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

and punching at each other as three German guards waded into the mêlée with their rifles flailing and feet kicking at any head they could connect with. Horace lay helpless, clutching at his wrist as the woman squealed and screeched like a pig being led to the slaughter.
    ‘ Bâtard allemand !’ she screamed as the soldier took her by the hair. ‘ Bâtard allemand !’ she shouted again, and a few of the prisoners laughed at the spectacle unfolding in front of them, impressed by the lady’s defiance and colourful language.Horace’s knowledge of French was basic to say the least but he knew exactly what the old lady meant.
    The German threw her to the floor and pointed his rifle at her face. A threat, thought Horace, why? She had given him an apple, for Christ’s sake. What had she done to offend the man, to upset the German nation? And then the unimaginable happened. The old lady seemed to freeze, a look of horror on her face as she made eye contact with her aggressor. The action slowed down as if in a bizarre slow motion as the soldier pulled the trigger.
    The old lady lay motionless on the ground as a pool of blood spread like a crimson lake around her head. A young prisoner ran at the soldier, his eyes filled with hatred as two of his mates rugby-tackled him to the floor.
    ‘You fucking bastard!’ he screamed as a life-saving hand clamped his mouth shut. A tear ran down Horace’s cheek as he lay motionless, unable to understand the cowardly act he’d just witnessed. It was simply incomprehensible. He wanted to kill the soldier, to tear out his eyes with his bare hands. He recalled how he’d likened the Germans to animals a few nights before. They weren’t like animals; he’d insulted the good name of an animal. These men were worse.
    The condition of the men deteriorated over the next few days but thankfully the Germans seemed to turn a blind eye to villagers handing out whatever scraps they could spare. Horace was positioned towards the back of the queue and managed to get very little. He ate the skin of an orange one day and a cup full of milk, crumbs of bread and some grain. The march swept into the villages like a swarm of starving locusts.
    Nothing survived, anything that could be eaten was. Hens, dogs, cats… anything. They were eaten raw, the warm blood of the freshly killed animal savoured by those lucky enough to catch it. There were regular altercations between prisonersfighting over a piece of stale bread or a fat insect, even stagnant water. The Germans looked on as full fist-fights developed. It was a little light entertainment for them on the long monotonous journey.
    When allowed their one rest each day, a dinner time break without the dinner, the men would sit around in groups and speak of their families back home. It kept them going, and some would talk full of hope that it would all be over soon and they’d be back with their families within weeks or months. Horace worried more that England would be overrun by the Germans and his family’s lives would be as wretched as his had become.
    Then the dysentery started with a vengeance. Every few minutes somebody left the line and walked a few feet to a ditch by the side of the road, squatted, and without a shred of human dignity left, emptied the watery contents of his insides in full view of everyone. Some had time to grab at a handful of grass and clean themselves best they could. Others didn’t bother; they were past caring and simply pulled up their shit-covered trousers.
    The stench was permanent, the flies constant. Some men collapsed, too weak to go on. They were left by the side of the road and executed by the section of Germans following up the rear. The executions were regular and could be heard by the chain of human misery. They followed a pattern. Horace could see the signs – men staggering, stumbling as if in a drunken stupor, then buckling at the knees. Occasionally a rifle butt in the back, an order to continue. The men would