Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell?

by Horace Greasley

‘No, Jim, we…’

  ‘Shut the fuck up and let me finish.’

  Flapper smiled, took the hint. He wanted to hear what his friend was saying. He needed to hear it. He’d felt it many times, felt that he was contributing in no small part to the war effort. He was looking after his own, those that needed it, protecting and guiding them through their own personal hells. Everyone had a role.

  ‘I know you killed Big Stoop.’

  Horace gauged his friend’s reaction to the statement. There was none.

  ‘God knows how many men’s lives you saved by taking that monster out. You’ve been my mate since camp one. I need you, Flapper. I need to talk to you every day, I need you at my right hand side when we plan our next ridiculous plan. I need you there to look after me and tell me what a silly bastard I am sometimes.’

  Horace grinned. ‘You’re no good to me, mate, in fucking England. I need you here, the men need you here. Never mind the British fucking Army telling you your duty is to escape.’ Horace leaned forward, gripped the big man firmly at the knee. ‘Your duty is here. Your duty is to protect the men, help me get the BBC news to every prisoner within 50 miles of here.’

  Flapper wanted to agree, to tell his friend that everything he was saying made sense and that it was the finest speech he’d ever heard. The feelings of guilt had drained away. Jim Greasley was right and amazingly, he wasn’t angry. But then again, Jim Greasley had had those same feelings too. Flapper had always felt there was a reason he’d been captured and incarcerated in the camps that there was a purpose for being there. Jim had explained it with perfect clarity… he was the overseer, the protector.

  And the man kneeling opposite him with a stupid, childlike grin on his face – who was this man? Jim Greasley was almost certainly one of the unsung heroes in the Second World War. He was the hunter, the gatherer, the engineer, the smuggler, the lover and the fighter, too. He was the most stubborn bastard he’d ever come across… and Flapper had been sent to watch over him.

  The two friends sat crouched in the small Silesian allotment. They had filled a large bag with fresh vegetables and were now eying the chicken coop on the far side of the garden. The hens were nervous; they sensed danger. It was uncanny. Night after night Horace and Rose had raided the gardens, allotments, small holdings and farms in the area, taking their vegetables and rabbits. Not once had they attempted to take the hens, and the hens had sat silently while the rabbits had been killed in front of them. Now it was as if the hens knew. It was as if someone had told them tonight was their turn. Horace and Flapper were aware of the movement, the faint sound of clucking carried over on the evening breeze.

  ‘The men must have chicken tomorrow, my friend.’

  ‘Chicken and vodka,’ Flapper replied

  ‘Chicken and vodka,’ Horace repeated.

  Flapper looked a little nervous as he spoke. ‘They’re going to make some noise, mate. We must be quick – in and out like the fox. We must make it look like a fox has been in the sheds tonight, not two crazy prisoners from the camp down the road.’

  Horace nodded. ‘Then we must be as quick as the wind.’

  Flapper looked across at his friend. ‘Ready?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘Let’s go and feed our comrades.’ Flapper punched Horace playfully on the shoulder and the two men ran quickly over to their targets. Flapper Garwood reached the door to the hen house first and yanked hard on the handle. The twine holding the door in place snapped easily and he flung the door wide open. Horace leapt inside and feathers and sawdust flew all over the place as the poor hens tried desperately to evade capture. Horace picked a hen from the air in full flight and dislocated its neck with the action of an expert. Flapper caught another and tugged unsuccessfully at its neck four times, the poor bird squawking ever louder each time.

  ‘Give it here, city boy,’ Horace called to him. Horace killed it first time.

  ‘One more,’ he whispered. Three birds in the pot, a veritable banquet. The third bird was caught and killed within 20 seconds.

  Just as they were leaving Flapper reached up; another hen flew through the air. He caught it by the leg and put its head in his mouth, clenched his teeth and pulled. The bird’s head came away from its body with little effort as Flapper spat a mouthful of feathers into the air.

  Horace was dumbfounded. ‘What are you doing, for Christ’s sake?’

