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

rickety old staircase. Pictures of scenes from Paris and Versailles lined the stairs and a huge dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling where the staircase turned and led to a red-carpeted landing. Three young ladies stood in their frilly finery, hands on hips, smiling down at the soldiers below.
    ‘Oh well,’ said Arthur cheerfully, ‘looks like we’re going to get a few dancers.’
    ‘Possibly singers,’ commented Horace innocently.
    Sergeant Thompson, a regular soldier in his late thirties, who’d just taken a mouthful of French ale, sprayed his beer across the table, unable to control his laugh.
    ‘You dozy bastards,’ he guffawed with a huge grin. ‘They’re prostitutes… French fucking whores. The only thing they’ll be singing to is your dicks.’
    As the truth dawned on the two young men from Ibstock, their mouths gaped open. It all fell into place, the red carpet, the madame with too much makeup and a hard face standing next to the table and the oh, so expensive French beer. There were no prostitutes in Ibstock. Horace didn’t think he’d even heard the word mentioned in 21 years at 101 Pretoria Road. A woman spreading her legs for any man on earth as long ashe had a pocket full of money. It was simply unthinkable… quite disgusting.
    By now Arthur had turned a ghostly shade of white. His beer glass trembled nervously in his hand as he held it in front of his face in a vain attempt to look unruffled. Sergeant Thompson answered the madame.
    ‘No thanks, luv,’ he said in a rough Derbyshire accent that surely the madame couldn’t make out. ‘I’ve got everything I need back home.’
    She turned her attention to Horace who sat in a stunned silence. Sergeant Thompson and Arthur looked across the table too. Arthur gave a nervous laugh and shook his head. ‘Who could do such a thing?’ he asked his companions.
    Horace grinned, bundled a fistful of French francs into the madame’s hands and took the stairs two at a time. He had no time to make a choice – he was simply grabbed unceremoniously by the oldest-looking of the three girls, a slim, large-breasted redhead named Collette, no more than 25 years of age. She led him to a room at the far end of the corridor, opened the door and pushed him inside. She stood with her back to the door and defrocked, revealing a red basque with matching stockings and suspenders.
    ‘And now, Englishman,’ she said with a seductive smile, ‘it’s time for you to find out what a lady’s tongue is for.’
    As she moved forward she untied the basque and it fell to the floor, exposing her breasts. Her hand reached out instinctively for Horace’s groin and with an expert twist of her wrist his flies were unbuttoned and his trousers at his ankles. Her small delicate hand squeezed at his already erect penis as she lowered herself to her knees. She pushed at him gently with her free hand as Horace’s knees buckled against the bed. As he fell backwards and felt the girl’s wet mouth on him he lay back and thought of England.
    Back in the camp dormitory as they prepared for lights out, Arthur and Sergeant Thompson ridiculed and teased him relentlessly. Horace didn’t care. Collette had taught him things he didn’t think possible in the two hours he’d spent in her company and she’d made good her promise about finding out what exactly a girl’s tongue was for.
    Exactly two weeks later the first letter arrived from Eva. Horace was excited and settled down on his bunk to savour each word. He was not to know that Arthur had written to his girlfriend the week before, or that Jane Butler had a mouth bigger than the Humber estuary.
    The letter started off nicely, asked how the accommodation and food was and when he was likely to see any action. He was already formulating his replies to her questions in his mind, thinking he might start the letter that evening, when he went on to the second page.
I know all about your indiscretions with the French prostitute and quite