’s face fell. ‘But why?’
Rose pulled her light cotton dress up over her thighs and began fastening the buttons. His eyes were drawn to her firm young breasts.
‘The Germans confiscated every radio in the village nearly a year ago.’
‘But your father has one, you listen, you bring me…’
‘Yes. It’s in the attic of our house, Jim, and it’s the size of a small horse, built into an old dresser. It’s not as if it will fit in my purse.’
Horace tried to hide his disappointment. He had seen the same radio sets in the upmarket furniture stores around Ibstock and in Leicester city centre. They were built into sideboards and desks, each one taking at least two men to load it into a furniture wagon for delivery to the wealthier families in the area. He wanted to push Rose further, ask if it were possible to get a smaller model, but he realised that the villages in Silesia were more backward when it came to technology than his home town in Leicestershire. Even if the radio was a more manageable size – one that Rose could carry on her own – it was simply too much of a risk to ask her to board a train in German-occupied Poland, on a train heading in the direction of Allied prisoner of war camps. Jesus… how could he be so stupid?
‘Not to worry, Rose – it was just a thought. Let’s go rabbit hunting.’
The two lovers dressed and walked into the forest hand in hand in the direction of the village. The roof of the forest gradually disappeared as they neared the village and the stars that hung high in the sky illuminated their way like tiny seeds of light.
They’d perfected their craft and targeted different villages at random. They had been lucky and hadn’t been caught, but Horace felt that their luck would run out soon. They’d pillaged the surrounding villages for months now and the local rabbit population was dwindling rapidly. There had even been fights and arguments among the civilian workers in the camp suspicious of each other, wondering whether there was a thief in their midst. It was almost comical, and Horace had had to control his laughter on more than one occasion. The prisoners were above suspicion. How on earth could they be responsible? They were under lock and key every single night and there were no signs that any of them had escaped.
As they neared the edge of the wood the dim lights of a few cottages shone through the branches of the trees. Rose turned and faced him.
‘I could smuggle the parts in for you.’
‘What?’
‘The radio parts. If you tell me what parts you need to build a radio I could try and get them for you.’
The following morning Horace had requested that Jimmy White – a sapper from the Isle of Wight – meet him in the barber’s quarter. At first, Jimmy White had declined the offer but was told in no uncertain terms by a superior officer to report. A little after ten, Jimmy sauntered in, mumbling that he didn’t need a damned haircut, he’d only seen Horace two weeks ago. He sat down in the chair, still moaning.
‘I don’t know what your fucking game is, Jim. I like a bit of length on my
hair. Jesus, fuck! I went long enough when those bastards shaved it to the wood. Now it seems you want to do the same.’ Jimmy White looked into the broken, makeshift mirror and caught a look in Horace’s eyes that told him he hadn’t been summonsed for a haircut.
Jimmy White smiled and waved his forefinger at the mirror. ‘You’re fucking up to something, Jim Greasley, aren’t you? I might have known. I’ve been hearing rumours about you; it wouldn’t surprise me if they were true.’
‘Nice weather we’re having lately, sir.’
‘C’mon Greasley, stop pissing about.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.’ Horace grinned. ‘Something for the weekend?’
Jimmy White sat in the chair and although Horace’s scissors were poised at the ready, they were never called into action. Horace kept up the charade for a minute or two then decided he’d wound the man up enough.
‘I hear you’re a bit of a radio ham, Jimmy.’
‘I knew it,’ Jimmy White exclaimed. ‘I knew you didn’t bring me here for a haircut.’
Horace grinned. ‘Absolutely right. I brought you here to build a radio.’
Jimmy White’s mouth fell open. ‘You’re fucking mad. Build a radio? You’re fucking crazy.’
Horace pulled at a strand of Jimmy White’s hair and snipped at it with his scissors.
Jimmy pulled his head away. ‘I’ve heard the stories; you escape from the camp at night and raid the villages, pinching rabbits and hens. You’re a fucking nutter. And now you want to build a bloody radio?’
‘That’s right. I’ll get you the parts.’
‘So, it’s true? It is you that escapes?’
Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? Page 20