Read Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? Online
Authors: Horace Greasley
Five minutes before the scheduled fight a crowd had gathered in the basement of the hut. This was big news. There
had been many a fight in the camps since Horace had been captured, sometimes one a week, but they were always broken up by the other prisoners for fear of recriminations from the Germans. This was different. There would be no Germans around to break up proceedings. A small ring had been crudely constructed in the basement and men were betting on the result. It was entertainment, a break from the normal monotonous routine of supper, rest and lights out.
It was ten past six before Flapper Garwood allowed Horace off his bunk. The Londoner’s theory was that it would make McLachlan anxious, complacent, thinking his opponent had bottled it. At 14 minutes past six Horace and his corner man burst through the door of number three hut. ‘He’s here!’ a voice shouted down the stairs to where the restless crowd stood and jockeyed for the best view. A muffled cheer drifted up and the hairs stood up on Horace’s neck. He turned to Garwood.
‘Do you know, Flapper, I think I’m going to enjoy this.’
‘Just don’t get in too close, Jim. He’s a brawler not a fighter. Keep your distance, jab and run. Keep jabbing and keep running until you see the opportunity. Keep doing that and you’ll win and for fuck’s sake, be patient.’
Garwood’s game plan mirrored the one Horace had devised almost as soon as the gauntlet had been thrown down. The last thing he wanted was to get in a wrestle or a brawl. Controlled, measured boxing, just like the art he’d perfected in the boxing club in Ibstock.
McLachlan stood in the corner of the makeshift ring stripped to the waist, a huge smile on his face.
‘So you’ve eventually turned up, chicken shit? We thought you’d cocked, shit yer wee English pants.’
Horace said nothing. He climbed through the ropes and skipped a little shadow boxing as Garwood placed a bucket
and a tin full of water in the opposite corner. Corporal David Valentine from the Northumberland Fusiliers had assumed the position of referee as he brought the two fighters together. ‘I want a good clean fight, lads.’ McLachlan stepped forward, trying to intimidate. ‘No hitting below the belt and break when I say “break”.’
‘I’ll break his fucking neck,’ said the Scotsman with a grin.
Horace said nothing.
The referee ordered the two men to their respective corners. A gaggle of Scots surrounded McLachlan, slapped him round the shoulders and screamed encouragement. Flapper offered Horace a drink of water and reminded him to keep his distance. Valentine beckoned the two men forward and when they were a couple of yards apart stepped out of the way, shouting ‘Fight on!’
Another cheer went up as Horace went into his familiar boxing stance, his eyes fixed on McLachlan. This time he was ready.
McLachlan rushed forward, heavy-footed, his arms stretched out in front like a wrestler. Horace danced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in the right direction at the last second. As McLachlan came within range Horace powered a left jab into the bridge of his nose. It connected perfectly and the Scot’s nose popped like a balloon. In the same fluid movement Horace turned and fled before McLachlan knew what had hit him. He stood in Horace’s corner now as the blood started flowing freely down his face. Horace stood inches from the Scottish corner men.
‘Ye lucky cunt,’ snarled the red-haired man behind him. Horace ignored him and stalked towards McLachlan, his confidence growing by the second. The Scot was more canny this time, aware of how foolish his last move had been. He raised his fists towards his face to protect himself. He now
realised he was in a real fight. Horace moved forward, within reach of his opponent. McLachlan couldn’t resist it; he lunged forward with a telegraphed swinging right hand. Horace bent backwards and the Scot’s fist flailed at fresh air. Horace counteracted with a quick combination, a left cross to the temple stunning his opponent as his right fist powered into McLachlan’s solar plexus.
The crowd cheered. McLachlan fell to his knees. Horace walked over and bent down to speak.
‘Had enough, Willie? Want to call it a day?’
McLachlan spoke. ‘Aye… right enough, geez a hand up.’
Horace felt sorry for him. The fight was over, he’d shown the tough man up for what he really was. Horace extended his hand. As the Scot raised himself to his full height, he smiled and shook Horace’s hand. As Horace lowered his guard, McLachlan powered his forehead into Horace’s face.
