Jimmy White was still awake. Horace had urged him a couple of times to give it a go but Jimmy had declined, claiming he would be in a better frame of mind the following evening. He had a point, thought Horace. He threw the earphones onto the bed in frustration.
‘All I can hear is fucking static, Jimmy. I haven’t heard one voice. Surely I should have heard a voice? I don’t want to hear Churchill or the fucking Queen, I just want to hear a voice. Hitler would have been nice, for once. I wouldn’t have minded if I’d heard Hitler speaking or even Musso-fucking-lini, but no, I’ve heard nothing.’
Jimmy rolled over onto his stomach. ‘It might be wired up wrong. I’ll take a look at it tomorrow.’
Flapper chipped in. ‘Give me a go, Jim.’
Horace handed him the earphones. ‘Be my guest.’
Despite his best intentions Flapper didn’t have the delicate fingers or the patience to participate in such an exercise. After ten minutes he cast the earphones back onto the bed.
‘I’m going to kip. Chalky’s right – we can take a look at it tomorrow.’
Jimmy White eased himself from Horace’s bunk and walked gingerly over to his bunk. Horace replaced the false wooden panel with a sigh and wandered over to help Garwood replace the chimney and the iron plate. At least they’d achieved something, he thought to himself. The radio was wired up and ready for a little fine-tuning tomorrow. It might take a day or two but they’d get there.
Sleep didn’t come easy. He dozed but couldn’t fall into a deep slumber.
Unbeknown to Horace, Jock Strain couldn’t either. What the hell Jim Greasley was doing, removing the bloody panel above his shelf again? He eased himself from his bunk and crept over towards him. ‘What the fuck are you up to?’ he asked.
‘I can’t sleep, Jock. I thought I’d give it another go.’
So Horace sat on one end of the bunk and Jock sat on the other. They sat in silence for almost an hour while Horace tried every combination. Slowly, carefully, like a safe cracker on the combination wheel of a safe, he learned to sense when the winding units had come to the end of the line and changed direction. After about 20 minutes, when he was sure the winders had come to the end again, he would start all over again. Each time he tried to go slower and slower. He’d heard voices the last couple of times – or was that his imagination? He wanted to hear voices – was his mind playing tricks on him? No, he’d definitely heard something. He sighed and looked across at Jock. Miraculously he was still awake.
‘One more go, Haggis, eh? Then we can turn in. Get Jimmy to take a look tomorrow.’
Jock Strain nodded, rubbing at his eyes.
Horace took a deep breath and started again. Five minutes into the repeat performance he paused. There was no mistaking it this time – he’d definitely heard something.
The Scot sensed it too, noticing a spark of interest in the face that had showed no emotion for nearly two hours. ‘What is it, Jim?’
Horace held up a hand, lightened his grip on the winding wheel. ‘I dunno, Jock. It’s just that I thought I heard a drum beat.’
The hairs on Jock Strain’s body rose. ‘Describe it, Jim.’
Horace shrugged. ‘What do you mean? It was a drum beat – how do you describe that? It just went boom… boom… boom. You know? Like a drum beat.’
‘Drum radio,’ Jock whispered. ‘Drum radio,’ he repeated a little louder.
‘What, Jock? What did you say?’
Jock leapt to his feet. He positioned himself on his knees next to the radio set. ‘Just you keep that bloody winder where it is, Jim. You might have something.’
‘Have something? What do you mean? Some bugger bashing away on a skin drum? Sorry, Jock, but that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when we rigged this little beauty up. I had more…’
‘Drum radio, Jim!’
‘What?’
‘Drum radio, a BBC station brought out a few weeks after you were captured in France. You’ve never heard of it, have you?’
Horace shook his head.
‘It’s a news station. I caught a couple of broadcasts before I left for France. I came into the war a little after you.’
‘A BBC station?’
