Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (29 page)

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 started 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…’

‘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

I
t 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.