Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? Read Online Free PDF Page A

never even heard the word conscientious until Harold had almost whispered it across the table that ill-fated Friday evening.
    By all accounts Harold and the man of God had presented a most convincing case and the panel had agreed that Harold would not have to fight on the front line, point a gun at a human being nor attend the enlistment procedure. Instead Harold had agreed to take up a non-combat role and had been put forward to join the Royal Army Medical Corps. The RAMC did not carry a regimental colour nor did it have any battle honours. It was not a fighting unit and under the Geneva Convention, its members could only use their weapons in self-defence.
    So Horace stood in the enlistment line at King Street, Leicester on his own… the loneliest man in the world, waiting his turn. He wanted to say he wasn’t angry, wanted to say he wasn’t bitter, but the truth of the matter was that he was. He had stood open-mouthed, staring in disbelief as his father explained they’d been working on Harold’s case for over aweek. Even the minister had called at the house. It was a combined effort that Horace knew nothing about.
    Horace had seethed as Harold explained that his great friend and mentor Father John Rendall had drunk several cups of tea around the pine kitchen table of 101 Pretoria Road, on the very evening that Horace had gone to the fire station to turn down the opportunity of a lifetime in order to watch the back of his twin brother.
    ‘It was a combined bloody effort alright,’ Horace mumbled to himself as he remembered the stand-up row he’d had with his brother that evening. He’d wanted to hit him. Not because of what he’d done but because he’d done it behind his back. It turned out everyone knew – Mum and Dad, Daisy and Sybil and of course, Father Fucking High Almighty God-fearing Rendall.
    ‘What was that you said, soldier?’ A voice bellowed out, bringing Horace back to the present. A sergeant major with a waxed handlebar moustache stood upright, as if to attention, directly in front of Horace. Horace noticed the crowns on his uniform and thought it best to address him correctly.
    ‘Nothing, sir, I just wondered if I was in the right building.’
    Horace stretched out a hand and offered the papers to the sergeant major, who took a quick look and without lowering his voice said, ‘Correct, soldier. 2nd/5th Battalion Leicesters, one of the finest regiments in the King’s Army.’ He took a step forward. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are to be joining us.’
    Horace was confused. He was still angry and perhaps he hadn’t been thinking straight, but the letter definitely said he would have the choice of the Army, the Navy or indeed the Air Force. He felt intimidated, a little under pressure; he looked at the rest of the young men in the queue and they all seemed happy that the attention was focused on someone else – someother poor bastard, he thought to himself and cursed under his breath. Horace cleared his throat; he wasn’t about to be frightened by this man. What chance did he have with the Germans if he bowed down to one sergeant major?
    ‘Actually, sir, I haven’t quite made my mind up who it is I’ll be choosing to join.’
    The sergeant major took a step forward. Horace could smell his breath – stale tobacco and tea. His teeth were stained. He raised his voice and Horace was aware of a gun holster he’d pushed round to the front of his trousers. The officer flicked open the top cover. ‘Do you want to be bloody shot?’ he bellowed and a slither of spit hit Horace in the eye.
    Horace was tough but he was also taken aback. He kept quiet, sort of nodded his head then shook it quickly.
    ‘Then get back in the fucking line and don’t you even think about insulting my regiment again.’
    ‘No, sir… sorry, sir,’ he whispered, so quietly that the rest of the queue hardly heard him.
    Within 20 minutes he’d signed up for the 2nd/5th Battalion Leicesters and had been given a