Jock grinned. Horace repositioned his earphones as his fingers barely came into contact with the winder. Ever so delicately he eased the wheels to the right and left, taking care not to take them too far in either direction. All of a sudden he stopped breathing, his skin tingled and shivers ran the length of his spine. The unmistakable public school tones of a BBC newsreader burst into his eardrums.
Horace took his fingers from the wheel and breathed deeply. He held up a hand and then a thumb and a smile as wide as the mouth of the Thames burst across his face as he shouted to his friend kneeling on the floor. ‘We’ve got the news, Jock! We’ve got the fucking BBC news!’ Horace burst into tears and Jock quickly followed suit, all too aware of the effect a man crying had on him. Jimmy White heard the commotion and rose from his sick bed.
‘Shut the fuck up, you two! You’ll have Jerry in here.’
The sight of his two friends hugging each other with tears rolling down their cheeks astounded the radio ham. It could mean only one thing. ‘It’s working, isn’t it?’ Jimmy asked in disbelief.
Horace was still sobbing as he rose to greet him. ‘We’ve got the BBC news, Chalky. You’re a bloody genius, man!’
More men rose from their beds now. Freddie Rogers and Dave Crump came over too. By this time Horace was back on the earphones with the same, silly grin on his face listening to a report from Tunisia in North Africa. The Allies, it seemed, were heading for another victory and had full control of North Africa.
The smiling yet tearful faces of Flapper Garwood, Jock and now Jimmy White left the other men in the staff working quarters at Freiwaldau in German-occupied Silesia under no illusion as to what had been achieved. They slapped Horace on the back; some shook Jimmy White’s hand and one even planted a big wet kiss on his cheek. They were heroes. Heroes in the same sense as a VC winner taking out a German machine-gun post, or a scheming general whose cunning plans swung the battle against all the odds. They were Montgomery, Churchill, General McArthur and Douglas Bader rolled into one.
Against all odds Joseph Horace Greasley and Jimmy White had smuggled in and built a radio capable of picking up a BBC news channel under the noses of their German captors. It was simply monumental – a triumph that ranked up there with anything Horace had achieved so far. It was another personal victory for him and at that very moment, his moment of conquest, he thought back to the woman who had made it all possible. The woman he loved with all his heart.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The Drum radio station was picked up with little effort the following evening. The 12 men of the staff quarters took it in turn to listen to the news reports. They kicked in on the hour, every hour for about 15 minutes, 24 hours a day. Horace only listened to about five minutes of the news that night. He heard with satisfaction that German and Italian troops had turned against each other in Rome and were fighting with themselves. Surely, he thought to himself, it’s only a matter of months before this nightmare ends? Maybe weeks?
By the end of the following day every Allied prisoner of war in the camp at Freiwaldau was aware of the latest developments in the Second World War. In 24 hours the prisoners’ morale had hit an all-time high. They were smiling, chatting and smoking cigarettes openly, without asking permission of the guards. They were thinking of victory and of their families back home. The German guards sensed the change in attitude, but were seemingly powerless to do anything about it. Horace sat on his bunk peering through the open window. He looked out onto the camp as the men lined up for their early evening meal and he absorbed their smiles, their contentment and felt an enormous sense of achievement and pride. He’d made the difference.
After he’d eaten he lay on his bunk waiting for darkness. He couldn’t wait to share the good news with Rose. Horace got up and walked over
to where Flapper lay as he quietly went over the details of his plan.
‘If you think it’ll work, Jim, I’m happy to give it a go.’
Flapper Garwood, Horace thought. Could a man wish for a better friend? He hadn’t known this gentle giant before the war started, yet he’d been through thick and thin with him. In the camp outside Saubsdorf Garwood had lost over six stone and still he hadn’t complained, actually managing to think of others. He had helped Horace through that hell of a march and saved his life on the death train. He’d always been around and Horace was one hundred per cent sure he’d spared the lives of many other prisoners by killing Big Stoop.
Horace dared to think about the end of the war. The medals and the awards would be handed out like confetti. Would anyone even think of the soldiers incarcerated in the camps? Would the likes of Flapper Garwood receive any recognition? He doubted it very much.
