Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? by Horace Greasley Read Free Book Online Page A

to tell exactly how far away the sound was: maybe two, three miles. Horace smiled as a burst of adrenaline caused a shiver up the entire length of his spine, and he was ready. He’d never felt so sure about anything in his life. At last it seemed he was going to see some action.
    They had stopped by the side of the road near a wooded area. The lorry Horace had been travelling in pulled into a firebreak in the forest and drove in about half a kilometre. The rest of the convoy left. Horace’s group were on their own, ready for some sort of scrap, though in what form he didn’t know. Horace sensed it and so too did some of the other troops, who were strangely subdued. Aberfield stood under the cover of the trees pulling on a cigarette with trembling fingers. He was a deathly shade of white, a walking corpse.
    Horace was instructed to climb up onto the canvas roof of the lorry with a Bren gun. The rest of the men stood around the lorry, Lee Enfield 303 single-shot rifles at the ready. He was told by the corporal that a German reconnaissance plane was close by and it was Horace’s job to bring it down with a continuous burst of fire from the machine gun. ‘You’re the best shot, Greasley,’ the corporal said by way of explanation as Horace climbed up and was handed the Bren gun. Horace didn’t need any justification… he was ready. In fact he couldn’t have been more excited.
    Horace lay on his back on top of the tight tarpaulin for nearly two hours. The safety catch on the Bren gun had been disengaged, his finger poised on the trigger as he held the gun pointing to the sky. A couple of times he thought he heardthe drone of an aeroplane engine in the distance, but to his disappointment it had faded away.
    ‘Down you come, Greasley,’ the corporal shouted up to him. ‘You’ve been up there long enough.’
    ‘I’m fine, Corporal, never felt better. I’m…’
    ‘Get your arse down here when I tell you, Greasley! Two hours up there is enough for anyone’s concentration. Come on, we haven’t got all day.’
    ‘But Corporal, I…’
    ‘Now, for fuck’s sake! That’s an order!’
    Another youthful squaddie was making his way up onto the roof looking none too pleased. Horace smiled as he held out a hand to pull him up.
    ‘Looks like you’re going to get all the fun, Cloughie.’
    The young squaddie didn’t reply; he looked absolutely terrified.
    Private Clough had been on the roof no more than ten minutes when they heard the unmistakeable noise of an aircraft swooping in from the west. The Messerschmitt ME 210 had been on a reconnaissance patrol, viewing and reporting back on the Allied troop movements. Nevertheless it was equipped with four 20mm cannons and a rear gunner in the tail with fully armed MG 131 machine guns. The pilot radioed through to the rear gunner: they were about to have some fun.
    The plane banked steeply as the pilot held both thumbs on the buttons of the cannons high up on the joystick. He dropped the aircraft down another hundred feet or so and lined it up with the firebreak in the forest as if approaching a huge, long runway ready to land. This was going to be easy; take out a few of the English pigs and return home in time for supper.
    Horace had to admit it was a frightening sight as the aircraft roared towards them no more than 80 feet from the ground. The noise was deafening as the aircraft sped towards the exposed lorry. Most of the section had taken cover in the forest; a few were discharging their weapons but couldn’t possibly hope to hit anything firing through the branches of the trees. Horace stood alone in the clearing, the 303 rifle butt tight into his shoulder, firing into the propellers of the plane through gritted teeth. At any second the Bren gun would open up a volley of shots and the plane would be brought down. And then it came; it was music to his ears, round after round from a machine gun. A beautiful sound, thought Horace, and he wished he’d been the man on top