Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (27 page)

A huge black lead stove stood in the middle of the staff quarters. Although the Germans were sparing with the wood used to fuel the stove, it had occasionally been lit in the depths
of winter, giving a little relief from the biting cold. A steel chimney ran to the ceiling, secured by a 12-inch cast iron plate that was held in place with a dozen bolts. Horace had wondered if there was some sort of false ceiling or void in the roof and during the hours of darkness, by candlelight, the prisoners had managed to take the bolts from the plate. When taken away and the chimney loosened and removed, there was just enough room for a man to squeeze through the hole.

Horace stood on Jock Strain’s shoulders and eased himself through the gap in the ceiling. He had been right. The ceiling of the hut was false and the beams of the roof lay exposed. Jock pushed him up by the heels and he lay carefully on the thin wooden supports. He would need to be careful. He took the length of rubber-covered wire from his pocket and gripped it in his teeth. The men down below extinguished their candles and Horace lay quietly for a full ten minutes until his eyes grew accustomed to the dark.

The prison staff quarters and the barrack room below were completely in darkness. However the beams of the roof above the German guards’ quarters were clearly visible from the light shining through the gaps in the ceiling. Horace took a deep breath and began edging slowly towards the ceiling above the Germans’ quarters.

It was only 15 feet from the hole to the main light fitting in the centre of the guards’ ceiling hut but it took Horace the best part of an hour to reach it, crawling ever so carefully, a an inch or two at a time. The light fitting had been badly constructed and a small gap allowed Horace to see clearly into the room below. Four German guards sat smoking and playing cards and Horace fought a strong urge to unbutton his flies and piss on them through the gap. He had a job to do; revenge and retribution would come later.

The Germans were quiet, concentrating on their cards, and
if a pin dropped it could and would be heard. It was no good. He’d be caught. A simple rustle of clothing would be heard a mere few feet away. Horace cursed under his breath. At that moment a hand was decided on the lay of a card. To a man the Germans shouted and whooped and yelled, one in triumph, the others in frustration or disappointment.

Over the next 90 minutes Horace bided his time, waiting for each noisy reaction to the card game before carrying out a task, cutting the wires and connecting them to the exposed light fitting wires above the guards’ quarters. It was painfully slow progress.

Nearly three hours after he’d eased himself into the roof void he dropped down to the floor of the prison staff quarters with a live wire and a huge grin. Only Jock Strain and Jimmy White had managed to stay awake.

Jimmy White had disconnected a bulb from the ceiling of the hut. Jock held his thick coat around the bulb, the three men creating a human light barrier as Horace brought the wires into contact with the base of the bulb. As the wire touched the points of the bulb the three men’s smiles were illuminated in the darkness. Horace pulled the wire away immediately, fearful of a German patrol passing the window. It was another victory. However small, it was a victory and the three men couldn’t quite believe it.

Jimmy White wanted to get on with the task there and then. Horace talked him out of it. It had been a long night. Horace taped up the exposed wiring with flannelette, climbed back into the roof void and carefully laid the wire a few inches from the edge of the hole. Then he sat on Jock’s shoulders to bolt the cast iron plate back in place. The three men returned to their bunks, but although Horace was exhausted, his mind would not empty enough to let him sleep.

Tomorrow the last few components of the radio would be
connected up. The power source was in place. Would they be listening to the news from London in a little less than 24 hours? It was a tall order, and Horace prepared himself for disappointment. He tried not to think of the risk and danger he’d placed Rose in over the last few weeks. He only hoped it would be worth it.

As was usual, just after seven the next morning a German guard opened up the prison staff quarters. Jimmy White made a burst for the door. Horace found him in the toilet block with his trousers at his ankles.

‘Fucking hell, Chalky, you don’t look so clever.’

Jimmy White groaned as his bowels moved again. ‘Jesus, Jim, I’m shitting through the eye of a needle. I don’t know what it is I’ve eaten but I swear there can’t be anything left in my body.’

‘You look like shit.’ Horace stated the obvious. ‘And Jesus Christ, you stink to high heaven. You’d think something had crawled up your arse and died.’

Jimmy White looked up. ‘I think it has, mate. Can you tell the MO to get me excused from duty today?’