Flapper had begged to be allowed to escape into the forest too but Horace and the escape committee had forbidden it. Everyone agreed that Horace had good reason to risk his life each time. He had two good reasons actually, Rose and the extra food he brought to the camp. Even Garwood had to admit that real escape was nigh on impossible. And where would it stop? More men would want to go and each man attempting an escape would increase the chance of capture for everyone. They remembered young Bruce Harwood and what the Germans had done to him. But for once, Horace would need a little help and Flapper Garwood was the obvious choice.
Rose sat open-mouthed as Horace took her through the events of the past 48 hours. She was sitting on a pew in the small church and leapt to her feet cheering as Horace told her about the first time he’d heard the voice from London. He laughed as she danced a jig around the small church, calling the Germans all the names under the sun. He was left in no doubt that this girl hated the Germans just as much as he did.
‘My father will be so pleased.’
As soon as the words passed her lips she stopped dead in her tracks. It was slip of the tongue, a burst of emotion she should have contained.
Horace had guessed all along that her father must have known about his daughter’s trips to the camp, her relationship with an Allied prisoner of war and perhaps even the radio. Horace wondered if he’d supplied the parts. Rose had quite naturally wanted to protect him. Horace stood up and walked over to her. Her bottom lip had begun to tremble and her eyes were glazed over with a film of tears as she refused to look him in the eyes.
‘Don’t get upset, Rose. Not on such a wonderful evening as this.’
She buried her head in his shoulder and the tears started.
‘You knew all along?’
‘I suspected.’
She looked up; the tears fell onto her cheeks. ‘He hates them as much as you do. He’d spent 20 years building up that business and they just took it from him, took his Jewish workers away and stole his profits.’
Horace had forgotten about the rumours surrounding the Jews.
‘Fathers are wise, Rose, when it comes to their daughters. It wouldn’t surprise me if he suspected back in…’
‘No Jim, surely not?’
Horace shrugged his shoulders. ‘Let’s get out of here, Rose. We need to let the men celebrate. We need meat and vegetables for them.’
Rose wiped at her tears and managed to raise a smile.
‘I have something for you to celebrate with.’
Rose produced two small bottles of Polish vodka from her bag. ‘It’s not much, but your men need to toast a victory.’
Horace took the two bottles and placed them on the floor. He pulled Rose towards him and kissed her for what seemed like an eternity. Afterwards they walked from the church and into the forest.
‘Tonight, Rose, we are supplying the men with fresh chicken.’
Rose whistled. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Tonight it’s a smash and grab exercise. You’re not coming with me.’
‘But Jim, I always…’
Horace placed a finger on her lips, leaned forward and kissed her gently. ‘Not tonight, Rose. It’s going to be noisy and dangerous. Tonight two soldiers of the British Army are going to stage a military exercise that will make the Duke of Wellington’s exploits seem tame.’
Rose smiled. ‘I do not know of the Duke and his wellingtons.’
Horace laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter, Rose. You just need to get yourself back home. It’s a little risky. Remember, those hens are bloody noisy.’
Rose sighed, placed a hand on her heart and feigned a swoon. ‘You are so brave, fighting those hens…’
Horace kissed her again and as he pulled back, her hand found the small of his back and she held him there. She pressed her hips into him. ‘Jim, I have not told you, there is a price to pay for that vodka.’ She smiled. ‘Come with me into the forest and I will explain.’
Rose took his hand and led him back into the forest. Horace suspected he knew exactly what sort of currency Rose was talking about.
Flapper sat in the forest. He was breathing heavily. It had only been a 50-yard sprint from the hut but the adrenaline coursing through his body made the small run feel like a marathon. He had run in Jim Greasley’s footsteps. He had escaped through the same barred window and now sat in the same forest where Jim had all his adventures – and he was envious. The feeling of freedom was incredible. He could run, he could hide, he could walk through the forest without the constant presence of a German uniform. Garwood took full advantage of the light of the full moon as he strolled slowly and quietly in between the trees. Every few paces he stopped, breathed deeply and drank in the silent, free atmosphere of Silesia.
