Free Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? by Horace Greasley

on the outskirts of the square.
    ‘Hungry cunts, eh?’
    Horace nodded.
    The French prisoners had had time to prepare for their incarceration and had stocked up on the bare necessities of life. They ate baguettes filled with meat and cheese; one man chewed on a bar of chocolate.
    ‘Think they’ll share it out, Ernie?’
    ‘Not a fucking hope in hell. They’re huddled around like a pack of wolves.’
    A plan formulated in Horace’s mind. For the first time in his life he was going to become a thief. He placed a hand on his pal’s shoulder.
    ‘Ernie, my friend, we are about to partake in a little breakfast.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’m going shoplifting. Your job, Mr Mountain, is to stopany froggies coming after me. I’ll disappear into the crowd with my ill-gotten gains and catch up with you later.’
    ‘No, you crazy cunt! You’ll be shot.’
    Horace pointed over to the field kitchen.
    ‘They’re all having breakfast, mate. I’ve made my mind up. Now get ready, I need some bloody food.’
    Before Ernie could protest, Horace had sauntered through the mass of bodies in front of him and stood on top of the embankment less than two yards from the Frenchmen. He didn’t have to wait long, and what a result! Half a baguette was being handed across the circle. Without thinking, Horace covered the short distance as quick as lightning and grabbed the prize from the startled Frenchman’s hand. He was down the embankment like a whippet as the Frenchman scrambled after him. Horace dropped his shoulders, picked out the unmistakeable bulk of Ernie and ran for him. As he passed Ernie the Frenchman seemed to be gaining on him. The rest of his friends had risen to their feet and were shouting, attracting the attention of a few guards.
    ‘ Voleur !’ they cried. Thief!
    Ernie gritted his teeth and aimed for the bridge of the Frenchman’s nose. He didn’t even swing a punch, just a stiff outstretched arm and a huge balled fist. The runner’s momentum did the rest. There was a sickening crunch as bone met bone and the pursuer’s legs kept going as his head remained motionless. At one point his body wavered vertically for a fraction of a second as he crumpled unconscious to the floor. Ernie about turned, looking innocently skywards as two German guards forced their way into the mêlée with their rifle butts.
    The Frenchman’s friends were picking up their unconscious, bloodied friend from the ground. ‘ Au voleur ! Voleur !’ they cried, pointing through the crowd. Ernie cursedthem under his breath and prayed that Horace hadn’t been caught. Thankfully the German guards didn’t appear to be interested in justice among prisoners. It didn’t exist, and they cuffed a few of the French for the hell of it before returning to their breakfast. Horace found his friend and took great pride in tearing the baguette in half.
    The two soldiers smiled as they bit into the delicious bread and savoured the taste. Ernie spoke between chews.
    ‘You dozy cunt. You’ve pinched a fucking sandwich with fuck all sandwich in it!’
    Horace opened up the bread and sure enough it was empty. It didn’t matter; their stomachs appreciated it none the less.
    Two hours later they began marching eastwards out of the village. The prisoner grapevine that would yield so much information in the coming years said they were embarking on a two or three-day march to the train station at Brussels in German-occupied Belgium. The grapevine got it dramatically wrong. The march would last for what would feel like an eternity and take Horace to hell and back.

CHAPTER
FOUR
    T he prisoners were a nuisance. They were nobodies and life was cheap. Horace sensed this almost as soon as the column of prisoners left Cambrai. For the first four or five miles the Allied prisoners marched along the main road out of the town, the line stretching as far as the eye could see. At one point the road dipped and straightened and Horace could see the front of the march shimmering in