Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (4 page)

So Horace stood in the enlistment line at King Street, Leicester on his own… the loneliest man in the world, waiting his turn. He wanted to say he wasn’t angry, wanted to say he wasn’t bitter, but the truth of the matter was that he was. He had stood open-mouthed, staring in disbelief as his father explained they’d been working on Harold’s case for over a
week. Even the minister had called at the house. It was a combined effort that Horace knew nothing about.

Horace had seethed as Harold explained that his great friend and mentor Father John Rendall had drunk several cups of tea around the pine kitchen table of 101 Pretoria Road, on the very evening that Horace had gone to the fire station to turn down the opportunity of a lifetime in order to watch the back of his twin brother.

‘It was a combined bloody effort alright,’ Horace mumbled to himself as he remembered the stand-up row he’d had with his brother that evening. He’d wanted to hit him. Not because of what he’d done but because he’d done it behind his back. It turned out everyone knew – Mum and Dad, Daisy and Sybil and of course, Father Fucking High Almighty God-fearing Rendall.

‘What was that you said, soldier?’ A voice bellowed out, bringing Horace back to the present. A sergeant major with a waxed handlebar moustache stood upright, as if to attention, directly in front of Horace. Horace noticed the crowns on his uniform and thought it best to address him correctly.

‘Nothing, sir, I just wondered if I was in the right building.’

Horace stretched out a hand and offered the papers to the sergeant major, who took a quick look and without lowering his voice said, ‘Correct, soldier. 2nd/5th Battalion Leicesters, one of the finest regiments in the King’s Army.’ He took a step forward. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are to be joining us.’

Horace was confused. He was still angry and perhaps he hadn’t been thinking straight, but the letter definitely said he would have the choice of the Army, the Navy or indeed the Air Force. He felt intimidated, a little under pressure; he looked at the rest of the young men in the queue and they all seemed happy that the attention was focused on someone else – some
other poor bastard, he thought to himself and cursed under his breath. Horace cleared his throat; he wasn’t about to be frightened by this man. What chance did he have with the Germans if he bowed down to one sergeant major?

‘Actually, sir, I haven’t quite made my mind up who it is I’ll be choosing to join.’

The sergeant major took a step forward. Horace could smell his breath – stale tobacco and tea. His teeth were stained. He raised his voice and Horace was aware of a gun holster he’d pushed round to the front of his trousers. The officer flicked open the top cover. ‘Do you want to be bloody shot?’ he bellowed and a slither of spit hit Horace in the eye.

Horace was tough but he was also taken aback. He kept quiet, sort of nodded his head then shook it quickly.

‘Then get back in the fucking line and don’t you even think about insulting my regiment again.’

‘No, sir… sorry, sir,’ he whispered, so quietly that the rest of the queue hardly heard him.

Within 20 minutes he’d signed up for the 2nd/5th Battalion Leicesters and had been given a 48-hour pass with instructions to report to Leicester County Cricket Ground for seven weeks’ basic training.

Forty-eight hours. What could a man do in 48 hours? Actually… Horace called on Eva Bell on the way back from the church hall in King Street and in 48 hours he’d used up three packs of three. It was the height of a hot summer and their love-making sessions took place in the corn fields, wheat fields and meadows of Leicestershire.

The first person to greet Horace at Leicester County Cricket Ground was Sergeant Major Aberfield, the man who had browbeaten him into joining the battalion. Aberfield gave the new recruits an hour-long lecture about what it meant to fight for king and country, the honour of the regiment and
how a certain Austrian with one testicle, a cowlick hairstyle and a pathetic little moustache needed his arse well and truly kicked. Horace was quite happy to go along with that and if the truth were told couldn’t wait to join in the action.

Horace settled in to the seven weeks’ training surprisingly well. On his first day he was renamed Jim. ‘Ain’t no fucker called Horace coming into my billet,’ joked a young corporal as half a dozen recruits looked on and laughed. From then on he was simply Jim – a name plucked from the air. Even his friend from Ibstock, Arthur Newbold, with whom he was bunking up, started calling him Jim, and he’d known Horace as Horace for as long as he could remember.

