Ivan put his hand over his eyes and shook his head.
‘And then the SS came in two days ago.’ He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘They demanded money and maps and food and water and held onto the little girl while her brother ran home to fetch what he could.’
Ivan bit into his bottom lip, drawing a thin trickle of blood. He trembled with rage as he fought for dignity, trying so hard not to break down in front of the tiny child. ‘The little boy brought back nothing. This… this… was their punishment.’
Still the little girl rambled on, almost delirious with pain. She spoke in a slur. Ivan fell back against the wall, his legs unable to support his weight.
‘My God… oh, my God.’
‘What is it?’ Horace asked
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What?’
The little girl was pointing at some old tea chests.
Ivan spoke between the inevitable tears. ‘One of the soldiers held each limb against the box while the other bastard snapped them like sticks in a forest.’
The three men stood speechless as the horror of the torture sank in. Horace couldn’t quite contemplate the evil that had been dished out on two innocent children.
Ivan broke the silence. ‘The little girl says they are still here.’
Jock Strain carried the little boy over to his sister and tried to reassure the girl – in an accent and a language she’d never heard before – that they were safe. She seemed to understand. Jock stayed with the children as Horace and Ivan climbed the stairs to where Flapper stood on guard. Horace relayed the story quickly as Flapper seethed with rage. Handing the pistol back to Horace, he took the stairs two at a time, such was his determination to root out these monsters masquerading as human beings.
They found them on the third floor, cowering behind some shelving. They held their hands up immediately and handed over their weapons. Horace inspected the Lugers. They were out of ammunition.
Flapper’s self-control broke. He flew at the first SS officer, fists flailing, punching him around the head and body in an uncontrollable fit of rage. As the man fell to the floor he continued with his boot, screaming out obscenities. Horace gave him two minutes then dragged him away. Flapper stood panting, looking down at the bloodied mess moaning on the floor. Ivan walked over to Horace and held out a hand. He gave the pistol to the Russian. The German SS officer started crying and begging for mercy.
‘Bitte nein, Gnade! Erbarmen!’ – Please no, be merciful!
Ivan turned and walked slowly towards the other trembling officer. He stood for a few seconds, stared, then spat in his face. The German begged even harder as the spit hung from his eyebrow and nose. It shook and trembled in time with the movement of the petrified man’s body.
‘Gott, nein… Gott, nein… bitte… bitte!’
Ivan lowered the pistol and looked out from the third-floor window. He shouted something to the crowd below through a broken pane of glass and Horace watched as the people parted slightly. He walked over to the German again.
‘Shoot the bastard!’ shouted Flapper from the far side of the room.
Ivan raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.
The 7.62 bullet shattered the SS man’s kneecap and he squealed like a stricken dog. Another bullet to the other knee and he collapsed in a hysterical heap, shouting and screaming for mercy.
Horace and Flapper then witnessed the impossible. Ivan Gregatov was a slightly built soldier, no more than five foot eight inches tall. The SS officer he’d just crippled once stood six feet tall and weighed at least twenty pounds more. But young Ivan found strength from his anger. He took hold of the crying man’s throat and with one hand lifted him up against the back wall. The German’s useless legs hung limply as he struggled for breath. The Russian’s other hand sought the man’s testicles and with a scream and a surge of adrenaline, he took the full body weight of the German and held him above his head for a second or two in a bizarre show of anger and strength. As he shuffled his feet, he turned towards the window and the pavement below. He took two unsteady short steps and propelled the whimpering German into the panes of glass. The man screamed for the two seconds it took him to hit the ground. He was barely conscious but still alive as the mob took over. In less than a minute they had kicked him to death.
A groan from the floor reminded the men that one SS officer still remained. The half-stunned German was unceremoniously kicked down every step from the third floor to the ground and into the street. There the children lay on makeshift wooden stretchers, attended by several women. A doctor injected the little boy’s arm with a clear substance. He was conscious and even managed to raise a half-hearted smile as Jock stroked at his hair. Jock waved as the children were ushered quickly away.
Now the baying mob turned their attention to the SS man, who lay whimpering on the pavement. Jock and Horace, Flapper and Ivan looked on as a rope was tied around the German’s ankles. The other end was thrown over the street lamp and four or five men hauled him upwards as he swung like a pendulum, his terrified eyes scanning the crowd, awaiting the next move.
A can of petrol appeared and the German shouted and screamed, ‘Nein… Nein!’
But the proud can-holder took great pleasure in slowly pouring its contents onto the black Waffen SS uniform. The petrol poured into his face, stinging his eyes and burning his mouth. To prolong the agony and the torture just a little longer, the holder drew a ten-foot line of petrol across the ground and stood back with a satisfied grin. Then he reached into his pocket and struck a match as the German twisted and thrashed like a trout in a fishing net. He held the match up as it burned and after a few seconds he knelt to the ground.
As the flames exploded the crowd cheered and a few of the men kicked out at the head of the dying man. The cries and screams of the SS man would stay with Horace for many years to come and nightmares of the burning, swinging man would return night after night.