He had escaped a little after midnight and been given instructions exactly where to meet his friend. The rendezvous would be at 1.30am. Flapper had an hour and a half to enjoy the ambience of a free environment, an unrestricted world.
Horace sat outside the small church chewing at his nails. Jesus, he thought, where is he? It had to be nearly two o’clock. Horace had left Rose just after 1.15 according to her watch, and it was only a ten-minute walk back to the church. He didn’t have a watch himself but figured at least 25 minutes had passed.
Garwood was in torment. It was way past the time he’d arranged to meet Jim Greasley and he sat on the edge of the forest as the tears streamed down his face. He wondered just what sort of character Jim Greasley was. He knew now why his friend and the escape committee wanted to prevent the men from breaking out into the forest.
Garwood had thought himself so controlled as he’d made that 50-yard dash, so focused on the planned operation ahead. He’d thought it would be just a matter of course that he’d turn round after the mission had been completed and simply slip back into the camp. It wasn’t that easy.
He knew it was stupid, knew it amounted to signing his own death warrant, but still he felt the urge to run, run away from his captors, his incarceration. He had no maps, no provisions, no money and no extra clothing, yet still there was a feeling so strong it was tearing him apart. Surely he owed it to himself to at least try? He’d use the sun for direction, live off the land and raid the small villages en route as Jim Greasley was doing for meat and vegetables. He just needed to head north and make for the Baltic Sea. Once there he’d stow away on a ship to England. It wouldn’t be easy but he’d make it.
Horace was pacing the ground outside the church. It was well after two o’clock. Something had happened. Had his mate been caught by the Germans? Would they have discovered that he was missing too? The camp would be in uproar, every German guard rallied and in position patrolling the perimeter. They would be out looking for him and he would have no chance of getting back in. All this to provide a little feast for the men. It was stupid. The committee was right: two men escaping doubled the chance of capture.
Why hadn’t he kept to the normal routine – a couple of rabbits, a few potatoes and back into the camp? They had the radio set up; why risk such an achievement to provide a few extra bits of meat? Horace picked up his coat and s
tarted walking before he realised he didn’t know where to walk to. The camp – he’d need to go to the camp to see if the alarm had been raised. Perhaps Flapper had just bottled it. Perhaps Flapper was still tucked up in his bed. Yes, that was it. He’d changed his mind.
Horace had gone no more than 20 yards when he heard his name being called behind him. Garwood stood in the shadows. He stepped forward, he was red-faced, his cheeks stained with grime. ‘Jim, I’m…’
‘Where the hell have you been, Flapper? One thirty, we said.’
‘I’m sorry, Jim. I…’
At that moment Horace realised what had been going on in his friend’s head. They were the same thoughts he’d had a hundred times. The guilt, the anguish, the sense of duty. Wondering if it were possible to make it back to England and thoughts of friends and family back home. ‘You were going to head for Blighty, weren’t you?’
Flapper stuttered, uncomfortable with the telepathic-like intrusion into his mind.
‘You knew. You…’
‘I’ve been there, Flapper. I’ve been there more times than you’d care to imagine.’
Garwood leaned against a tree and slumped to the floor. Horace knelt beside him as Flapper released his burden.
‘I must have run over two miles before I turned back. I’d convinced myself it would be so easy. Then I realised I didn’t know what direction I was heading in and I began thinking of you and the lads and the radio and the feast we’d planned and how I’d be letting everybody down because of my selfishness.’
Horace listened intently as his friend poured his heart out. ‘Our place is in the camp, Flapper.’
Garwood looked up and wiped a tear from the side of his face.
Horace continued. ‘We’ve done more for the bloody war effort than the average squaddie in the trenches of France taking out the Germans. We are needed in the camps, men like us. That’s where the likes of you and I belong. I wouldn’t be here, Flapper, if it wasn’t for you. You saved my life on that train. I…’
Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? Page 22