Horace knuckled down to the task in hand and realised almost immediately that there was little point in harbouring any grudges against his brother, the British Government or even the sergeant major who had forced him into a battalion of infantrymen. He’d save his hostility for the men with the square helmets running amok across the other side of the English Channel. Horace had a job to do… end of story.

Once a week the new recruits would be transported by bus to a firing range on the Leicestershire and Northants border. Horace loved it. It was his territory, his domain. There was something about the Enfield 303 rifle with its basic ‘V’ sights he adored, and the hairs on the back of his neck never failed to rise as he snuggled the butt of the weapon into his shoulder and took aim at the target 80 yards away. Horace’s shooting was exemplary; he was beginning to be talked about and he came to the attention of the staff sergeant in charge of the range. Staff Sergeant Caswell pulled him aside one day after he’d fired ten rounds into the target. Ten rounds grouped in a circle no bigger than a tennis ball – he had his sights on the battalion trophy that would be awarded at the end of the seven weeks.

‘You’re bloody good, Greasley, maybe one of the best I’ve seen.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant.’

‘The thing is, Greasley, Sergeant Major Aberfield is good too, holds the record for the battalion. He practises at least an hour every day.’

The NCO paused. A sickly feeling welled up in Horace’s stomach.

‘And, Sergeant?’

‘Look, Greasley, I don’t really want to knock you back, but believe me your life won’t be worth living if you beat that bastard. He’ll make your life a merry hell.’

Horace could just imagine that he would. Aberfield was a bully who never spoke, always shouted, and never ever raised a smile.

The following week Horace pulled half a dozen shots wide. One missed the target altogether and Sergeant Major Aberfield took the battalion trophy by two points. Private Horace ‘Jim’ Greasley finished second.

Half way through their basic training, on 3 September 1939, Arthur and Horace sat in the mess hall as an address by Neville Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister, was relayed on loudspeaker across the hushed dining hall. Chamberlain stated that an ultimatum for Germany to withdraw their troops from Poland had expired and ‘consequently this nation is at war with Germany.’

The troops were strangely subdued. A few were full of tales and bravado, relaying to any companions who would listen what they were going to do to the Germans when the action started. Most just sat and stared into space. Horace thought of his family and in particular, his twin brother.

Horace made the most of another 48-hour pass and Eva returned to her village rather pleasantly sore between the legs.
‘Don’t you think of anything else, Horace Greasley?’ she’d asked as they’d exchanged a tender kiss in a deserted barn about two miles from the camp while Horace worked his fingers into her knickers.

Horace thought about her question and when he came to analyse it, thought it rather stupid. Of course he thought about other things. It just so happened that the touch and the taste of Eva Bell’s beautiful young body occupied his brain most waking hours. Come to think of it, he dreamed about it quite a lot too. His sexual appetite was insatiable, and Eva’s matched his. Although he wasn’t to know it just yet, it was a sexual craving that would place him under an almost weekly death sentence in the years ahead.

Rather disappointingly for Horace, the 2nd/5th Battalion Leicesters didn’t head for the war immediately. September, October, November and most of December was spent at the barracks practising drill, polishing boots, performing mundane tasks around the camp, listening to the BBC World Service and making an occasional visit to the rifle range. It was as if the Army didn’t have anything for them to do.

Suddenly, at noon on 23 December 1939, all leave was officially cancelled. A letter had been sent to the next of kin. They were due to leave for France on Boxing Day. Horace was devastated. He was due to leave for home that evening and spend Christmas Day – his birthday – with his family. Jesus Christ, he thought, surely a couple of days wouldn’t have made any difference to the war? Didn’t these colonels and politicians realise how important this day was to people? He imagined his mother sitting at the kitchen table with the letter, the tears streaming down her face. Horace felt bitter and angry.

He awoke at five minutes to six on Christmas morning. He had no intention of going AWOL – it just sort of happened.
He took a trip to the toilet, completed his morning ablutions in double quick time, and passed his sleeping comrades in the huge dormitory. Some snored, or let loose an occasional fart on account of the copious amounts of beer they’d consumed the night before at a hastily arranged Christmas party. He walked through the billet in darkness and wondered how many of these young men would ever return to the shores of England. How many would die, how many would end up languishing in a prisoner of war camp, how many would be maimed or crippled? He would be fine, of course; the thought that he might not make it back home never even crossed his mind. It would never happen to Joseph Horace Greasley.