When the MO and a German civilian medic eventually made it into the toilet block Jimmy White hadn’t moved. One smell of the area was enough to convince the German to sign the paper confining Jimmy White to barracks for the day. Twenty minutes later Jimmy White lay on his bunk. Horace wondered for a second whether it was a ruse to work on the radio during the hours of daylight, but no, it was impossible to create an smell like that artificially. Jimmy White was genuinely in a bad way.

When Horace returned to the staff quarters after work detail that evening, Jimmy White hadn’t moved from the position he’d left him in that morning.

‘Still buggered, Jimmy?’ he asked.

‘Fucked, Jim. I’m as weak as a kitten.’

Horace was disappointed. They were so near to having the radio ready, maybe two or three parts to connect up. Never mind, he thought to himself, they’d waited long enough. What was another day? He looked at Jimmy White; he was a deathly grey and in no condition to concentrate on something so technical. Horace ruffled his hair. ‘Never mind, Chalky boy, there’s always tomorrow.’

As Horace walked over to his bunk he added, ‘Just you make sure you’re OK for tomorrow night, mate. We’ve a date with London.’

Horace didn’t receive a reply, which made him look over towards his friend’s bunk. Jimmy was lying on his side, still clutching at his stomach trying to relieve the cramp, but he was grinning despite the discomfort. No doubt about it – he was definitely grinning.

‘What?’ Horace asked. ‘What is it?’

‘What do you think?’ Jimmy answered.

Horace’s stomach started churning. He became aware of a dry sensation in his mouth and his throat seemed to almost close as he forced the words from his mouth.

‘It’s ready, Chalky, isn’t it?’

Jimmy White grimaced as he forced a smile onto his face. ‘You fucking bet it’s ready, Greasley. Just what the hell do you think I’ve been doing all day?’

Horace would find out later that Jimmy White had found a death cap mushroom in the forest while on work detail. He’d eaten a tiny piece of it and induced cyclopeptide poisoning. He had gagged while he swallowed it, knowing exactly what the end result would be, and that eating too much of the fungus could kill him. Jimmy explained that he needed to work on the final components in daylight. It was simply impossible by the light of a flickering candle.

The effort had drained Jimmy White of all his energy. He explained that every part had been set in place, but of course he’d been unable to connect to the power and therefore couldn’t check that the radio even worked, let alone search for a signal and a recognisable English-speaking news station. Only too aware that Horace’s impatience would have the set powered up as soon as it was dark, he started offering his excuses.

‘It’s nearly four years since I rigged a set up, Jim. I’m a little rusty.’

Horace was focused on the stove’s chimney and the cast iron plate in the ceiling.

‘Maybe things have moved on?’

Horace looked at the shelf above his bunk and the loose wooden panel that hid the radio. Not only had Rose came up with every part Jimmy White had asked for, but she’d managed to get hold of each major component in the smallest possible dimensions available, in order that the radio would fit comfortably in the frame of the wooden hut. It had been a tight squeeze but they’d managed to fit it all in.

‘Some of the parts looked a little old, Jim. They may not be compatible with the other bits.’

Horace tried not to think of the worst-case scenario – that the radio wouldn’t work. Rose had risked life and limb to get those parts to him. Surely to God Jimmy White had the knowledge to piece them together and surely to God if he’d even suspected that some part wasn’t quite right, he’d have said something?

Horace lay on his bunk looking out of the window, waiting for darkness to come. Jimmy White took a turn for the worse and begged Horace to wait until tomorrow night before attempting to connect the radio. Horace wouldn’t have it. It wouldn’t do any harm to at least try. As usual, the Germans
cut the lights just after 11pm. Horace lay in the darkness for about 20 minutes before he heard Flapper strike the match. He turned over and caught the familiar sight of the big Londoner silhouetted against the candle.

‘Jim,’ Garwood whispered across the room. ‘Are you awake?’

Horace rolled over and faced his pal. ‘You bet, big man.’

‘Are we gonna give it a try, then?’

Horace slipped from his bunk and crept over to Flapper’s bunk. ‘You bet we are, mate, you bet.’

