Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell?

by Horace Greasley

  The days turned to weeks. How many Horace didn’t know, but the men grew weaker and the executions increased. Horace held a bizarre secret that he only divulged to a few of his companions. As a child, his mother had scattered the family’s summer salads with dandelion leaves. They were full of moisture and nutrition and tasted strangely sweet. Every opportunity he had he picked the tiny leaves at the side of the road and chewed at the succulent gift of life every few hours. His mouth was constantly refreshed, stopping him from drinking the rainwater at the side of the road, the same water that had been polluted earlier by the dysentery-ridden souls at the front of the march. He’d wait… he’d survive, praying for a water fountain or a recently filled rain butt in the next village when he’d drink till his belly was full to bursting.

  Horace passed weaker soldiers almost every hour in an attempt to survive by getting to the front of the line, figuring that those at the front got the first option on any food that happened to be available. He hadn’t seen his old mucker Ernie Mountain for at least two weeks now and thought about him constantly. He thought about Sergeant Major Aberfield too, the bastard of a coward that had surrendered the entire section without as much as one bullet being fired. Horace took a bizarre comfort in the fact that he’d never surrendered. He would take that comfort right through the war.

  ‘I never surrendered,’ he’d tell anyone who’d listen. ‘I didn’t get the choice; some bastard took the choice from me. I was surrendered by a coward.’

  Night after night he’d wonder what might have happened if he could turn the clock back. He’d lie on his back looking up at the clear night sky as the stars from a distant galaxy twinkled through the haze. He took a strange comfort in watching them for hours on end.

  But before long the man who had sealed his fate would creep back into his head and he would tremble with rage. He’d rerun the events again and again. He’d been in no doubt that Aberfield would pull the trigger. Aberfield had tried to explain he’d saved their lives. Horace didn’t buy that. There had been more fit men in the section of 2nd/5th Leicesters than the Germans who’d captured them. They’d had a chance, a very good chance: an opportunity to take out the patrol and regroup. Nobody knew how many Germans were behind that initial patrol but Horace didn’t care. They’d had a chance to fight, to survive, a chance to escape and run to fight another day. Aberfield had made the decision for each and every one of them and he didn’t have that right.

  Horace had read accounts of soldiers in the First World War being shot for disobeying orders. He’d read reports of working-class infantrymen turning on the officers in charge. Now he could understand just what it was that had driven them to do so.

  They were now deep in the heart of Belgium. It was rumoured they were heading for Holland where they were to be placed on barges and sent down the Rhein to the prison camps in Germany. This time the grapevine had got it right. Unfortunately those plans would be scuppered by the RAF a few days later when they sank every barge.

  Horace’s feet had broken down; he felt he couldn’t go on any longer as they settled down in a wet field on the outskirts of Sprimont, less than 30 miles from the border between Belgium and Luxembourg. He’d struck up a friendship with a man from London, Flapper Garwood. A giant of a man weighing some 16 stones prior to the march, Flapper reckoned he was losing six or seven pounds a day. In the few short weeks they’d been on the road he’d lost over two stones.

  Horace watched as the big man dropped to his knees.

  ‘So how come they call you Flapper? I’ve never asked.’

  Garwood shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing very exotic, Jim. The lads reckon my arms flap around like windmills when I play football, that’s all.’

  ‘You play a lot then?’

  Garwood looked at the column of prisoners, the German guards, and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Not had many games lately, Jim. They must have been cancelled for some reason.’

  The two men laughed at the irony of the statement.

  ‘But yeah, I used to play a fair bit, signed professional forms with Spurs before Hitler started flexing his muscles.’

  ‘Flapper, eh? What a bloody name to be lumbered with,’ Horace said.

  ‘You can call me by my full name if you like.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Herbert Charles Garnett Garwood.’

  Horace shook his head. ‘Flapper it is, then.’