He changed into his combats, picked up his coat and fastened it up to the collar. The bitterly cold December morning air took his breath away when he stepped outside. The ground was frozen; a thick white rind of frost covered the grass, the windscreens of vehicles were frozen solid. A thin plume of smoke drifted from the chimney of the gatehouse as he walked over towards it. John Gilbert and Charlie Jackson had been on duty that evening; the poor bastards had missed out on the Christmas party. Horace would tell them all about it over a hot cup of tea.

But John Gilbert and Charlie Jackson were fast asleep. One of the boys had sneaked a bottle of whisky over to them around midnight, and they had been greedy.

Horace ducked under the barrier and began walking home.

Just over an hour into the walk the sun made an appearance and the perspiration started building on Horace’s back as he was bathed in a golden light. The birds that hadn’t flown south for the winter chimed out their sweet dawn chorus and as Horace climbed a five bar gate four miles from the camp he saw his first robin. It sat on a fencepost, cocking its tiny head in the direction of the
stranger walking towards it. Horace stopped. He marvelled at the beauty of the tiny, perfectly formed creature, captured as if in a photograph frame with a brilliant white frosted background behind it. And he thought back to the day he had pointed a gun at its brother.

Nothing else mattered. Being AWOL didn’t matter, nor did the war. This moment was worth anything his battalion military police would throw at him when they eventually caught up with him.

Horace walked into the kitchen of 101 Pretoria Road just after 9.30. His mother dropped the teacup she’d been holding and it shattered into a hundred pieces as the dregs spilled across the linoleum floor. She managed to squeeze out ‘Happy birthday, Horace,’ before collapsing into his arms in a fit of tears. Harold just sat at the table looking dumbfounded. The commotion from the kitchen attracted Horace’s father and his other siblings from the lounge where they were sitting by the open fire. It was the Christmas Day that shouldn’t have been, and that made it all the sweeter for Horace.

His father ushered him through to the lounge and pushed him in the direction of the chair by the fire. ‘You must be frozen, son. Sit there, get thawed out.’

Horace looked at the chair. It had seen better days; the leather was worn and scratched and in more than one place the horsehair interior had made an unwanted appearance. The chair was strategically placed a few feet from the fire; it was placed in such a way that the person sitting in it could view the whole room and everyone in it. It was in the prime location, it was the master chair, father’s chair, and no one ever dared to sit in it. It was respected… expected.

‘But Dad… it’s your…’

‘Sit,’ his father commanded as he smiled and handed him a cup of tea with the familiar faint aroma of Scotch whisky.

It could have been the best Christmas Day ever. It could also have been his last.

Horace left home around 11 that evening and arrived back at the camp just after one in the morning. The sentries weren’t sleeping this time and challenged him at the gatehouse.

‘Where the fuck you been then, Jim? Nobody’s seen you all fucking day. You missed your Christmas dinner.’

Horace smiled. ‘I’ve been for a walk, Bob, that’s all. A long walk.’

He ducked under the barrier and started walking in the direction of his billet. The other sentry called after him, but Horace never heard a word he said.

Horace was expecting something to happen that morning – a visit from the commanding officer at least, maybe a charge. He got neither. What could they do, throw him in jail as the regiment left for France? That’s what they’d been told; they were heading for France to start work as labourers on a French railway a little south of Cherbourg. They’d been told little else, but Horace knew from radio and newspaper reports – not to mention the squaddie grapevine – that France was about to be overrun by the army of the Third Reich.

The troop train seemed to crawl its way to Waterloo station in London. It was familiar to Horace; he had passed through on his way to Torquay. Thousands of soldiers lined the platform, young men the same age as Horace looking bewildered, dazed, some absolutely terrified. Horace had never seen such a huge concentration of men in one place. He scoured the platform looking for just a glimpse of a pretty face, a young nurse perhaps, even a female ticket inspector. Nothing. As if reading his mind Arthur Newbold, sitting opposite, smiled and spoke.