As Horace lay on the floor – he must have been out for a second or two – the Scots whooped and cheered as David Valentine delivered a stern lecture to the smiling, apologetic Scot.
Garwood spoke just once, another pearl of wisdom. ‘Rules out the window, Jim. Get the dirty cunt.’
Horace was aware of the blood covering his face and of a different surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was anger this time as he raised himself to his feet. The English boys roared him on as the Scots booed and hissed, called him an idiot. One shouted at McLachlan to ‘murder him.’
But McLachlan didn’t hear him. He had seen the look on Horace’s face and was more than a little worried as the bloodied battler came towards him. Horace’s hands took up the guard again and he was grinning through the blood.
‘Right, you dirty Scottish bastard, time to fight your way.’
Horace wasn’t controlled. He didn’t jab and run. Instead he
launched into McLachlan with a venom and a fury that the Scot just couldn’t cope with. McLachlan’s hands covered his head as he stood slightly stooped. Horace rained punches down on him and hammered two perfectly executed upper cuts into his chin, picking his spot perfectly between the elbows. The Scot was on the ropes and his corner men silenced as Valentine signalled the end of the first round.
McLachlan sat on the stool as his fellow countrymen plied him with water and attempted to stem the flow of blood from his right eye, his nose and a huge, protruding fat lip. The big man was a mess, breathing heavily.
As Valentine announced round two Horace sprang to his feet. The Scot was almost pushed into the centre of the ring and Horace continued where he left off. McLachlan’s hands were no longer able to protect his head and Horace moved in for the kill. Two left jabs, each one delivered with accuracy and power. McLachlan’s head jerked back. His legs were gone and his crossed eyes focused on no one in particular. Horace moved forward and tightened his right fist. The Scot stepped back and made a last attempt to protect himself. Horace almost felt sorry for him as his perfectly executed right cross smashed into his cheekbone and McLachlan hit the deck.
Garwood gave a slow, dignified clap as he returned to the corner. The English boys cheered as the Scots licked their wounds.
‘One more thing, Flapper,’ Horace said as he took a drink of water and turned. ‘I’m not quite finished.’
He walked casually over to the assembled Scots, where McLachlan was showing slight signs of regaining consciousness. Horace spoke. ‘You called me a cunt, didn’t you?’ McLachlan looked up just as Horace threw his favourite right cross. Another perfect strike, another Scot on the floor of number three hut.
Horace looked at the rest of them. ‘Anybody else want a go?’
A deafening silence ensued.
The following morning McLachlan was led out onto parade by two of his mates. His legs were fine, his balance perfect – it was just that his two eyes were closed and he could not see an inch in front of him. The German guards questioned him immediately. McLachlan played the game and explained he had slipped in the shower and fallen. The Germans doubted his reply but reluctantly accepted his explanation. Strangely, Horace felt sorry for him. It would be another 24 hours before he regained his sight.
Life in the camp returned to normal, and the animosity between the Scots and the English did not fester. There was a kind of accepted respect for Horace, though not many words or conversations were exchanged. And as expected, McLachlan’s whistles were no more.
I
t was December 1941. The Japanese were about to make a mistake they would regret for many years to come. They were about to bring America into the Second World War. As they eyed up the majority of the American fleet stationed at Pearl Harbor, they figured a quick, aggressive strike would break the back and resolve of the US Navy.
About three times a week Horace was appointed to drilling duties on top of the hill overlooking the camp. His skill with the drill improved almost every time. Once, sometimes twice a week, Rauchbach would leave him to his own devices and every so often Rosa would appear. It was here in the forest above the camp that Horace continued his love making with the owner’s daughter – Rose, as he’d now begun to call her – right through the winter of 1941/42. He had explained that he didn’t want to make love to a German girl and asked if she had any objections to being rechristened. He wanted her to become his English Rose, and she seemed to positively revel in it. It was their secret, their path to a new life.