  Flapper held onto Horace’s calf muscle, gently tugging at the heel of his boot. Horace cried out in pain as Flapper eased the boot free. Flapper held up the foot as he inspected it.

  ‘Fuck me, country boy – I can see the white of your bone through this one.’

  Flapper pointed to the blister.

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  He wasn’t.

  Flapper walked off and returned a little later with clump of soaking wet grass that he applied to the worst affected spot. Neither man knew the medical benefits of this treatment or whether it would do more harm than good. Horace didn’t care – it felt like heaven. It would feel like hell the next morning as he struggled to his feet, his heavy boots biting into his bloody, pus-filled feet. He hung on to Flapper for the first few miles, the big man uncomplaining and seemingly happy to carry the burden of a friend he’d only known for a few days. After a couple of miles the boots eased and Horace was able to hobble along unaided, his feet now so numb the pain didn’t register.

  Then he saw him. A few yards ahead Horace registered the crowns on the lapels, that familiar stoop, the short, stocky unmistakeable shape of Sergeant Major Aberfield.

  Horace’s pace picked up. Flapper sensed the urgency in his steps and wondered what was going on as he raced after his friend. Horace tapped Aberfield on the shoulder and he turned round. He smiled. He actually fucking smiled, thought Horace afterwards.

  ‘Morning, Greasley. Bearing up, old chap?’

  Horace’s hand grabbed the sergeant major’s groin and located two testicles. He gritted his teeth, snarled, squeezed hard and twisted with all his rapidly draining strength. The officer’s mouth fell open and the blood drained from his face as he stood on tiptoes in a vain attempt to minimise the excruciating pain.

  Horace had never head butted anyone before. He couldn’t even recall heading a football at school: he’d had no interest in that sort of thing. It was not something he’d planned to do; it just came naturally. But boy, was it effective. He released Aberfield’s balls and leaned back a few inches. The relief on his sergeant major’s face was instantaneous, bordering on the orgasmic. As a brief smile flicked across the officer’s face Horace powered his forehead into the bridge of his nose. The soft bone and cartilage collapsed on impact and a spray of blood flew through the air. As Aberfield collapsed, squealing like a wounded pig, a rifle butt struck Horace in the back and he fell to the ground. He jumped up immediately, ready to take issue with the attacker, to slam a fist into the Hun’s face and sign his own death warrant. Right now he was beyond caring, ready to die.

  But Garwood intervened, wrapping his friend in a bear hug and dragging him away deep into the crowd. Flapper wouldn’t release him for a good five minutes, no matter how hard Horace struggled and protested. As his breathing returned to normal he thanked a god he didn’t believe in for his newly formed friendship.

  For Horace, the weeks of continuous marching across France, through Belgium and into Luxembourg were a living, starving, leg-breaking, strength-sapping nightmare. He watched his comrades die in front of him without being able to lift a finger. That was the worst – the mental torture of being useless, being controlled, dominated, herded like animals. No choice of when to eat or when to piss and shit. Nothing in life could be as bad again. Or so he thought.

  The next three days on a train to Poland would make the march seem almost luxurious. They didn’t climb aboard the train, just inside the Luxembourg border at Clervaux, they were herded and kicked and punched. Once again the end of a rifle was the German soldiers’ favou
rite assault weapon. Flapper Garwood took the full force of one of them as his skin split wide open under his uniform. Untreated and unstitched, the scar would be with him forever.

  The platform of the station was strewn with about 20 dead bodies – the Allied prisoners who’d been just a little slow in obeying the orders of their captors. They were made to run a gauntlet made up of about 20 Germans on each side. The Allied prisoners were literally running onto the trucks of the train, herded like cattle. A quick sprint meant less chance of getting struck. Garwood took Horace by the sleeve.

  ‘Are you ready for a run, Jim?’

  ‘Ready as ever, Flapper. At least the fucking hike is over.’

  ‘And at least they’ll have to feed us properly if they want some work out of us.’