The men returned to the camp with barely a word spoken. Ivan mumbled something quietly in his native tongue. The next morning Horace found a barely legible note on his bed. It read simply, – I am worse than them – and it was signed ‘Ivan’.
Jock Strain found the young Russian hanging in the toilet block with an electric cord around his neck. He’d been dead for some time.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Rose sat apprehensively on the train as it approached Karlovarsky, a small station 30 miles east of Prague. She pressed her face against the window to get a better view of the platform. The train slowed; she heard the screech of the brakes as they ground against the wheels. As the platform came into view the train gave a jerk and the sudden motion threw her forward. She sat back in her seat, picked her bag up from the carriage floor and looked out of the window again.
The station was a swarming mass of boisterous, menacing-looking troops. A small lorry sat on the platform, its rear tarpaulin rolled up to the bars of the roof. Two soldiers sat either side of a machine gun loaded with a belt of ammunition. It was pointed directly at the train. A small flagpole jutted out from the side of the truck. The red star of the Soviet Union fluttered on the early evening breeze.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was another six long weeks before the men were told they were on their way home. In that time some had been moved to other camps in the city. Ernie Mountain had been one of them. Horace promised to look him up as soon as they got back to Ibstock.
The release order had been signed for the 1.5 million Soviet prisoners of war held by the Allies. Stalin in turn gave the order to hand over the remaining Allied prisoners to the Americans. The men were loaded onto Russian trucks and driven towards the outskirts of the city. They were heading to the Soviet US embarkation line, where they would be handed over and taken to a nearby airbase. Horace was the last man on the back of the tarpaulin-covered lorry. As they left the city limits on the main road to the west, Horace watched the elegant but battered skyline of Prague disappear
into the distance.
The men were told to disembark and prepare for a march.
‘Why the fuck can’t they drive us there?’ responded Jock. ‘Haven’t we walked enough lately?’
Horace was curious too as he looked up the long, straight road ahead. He was about to find out why the Russian truck was unable to make the 30-mile trip west. After a mile or two Horace noticed a line of Russian guns pointing south. He tapped Jock on the shoulder. ‘Jesus, Jock, what do you think they’re pointing at?’
Jock shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fuck knows, Jim.’
T34 tanks sat alongside long-barrelled field guns and O34 tanks sat behind the 76mm guns and B35s that Horace recalled seeing on the road to Prague all those weeks ago. Each gun, each tank was daubed with the red star of Soviet Russia.
‘I thought the fucking war was over,’ laughed Jock.
‘Never mind,’ Horace replied, ‘at least the buggers are on our side.’
Jock pointed to the opposite side of the road. ‘Aye, and so are they.’
Horace’s heart sank in fear. Two hundred yards in the distance another line of tanks and guns was facing in the opposite direction, pointing menacingly towards the Russians. Only this time there was no red star to be seen, only the silver star of the US. As they came nearer they could see GIs sitting on top of trucks, in jeeps, smoking, talking, and milling around with no real purpose other than to keep a very watchful eye on their Russian allies. The Russian troops were doing likewise.
By now every man on the march was aware of the two lines of heavy artillery and tanks, the full fire power of the Russian and American ground forces – every barrel, every rifle trained on each other. The most worrying aspect was that they were slap bang in the middle of the thin road that separated them. Mile after mile it seemed, gun upon gun, tank upon tank, full regiments of men on parade, troop carriers and jeeps – all accompanied by the constant sound of aircraft droning overhead. The men walked on slowly, unable to comprehend what was going on. It looked as if another war was about to break out.
Jock shook his head. ‘Just ma fucking luck. World War Two finishes and here I am in the middle of fucking World War Three.’
‘It could kick off at any minute, mate,’ whispered Horace. ‘I just can’t figure it out.’
The two lines of weaponry and troops continued for the entire length of the road. The men walked in silence and those who believed in a God prayed. Eventually the massive show of strength petered out and the guns disappeared from view. Horace heard on the radio that evening that the prize they were considering fighting over was Germany. They were so close to another war; all it would have taken was one stray bullet, one itchy trigger finger or a loose mortar shell fired by accident and all hell would have broken loose.
Eventually the travel-weary, hungry men – some nursing yet more blisters – walked through the gates of the American air base just outside Karlovarsky. Within the hour they were showered and fed and had been issued with fresh British uniforms and clean underwear. Each man was given one hundred cigarettes, a bar of chocolate and two bottles of freezing cold American beer.
A source of amusement among the men was that German prisoners of war were working there as cleaners and cooks. Trust the Americans, thought Horace as a German in pale green fatigues picked up pieces of rubbish around the camp entrance. The Germans, of course, were only too pleased to be under the charge of the Americans when the Russians were just a few miles down the road.
As he drifted off to sleep in the dormitory of block number four on the western fringe of the American camp with a soft feather pillow under his head for the first time in five years, Horace dreamed of Rose and peace and green fields and home…
‘Another bloody roll call!’ Horace cursed as he left the mess tent with Flapper. ‘Five fucking years we’ve had roll calls. Wouldn’t you think these Yanks would give us a bloody break?’
‘Take it easy, Jim. They might be telling us when we’re going home.’
