Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (36 page)

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

R
ose 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

I
t 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?’

‘Certainly, sir, don’t mind if I do.’