  ‘Right enough, Flapper. Let’s go.’

  The two men ran as fast as they could, covering their heads with their hands. Horace took a glancing blow from a fist and Flapper another rifle butt in the back in exactly the same spot as the first wound. He winced with pain as a sick, nauseous feeling welled up in his empty stomach. But others inside the truck fared much worse.

  ‘Looks like we got off lightly,’ said Flapper, pointing to one prisoner with blood pouring out of a head wound. Other unconscious bodies were dragged onto the train.

  By the time the Germans bolted the door the men were packed in like sardines, perhaps three hundred to a wagon. Some men were panicking and screaming as claustrophobia kicked in. Horace couldn’t even lift his hands above his head. His feet ached and all he wanted to do was sit or lie down, but it was impossible.

  An hour into the journey Horace had to take a shit. He was luckier than most: he could control the moment, unlike those with dysentery.

  ‘I need a shit, Flapper,’ he said in a whisper that only his pal could hear.

  ‘Awwww… Jesus Christ, you don’t, do you?’

  ‘’Fraid so, mate.’

  Flapper decided to attract the attention of the men discreetly, spare some dignity for his friend.

  ‘Make some space… man here needs a shit,’ he shouted.

  A collective groan reverberated around the truck as men jostled and pushed Horace over into the far corner.

  ‘Station approaching,’ someone shouted, leaning from the open window of the truck, and suddenly Horace had an idea. He muscled his way over to where the shouter was standing. By this time the pain in his bowel was excruciating. He clutched at the cheeks of his arse.

  ‘Any Germans on the platform?’ he shouted up to the man leaning from the small opening.

  ‘Dozens of the square-headed cunts, mate.’

  ‘Then get out the way quickly, will you?’

  As the rest of the truck looked on in amazement Horace dropped his trousers and emptied his bowels into the open flap of his Glengarry hat. The smell was overbearing but Horace managed to scramble up to the opening, taking care not to spill any of the shit from the hat. He studied the motion of the train. It wasn’t slowing down, wasn’t stopping as it trundled along at about 20 miles an hour. A wide grin spread across his face as he spied a line of six German soldiers a mere foot or two from the platform edge. He positioned the Glengarry so he could hold it with the two flaps in one hand. By now the rest of the men realised what he was up to and whooped and howled messages of encouragement.

  Horace timed the action to perfection. With a flick of the wrist he released one of the flaps two or three feet from the line of Germans. The shit sailed through the air at face level like a flock of disoriented starlings, the momentum of the train propelling it onwards. The first German managed to turn his head away as he realised what was happening but his five friends were not as quick. It was a direct hit as the foul-smelling excrement exploded onto their heads and shoulders and Horace’s arm rose in triumph as the cheers of the carriage rang in his ears. He’d scored the winning goal in a cup final, the winning runs in a Test match.

  All too soon the moment of euphoria ended. But it was soon repeated over and over again. It was the only weapon they had to fight against the Germans but it mattered not. It was a protest, a talking point, two fingers up to the enemy, and the sport continued. A corner of the truck was designated ‘crap corner’. Prisoners would shuffle and twist and turn to allow the next poor unfortunate soul the space to drop his trousers and his ‘bomb’ into a helmet, a hat or a container, ready to be flung at any Germans manning the next station. Occasionally they had to step over dead bodies, the heat and starvation and thirst having taken their toll, but they threw shit at Darmstadt and Hammelburg and Kronach. Each time a soldier bared his arse and the smell of shit rose from the floor of the wagon muffled cheers rang out from the tightly packed masses.

  But still men died.

  At night the prisoners slept standing up, propped against each other as the swaying motion of the train rocked a few hours’ rest inside them. Horace had run out of dandelion leaves, his meagre rations shared with his best friend from London. His mouth was bitterly dry, and a giant rat gnawed at the lining of his stomach, crying out for food. He could survive no more than a few hours, he wanted to lie down and sleep. He wanted to surrender to the inevitable.