Horace stopped suddenly. ‘Shit!’
‘What is it, Jim?’
Horace threw a thumb over his shoulder and pointed back at the dormitories. ‘I’ve left my bloody fags, haven’t I? You go on ahead; I’ll only be a minute.’
Flapper checked his watch. ‘But Jim, they said we needed to be…’
‘Calm down, Flapper. I’ve waited five years for freedom – surely they can wait five minutes for me?’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll tell them where you are if they call your name.’
Horace broke into a steady jog. He’d left his cigarettes under his pillow. It would only take a minute, and he’d probably catch Flapper up before he even made the roll call.
Horace walked through the door of the dormitory and couldn’t quite believe his eyes. He wasn’t the only man in the room as he’d expected. Everyone should have been at roll call but there was one other person in the dormitory. That one other man was a German prisoner of war, a captured soldier judging by his age and well fed appearance. As Horace looked on silently, the man put his hand under the pillow of Horace’s bed and began stuffing his entire cigarette ration into the pockets of his uniform. Horace hadn’t really lost his temper during his five years of captivity. He’d come close to it on a number of occasions and his self-control had probably saved his life. He’d remained controlled in the barbershop in Saubsdorf when the SS man had beaten him to a pulp. Not even when he’d challenged Willie McLachlan to the fight in Lamsdorf could he really say that he’d lost his temper.
But now as he watched a thief at work, a thief whose countrymen had killed and tortured and maimed and had tried everything to break the hearts and souls of his friends for five years, something just snapped. He thought of the break this man had been given, of the trust placed in him by the Americans, and the previous evening he’d watched the German prisoners in the mess tent as they ate the very same food from the very same table as them. As he watched the German creep silently to each bed, lifting each pillow in turn, Horace simmered and shook as the pressure cooker inside his head eventually exploded.
‘You thieving bastard!’ he bellowed at the top of his voice as he covered the short distance between the door and the bed the prisoner was rifling.
The German barely had time to register the movement as Horace’s fist hit him squarely in the mouth. As the two men tumbled through the gap in the bunk Horace aimed punch after punch at the German’s face and body. The startled man scrambled to his feet and made a desperate break for freedom, but Horace dived and caught the heel of his boot as he reached the door. Flipping him over, Horace powered another fist into his face, then bundled him through the door. The German lay face down in the dirt. Horace stood over him as he raised himself to his knees. He attempted to stand up straight but Horace hammered his boot into the seat of his pants. The terrified man sprawled back into the muck face first.
‘Move, you fucking thief!’
It was a hundred yards to the American chief in command’s HQ and Horace repeated the exercise over and over again. He kicked the German every step of the way. By the time he reached the office of General Dirk Parker his right foot was aching but still he didn’t relent. The general’s door was slightly ajar; he was glad of the early evening breeze. Finally Horace allowed the German to stand up straight and made him stand to attention. As the bloodied man eased himself up, Horace hit him one last time and he flew through the door of the startled general’s office.
As the groggy German groaned on the floor, General Parker took stock of the situation and noted the British uniform. ‘Private, what is the meaning of this outrage? We are Americans, not Barbarians. We do not treat our prisoners in this way.’
Horace should have calmed down and explained the circumstances that brought him to the general’s office. Instead, he hit the German again.
‘Stop now, Private, or I’ll have you on a goddamn charge. I won’t have this violence brought into my office.’
Horace was breathing heavily now. ‘He’s the
bastard you should be charging – he’s a fucking thief.’ He leaned over and reached into the prisoner’s pockets, emptying handfuls of cigarettes onto the general’s desk.
‘Five years these cunts have battered and tortured and degraded me.’ He kicked the prisoner again. This time the general made no attempt to stop him as Horace poured his heart out. ‘The bastards treated us worse than rabid dogs; they killed and tortured my pals and when we win the war they run from the Russians as fast as their legs will carry them.’ Horace hauled the prisoner from the floor by the collar. ‘We treat them well, feed and clothe them and allow them their dignity – the same dignity they tore from a million prisoners’ hearts.’ He looked into the bloodied swollen eyes of the German, who averted his gaze. ‘And this… this is how they repay us.’ He reached into the German’s breast pocket and pulled out yet another full pack of American-issue cigarettes.
General Dirk Parker sank slowly into his chair. Horace released his grip on the prisoner, who crumpled into a heap on the ground.
Horace’s composure returned in an instant. He had exercised his demons at last. It had taken no more than four minutes to rid himself of the bitterness of five years, but he felt calm and relaxed. He stood to attention and saluted the general. ‘My apologies, sir. I lost my temper.’
The General made a quick phone call and two burly black GIs burst through the office door. The dazed German was dragged unceremoniously through the opening.
‘Take a seat, Private…’
‘Greasley, Sir.’
‘Private Greasley.’
General Parker reached behind him and pulled a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon from his drinks cabinet and two glasses.
‘I can assure you, Private Greasley, that the ungrateful German thief will be dealt with most severely.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Meanwhile will you join me in a small token of my appreciation in apprehending this criminal?’
Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? Page 28