  Flapper spat the head into the corner and threw the still struggling body of the hen to the floor. His blood-splattered face grinned at Horace. ‘The fox, mate. We must make it look as if our friend the fox has been in here.’

  Horace smiled. ‘The fox… right.’ And he remembered on the odd occasion a fox had managed to break into his father’s sheds in Ibstock and the sheer devastation and unnecessary killing he’d witnessed the next morning. Flapper was right; a fox would always leave at least one dead bird behind.

  Horace and Flapper slept with the dead birds, vegetables and vodka under their bunks. The German guard made his regular seven o’clock appearance then disappeared. The men had been staggered at the booty now held in prison staff quarters and Jock made a list and a new recipe for that evening’s meal. He had managed to steal a few spices from the German cook house and even persuaded the camp commandant to be a little more generous with the bread ration. And incredibly, he’d used all his powers of persuasion to beg the ingredients to make pastry. Against his better judgement the camp commandant had supplied just enough eggs and flour and milk to make a very thin pie crust for one hundred men.

  It rained that evening and as was the procedure during inclement weather, the evening meal was cooked indoors on the stove of the prison staff quarters, out of the view of curious German eyes. It was perfect… a perfect evening.

  Nearly one hundred prisoners crowded into the area where 12 prisoners normally slept. Each brought with them a container in which a carefully measured drop of vodka was poured. Some savoured the taste; others threw it back in one and a few kept it for the meal to follow.

  The cook had wasted nothing; every bit of the chickens was used, in addition to the extra vegetables. Jock had created another culinary masterpiece. To start with - spiced potato skins. The men had been reluctant at first; no one had ever dreamt that the waste of the potato could be put to such good use. But Jock had softened the skins in boiling water before frying them up with the stolen spices and some chopped onions and the juice from tomatoes. The taste was exquisite.

  And then, to follow – chicken pie.

  The men had to be patient as the Germans had only supplied the cook with two medium-sized pie dishes. Each dish fed about ten men and the men waited around for hours before being given their own slice of heaven. No one seemed to mind. They sat around smoking tobacco from their Red Cross parcels and talking about the end of the war. Horace was one of the last to be served and savoured every delicious mouthful. Afterwards he raised his small glass of vodka in the direction of Jock and toasted his good health.

  Everyone in the room knew just who it was that had provided the extras for the evening banquet but like every well-kept secret, nobody uttered a word. Nobody proposed a toast to the hunters. And that’s exactly how Horace wanted it.

  At around 10.30 with every last man still in the room, Horace stood with a sheet of paper. ‘And now, gentlemen,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Here is yesterday’s news from the BBC.’

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  It was while he was watching the men rolling their tobacco the previous evening that the idea had come to him. In every tenth parcel the Red Cross had provided a cigarette-rolling machine that the men would share. The thin cigarette paper was placed lengthways into the machine and the tobacco distributed evenly inside. The gummed edge of the paper would then be moistened with saliva and snapped shut. A manual rolling movement would take place and when the machine was opened a neatly formed cigarette would result. Horace had discussed his idea with the other men in the hut but, they had flagged
up several obstacles.

  Horace owed it to Rose to make the radio work. It shouldn’t just be viewed as an object of luxury, something to amuse a dozen prisoners. No. It was a morale booster; he’d already witnessed that and he was determined that as many prisoners as possible should be in a position to receive regular news updates. Uncensored updates, real news, not propaganda. It would make their last few months in the camp much more bearable. When the time came to escape the camps, a little knowledge of world events might even make the difference between life and death.

  Within a month, the production unit of the camp was underway. Two former journalists with a knowledge of shorthand had been brought into the staff quarters, as had two extra pair of earphones, courtesy of Rosa Rauchbach.

  A typewriter and thin typing paper had already been supplied to the prisoners. The Germans would normally give their own carefully selected version of war events in the form of a newsletter that would be typed up by two of the prisoners and distributed among the prisoners. It was seldom read, being too ridiculous for words. Reports in the past had told of Churchill’s death, a Russian capitulation and among others, London, Edinburgh and New York being invaded by German storm troopers.