They positioned themselves directly under the chimney of the black lead stove. Horace opened his legs as Flapper Garwood ducked down and slipped his head in between Horace’s thighs, and with a surge of effort pushed himself to his full height. Horace placed two hands on Flapper’s head for balance as he climbed up to stand on his shoulders. He reached inside his trouser pocket for the small spanner and as Flapper held him steady, proceeded to loosen off the bolts from the cast iron plate. It took three or four minutes before it could be detached from the ceiling and handed down to Flapper.

Flapper now held the chimney in place as Horace climbed down the body of his friend and dropped to the floor. Flapper carefully eased the chimney from the stove and laid it against the wall. He lifted Horace back into the roof void and Horace traced the live wire over the roof and down the hollow walls over to the shelf above his bed. Flapper brought over the candle and as he placed it on the shelf he prised the wooden panel from the wall. Horace dangled the wire down towards the shelf as Flapper reached up inside the hole, eagerly praying for contact with the dangling wire.

‘Got it,’ he said.

Horace eased himself back over the hole in the roof and
dropped quietly to the floor. He walked over to where his friend stood with a grin and a handful of rubber-coated wire. The two men stood in awe for a minute or two. Only the secondary winding unit, the amplifier and part of the capacitor were visible. Every other part had been strategically placed on the wooden frame that separated the interior and exterior walls of the hut. Jimmy White had done a fantastic job of concealment, making use of every square inch of space. Horace spoke.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll say,’ said Flapper.

‘Think it will work?’

‘We’ll soon find out.’

Horace didn’t hang around and within a minute had connected the radio to the power surge. The tiny red light beside the winder sparked into life, emitting a faint glow. The two men smiled. As Horace reached for the headphones, Flapper placed a hand on his arm.

‘Wait, Jim.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s not right… Jimmy should be here.’

Horace smiled in acknowledgement. ‘You’re, right mate. Go and wake him up.’

Under protest, Jimmy White shuffled over to Horace’s bunk and collapsed in a heap, still complaining about his tender guts. ‘Can’t we wait until tomorrow, lads?’

Flapper and Horace shook their heads in unison. Jimmy could barely pick out the white of their teeth as they smiled under the dim light of the candles. ‘Impatient cunts!’ He rested his head on the mattress and placed his hands behind his head. ‘Tell me what you hear.’

But before Horace had a chance to place the earphones on his head, Jimmy White leaned over onto his elbow with his
backside pointing towards his pals and let fly with a fart so loud that Horace was sure it would be heard in the German quarters next door. It took barely three seconds before the stench kicked in. It wasn’t a smell, it was a stench – the worst, foulest smell Flapper and Horace could remember in a long while.

‘You dirty bastard!’ Flapper squealed as he rolled over onto the floor desperately trying to escape the invisible noxious odour.

Horace’s hand covered his mouth as he spoke through his fingers. ‘You filthy, filthy, filthy bastard!’

Jimmy White lay clutching his stomach, but this time with mirth as he giggled like a schoolboy. ‘Serves you right, for making an ill man get out of his bed,’ he laughed. ‘Serves you right, you bunch of bastards.’

As Jimmy’s laughs and the foul smell eventually subsided, Horace removed his hand from his face. Jimmy White closed his eyes again, satisfied with his one-man protest. ‘Just tell me what you hear,’ he repeated.

Horace shook his head and reached inside the exposed hole for the primary and secondary winding units. He remembered the radio back home in the lounge at Ibstock. The Empiric portable 4v wireless receiver housed a very useful frequency dial so the operator would have an idea where to find his favourite stations. A white wooden needle could be viewed through the glass exterior. Dad could generally tune into his favourite channels within seconds.

That wasn’t the case here. There was no dial and no needle, just two winders four inches apart. Horace knew it would be trial and error to find an English-speaking station but after an hour fiddling and pushing and pulling at the wheels he hadn’t even managed to secure a local language station, German or Polish. As each minute passed he grew more disillusioned.

Jimmy White was still awake. Horace had urged him a
couple of times to give it a go but Jimmy had declined, claiming he would be in a better frame of mind the following evening. He had a point, thought Horace. He threw the earphones onto the bed in frustration.