  Daylight now, but still he wanted to sleep. His eyes closed and he leaned into the body of the man next to him. The man was stiff – board stiff – and as Horace looked into the face of the wretched soul, he looked like he’d been painted a deathly grey.

  His thoughts drifted away… He was in a meadow with his father shooting at rabbits, a good day, at least three kills and a short trek home through the wet grass. The smell… the smell of wet grass, and later the rabbits baked in a pie as Mum lifted the dish from the oven. And the family sat down at the kitchen table one by one – Mum, Dad, Daisy, Sybil and Harold… with baby Derick in his wooden high chair grinning and gurgling, banging a spoon on the arm like a drumstick. Happy faces, everyone ready to share the food, drink the cool lemonade Mum had bought as a special treat from the mobile shop that drove up Pretoria Road twice a week. And the taste of the tender flesh, the gravy and the pie crust that only Mum could make… But then someone was looking through the window, pointing a torch. A scowling stranger, then a command in an unfamiliar language. And another man bursting through the door, a rifle in his hand, and Horace jumping between his mother and the brute of a man covered in swastikas from head to toe, dealing a backhander to his face….

  Flapper slapped at his cheek.

  ‘Don’t you be quitting on me, you cunt of a country boy. We’re going to get through this together.’

  Flapper pushed a few dandelion leaves into his mouth.

  ‘Eat. I kept a few back, found a good supply just before we got into Luxembourg.’

  Horace hardly had the willpower to chew, the energy and the juice of the leaves barely kicked in. They had lost their goodness in his mate’s pocket. He did not want to chew, did not have the strength, but Flapper took his jaw between his huge hands and forced his teeth to grind together with a circular movement.

  ‘Chew them. We’re in this together.’

  Horace nodded, whispering quietly, ‘A pact, Flapper… me and you together. No surrender.’ And with that he lapsed into unconsciousness and no amount of coaxing, cajoling or slapping was going to wake him.

  When Horace came round he was sitting on the platform of a station and the aroma of some sort of soup permeated the air. Flapper knelt in front of him doling out tender slaps to his cheeks.

  ‘Wake up, Jim. We’re going to get some grub.’

  Horace was not dreaming – he had smelt soup. He looked over as a line of prisoners collected their meagre rations in whatever it was they could get a hold of.

  ‘Hot fucking soup, Jim – hot loop the loop!’

  Helped by Flapper, Horace scrambled to his feet and they almost ran to join the queue. He wondered where his sudden burst of energy had come from. The prisoners of war were given one half-ladle of the liquid and a lump of heavy dark brown German bread. Horace gratefully took the bread, too
k a large mouthful and stuffed the rest into his pocket.

  ‘No bowls!’ shouted Flapper as they neared the front of the queue. Horace looked up ahead. Some men were lucky enough to still have an army issue helmet, but most accepted the hot soup in their filthy bare hands.

  Those that swallowed too quickly paid the penalty as the hot soup hit stomachs that had shrunk beyond belief. The liquid nourishment was spewed back up almost as soon as it was swallowed. Despite the hot soup stinging their hands Flapper and Horace sipped slowly, savouring each mouthful. The soup had been provided by the Red Cross, which had somehow found out about the death train making its way across Germany. They also provided the fresh clean water the men drank afterwards.

  The dead bodies were removed from each truck and piled high at the far end of the station. Then the prisoners were herded back onto the train and Horace felt guilty about the extra room it gave him on the truck. They were still unable to sit down but his belly was full and he had quenched his thirst. He had survived another day.

  Early the following morning the train stopped with a jolt. Three or four of the prisoners leaned from the windows. One of them read from the sign in the middle of the platform.

  ‘P. O. S. E. N.’ someone spelled out.

  ‘Where the fuck’s that, then?’

  Flapper Garwood looked across to Horace. ‘Poland, Jim. We’re in Poland.’