The winter was not as severe as the year before in that hellhole of a first camp. Horace thought back and wondered how they’d survived. The two of them made love in warm
rain and cold rain and several times on a carpet of snow as the winter weather turned, the bitter piercing cold penetrating their bodies and taking their senses to a heightened level of arousal. They laughed as they collected their damp clothing and shivered as they dressed each other and marvelled at their daring exploits just a few hundred yards from the German guards.
Life in the quarry camp was bearable for Horace, especially with his English Rose, but he could not control the guilt and often thought of escape as winter turned to spring. He discussed it with Rose. Always she tried to talk him out of it. She explained the geography and the lack of success of previous escapees and of course it all made perfect sense, but it was something he couldn’t shake from the back of his mind. He asked Rose if she could bring him a map and reluctantly, between tears, she agreed. Horace felt he had spent enough time in the quarry camp, enough time with his captors. The map never arrived. After a few weeks he stopped asking. Without a map escape was impossible. Rose knew this.
The following week Rose approached him on top of the hill as he finished the last of a line of strategically measured holes in a particularly large slab of marble. He noticed her eyes immediately – they were glazed over with tears. Her bottom lip trembled and she quivered all over. The map, he thought to himself, she has the map. And he thought of the danger he had forced her into. He was wrong. There was no map.
Rose was crying now as she delivered the news that her father had told her the night before. Horace and his companions were to be on the move again. They were being transferred to another camp. Rauchbach delivered the news personally while on parade the following morning. He looked sad but resigned to the fact that the German hierarchy had decided to rid him of a band of men he had personally trained
to a highly productive, well-oiled machine. He wished the men well, and said that conditions in the next camp were better than he could provide. There were more showers, more facilities and even hot running water, and he hinted that the rations would increase too. It was a more modern camp with a concert hall and games facilities, he went on to say. On the whole Horace’s fellow prisoners seemed pleased – a little wary, but pleased.
There was no reason to doubt this German standing in front of them. He had been honest and fair in everything he had said. He had increased their food, improved conditions and seemed to have the welfare of the prisoners genuinely at heart. Some would argue in the huts at night that he was only interested in production and the prisoners were merely a tool with which to meet his objectives, but nevertheless Rauchbach delivered his final address well as the German guards looked on uncomfortably. In a final goodwill gesture Rauchbach explained that the prisoners would be spared their work detail that day. He had organised a last supper with extra bread and coffee and biscuits by way of a thank you to the prisoners. They could relax and recharge their batteries and prepare for the long journey ahead the following morning.
The men hung around their huts for the rest of the day. They chatted about the new camp and what their new surroundings would bring them. Most seemed happy, almost excited at the prospect of new surroundings and the improved conditions that Rauchbach had promised. Horace lay alone with his thoughts on his bunk. He did not care about improved conditions, was not interested in increased rations or concert halls or games rooms. It was at this point he realised how much he would miss Rose. Horace understood that for the first time in his life he had fallen in love. It was a forbidden love; one he should never have
embarked on. It was a love that the Germans had brought to a premature close.
The following morning Horace sat in an all too familiar position in the back of the German troop-carrying lorry as it left the camp. Flapper sat opposite. It was déjà vu. Horace peered out of the back of the lorry, watching carefully mile after mile. He tried to take note of the landmarks, the twists and turns in the road and the T-junctions and the signs. It was all so futile.
Horace realised the impossibility of the situation: he didn’t even know the name of the village in which Rose lived. Why hadn’t he asked her on that last meeting? An hour into the journey it dawned on him that even if he did manage to escape from the next camp, it would be simply impossible to find his way back to Rose.
He had never felt this way before about any girl. His heart ached. He felt nauseous, his mouth was dry and he wanted to burst into tears and sob like a nine-year-old schoolboy, such were his feelings for this girl. His good friend Flapper tried once or twice to strike up a conversation but almost telepathically understood. Horace buried his head in his hands and fought back the tears.
A
fter a three-hour journey, the men were welcomed at the new camp with lunch. It was the same old cabbage soup, but with flecks of meat and whole vegetables. A big bucket of bread sat in the middle of the new compound and the men were allowed to take as much as they wanted without restriction. A sign of things to come, perhaps?