  This time, the endless supply of typing paper stolen from the German offices would be put to better use. The journalists listened in to the midnight news, took notes in shorthand, then spent the next hour or so writing them up in longhand, condensing as they went. At 2am the typists were woken and spent an hour of darkness by the light of a candle typing the journalists’ reports. At six o’clock another two-man shift commenced, rolling the typing paper into the middle of the cigarette paper with a quarter inch of tobacco at each end.

  The cigarettes were swapped and handed round next morning at roll call, and continued throughout the day. Before the evening food was dished out every prisoner in the camp had been kept up to date with world events via the previous evening’s BBC news.

  And still Horace and his fellow prisoners in the staff quarters weren’t content. They stepped up the shifts during the night and increased the cigarette news production. They started with the next camp down the road. The different work parties passed each other every day. They would generally stop and have a natter; the German guards were none too bothered now. The prisoners would hand an occasional cigarette to their fellow prisoners, always taking care to ask permission from their captors. What harm could it do? the Germans thought. The prisoners receiving the cigarettes would be told to nip them straight away. In time, those same prisoners would pass on real cigarettes to the working party from Freiwaldau, so that the production could be maintained.

  The highly efficient news machine continued through the winter and into the spring of 1944. The recipients of the news were reading about the heavy bombings of German cities and that Japanese troops had retreated from Burma. However, they would also hear towards the end of March 1944 of the grievous losses the RAF suffered during a huge air raid on Nuremburg. The committee of the camp journal – as it was affectionately known – agreed that all news would be reported without exception, no matter how tragic it was and what effect it might have on the prisoners. They all agreed not to compromise the honesty of the operation.

  Unknown to the prisoners of Freiwaldau, in May 1944 the Allies were preparing for D Day. Reports filtered across the airwaves of increased Allied bombing in France in preparation. The camp journal delivered the news but its team were unaware of the real reason behind the intensity of the bombing.

  Occasionally a radio part would malfunction but Horace continued to escape and meet up with Rose, and she would always have a replacement within a few days. By the summer of 1944 the camp journal was being read by a staggering three thousand prisoners of war, every single day. That was too many men. It was only a matter of time before a slip of the tongue would be overheard by unfriendly ears. It happened as a camp civilian worker relieved himself behind a hedge adjacent to one of the working parties in the forest, four miles from Freiwaldau.

  The news had been good the previous evening and the prisoners could not contain their excitement. Late August and early September 1944 had brought night after night of monumental news. The radio brought reports that Paris had been liberated and De Gaulle and the Free French had marched triumphantly down the Champs-Elysées. The Germans had also surrendered at Toulon and Marseilles in the south. Canadian troops had captured Dieppe and the Allies had entered Belgium. Brussels, Antwerp, Ghent, Liege and Ostend had all been liberated by the Allies. The Russians had also liberated the first concentration camp in Poland. It was the beginning of the end for Germany and the Third Reich.

  Two prisoners of war were talking as they took a break at the side of the road. Rather carelessly and a little too loudly, one of them handed a cigarette to his friend from another camp and announced that the news was good. ‘The radio was red hot last night by all accounts.’

  ‘It was?’

  Andrezj Netzer, a Silesian with Nazi-sympathetic views, was spilling a stream of hot urine into the hedgerow. He was hidden from view and nipped the end of his penis to slow the flow for fear of being heard. What a stroke of luck, he thought to himself as the conversation continued. His mind was already working overtime, wondering how this information, if passed on to the right people, would further his rise up the pecking order in the camp. Overseeing and supervising the outside working parties was certainly better than some of the jobs in the camp but as winter approached, he had his mind set on a nice warm office job, pushing paper and drinking hot coffee all day.

  ‘The Allied troops have entered Germany, according to the reports from the BBC.’

  ‘Get away.’

