Read Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? for Free Online

on a fencepost, cocking its tiny head in the direction of thestranger 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.
    ‘No shagging for a while, eh, Jim?’
    ‘No, I suppose not, Arthur.’
    ‘My girlfriend Jane’s a pal of Eva’s, didn’t you know?’
    ‘No, I didn’t.’
    ‘Eva tells Jane everything. She reckons you’re a bit of a lad, an unlimited supply of dobbers – and boy do you put them to the test.’
    Horace smiled. He couldn’t quite believe that Eva had shared so much