  ‘They have, at a place called Aachen. And the Germans and the Japs are surrendering for fun.’

  The second prisoner whistled as he fingered and stared at the cigarette containing the news. ‘So it’s true. This war really is coming to an end.’

  ‘It looks that way, pal. It looks that way.’

  Andrezj Netzer shook the last drops of urine from his penis and buttoned up his flies. He waited quietly as the prisoners bade each other farewell and moved away.

  Horace and Rose began to make plans for the end of the war. They hadn’t made love that evening; Rose was too full of excitement and planning. They lay in the church just talking. For once they were fully clothed.

  ‘New Zealand.’

  ‘What?’ Horace replied.

  ‘New Zealand,’ Rose continued. ‘We can go to New Zealand. My father said the government of New Zealand are making plans for the end of the war. It’s a big country and they are encouraging farmers to work the land.’

  Without realising, Horace was nodding. Rose was in full flow.

  ‘You have farmed before, Horace. We could apply.’

  Horace never heard the next few sentences; his mind was far away. He had dreams of a sheep farm and a wife and children and a beautiful climate, and peace. They’d discussed the end of the war many times. He wanted to be with Rose – he wanted to be with her forever – but he’d always wondered, where would they live? Taking a German Silesian girl back to England was impossible. For five years the Germans had brought terror to his country. They’d bombed and shot and slaughtered. How many families in Ibstock had lost sons, daughters, fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts? His fellow countrymen wouldn’t understand, especially in a small village the size of Ibstock.

  He could not take Rose back to England.

  What of Silesia? Could they make a home there? It was too uncertain. It was not clear what sort of retribution the Russians would demand from the German population, and would they class the Silesians as the same? Rose had worked in the camp; her father was the owner. As far as the Russians were concerned she was one of them. It didn’t bear thinking about. Horace had heard the rumours on the grapevine about what the Russians were doing with the German population. Soldiers or civilians, there was no distinction. Stories were filtering through of mass slaughter, hangings, torture and
gang rape. A shiver ran the length of Horace’s spine.

  ‘You’re not listening to me, are you? Rose said angrily.

  ‘I’m thinking about New Zealand, that’s why.’ Horace pulled her down on the rug and kissed her. He slipped his hand up her skirt, found the thin material of her panties and massaged her clitoris with his forefinger. She moaned for a split second then took his wrist and pulled it free.

  She broke the kiss. ‘You are truly thinking about New Zealand, Jim?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You want to live with me forever and give me lots of babies?’

  ‘I do.’

  Rose smiled. ‘I love you so much, Jim Greasley.’

  ‘I love you too, my English Rose.’

  Andrezj Netzer could barely contain his excitement as he walked through the camp gates of Oflag VIII Oberlangendorf. Without hesitation he went straight to the commandant’s office. A middle-aged sergeant looked up from the desk. Netzer was aware of that look, the sort of look most Germans gave him. The sort of look that said he was a piece of shit they’d scraped off their shoe. After what he was about to disclose they would no longer look at him like that.

  Horace lay on his bunk wide awake. He hadn’t slept a wink and had watched the moon creep slowly across the sky. It was a cold clear evening; the constellations of the stars of Orion, the Plough, and the Great Bear were clearly visible. During his time in the camp he’d learned to read the sky well and calculated that it was around three in the morning. He’d listened to the news that evening and heard of the Russian advance through Prussia, Poland, Hungary and, yes, Silesia. It was good news, but his thoughts were with Rose. For some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he wished it were the Americans who were marching through Silesia.

  He gazed out over the forest and sat up as he picked out a tiny beam of light three or four kilometres in the distance. The light came nearer. Despite the cold of the evening Horace became aware of perspiration on his forehead and a warm sticky feeling gluing his shirt to his back. The single beam of light turned into two… car headlights, then another, and another. Eight cars powered their way into the compound. Within minutes the German guards had run around to the front of the camp, unaware and unsure who was coming in at this unearthly hour. They feared the worst – Americans? Russians? Had that awful day had dawned at last?