Table Of ContentFor Brenda
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For all the lads who never made it, and especially for Jock for
his culinary skills with the little bit extra I was able to
provide for the pot. And for Rose for making my life as a
prisoner that little bit more bearable. But especially for my wife
Brenda who urged me on to get this book written. For the
unconditional care and attention she has given me throughout
our marriage and especially in the last eight years when my
health has failed me. Without her I wouldn’t be here now to tell
this tale.
Brenda, this book is for you.
Thanks to Ken Scott, without whom this book would never have
been written, and to his wife Hayley, daughter Emily and son
Callum. I thank them for taking such a keen interest; they have
now become some of our closest friends.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
Plates
Copyright
FOREWORD
BY THE AUTHOR KEN SCOTT
In the spring of 2008 I reluctantly agreed to meet up with an
elderly gentleman. He was 89 years old. I was desperately
trying to finish off my third book and had another two projects
on the go, when I was notified that an ex-POW wanted to write
his Second World War memoirs. ‘Oh no,’ I said to my wife, ‘not
another war story.’
It was a man called Filly Bullock who introduced the two of
us in a small town called Alfaz del Pi on Spain’s Costa Blanca,
the White Coast, on an unusually hot March day. Filly had
warned me I was about to stumble on the greatest World War
Two story never told and that I would fall over myself to write
it.
I secretly bet my bottom dollar that I wouldn’t. This old boy
just doesn’t know how busy I am, I thought to myself, and
anyway he’s 89. Why the hell did he wait until now to think
about getting his book written?
I sat in Horace Greasley’s well-kept lounge while his wife
Brenda ferried in the coffee. I’d talk to him for ten minutes I’d
decided, let him down gently. Anyway what was I doing here?
I’m a fiction writer. Sure I’d dabbled with the memoirs of a not
so famous, not so exciting MP but the book had never made it
to print. I’d had no experience whatsoever ghostwriting this
type of book. I knew nothing about it, wouldn’t even know
where to start.
I sat with Horace for over two hours as he relayed his
condensed story to me, first through numerous cups of coffee
and then through the beers (Horace preferred gin). I sat with
an open mouth as this old soldier took me through the
dramatics of his unfortunate capture, the horrors of a death
march and a train journey where Allied prisoners fell dead
every few hours. The story was only just beginning.
I listened while Horace ‘Jim’ Greasley spoke.
Horace relayed his near-death experience in the first camp
and then took me through his first meeting with Rosa, in Camp
Two. There was an instant mutual attraction between the
young German interpreter and the emaciated prisoner. Within
a few weeks he would be having sex with her on a filthy bench
top in the camp’s drilling workshops, under the noses of the
German guards. It wasn’t love at first sight; that took the best
part of a year. In fact at the exact point he discovered how
much he felt about Rosa and how much he actually loved her,
the Germans transferred him to yet another camp. He was
devastated.
It was at this point that Horace told me that the good bit was
only just beginning. He would relay his time in the third camp
at Freiwaldau, in Polish Silesia, in dulcet whispered tones for
nearly an hour.
I sat in silence. The book was formulating in my head as I
desperately fought the urge to take my pen out and begin
scribbling right there and then. I had questions. Why wait
nearly 70 years before writing the book? Why me? How’s his
health? A book can take a year to write – is he going to hold
out?
I never asked the questions as I didn’t want to hear any
answers I might not like. I agreed to give it a go. For five
months I sat with Horace while he relayed the greatest escape
story ever. I thought back to my youth, the great Colditz stories
and Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. Horace Greasley’s
account of his time in the POW camps blows those stories out
of the water.
What makes it all the more amazing is that every bit of the
book is true. I attempted to exaggerate at times with a little
poetic licence. Horace wouldn’t allow it; in reality I didn’t need
to. The words in this book are not those of Ken Scott,
ghostwriter, they are the words of Horace Greasley, ex
prisoner of war. Horace could not write or type because of
severe arthritis. I take no credit for this book; I have merely
acted as his fingers.
Horace’s long-term memory and attention to detail was
remarkable. At times reliving the brutality at the hands of his
German captors would bring him to tears. I followed suit
closely; it is one of my weaknesses. For me, tears are
infectious.
I would like to think that telling his story brought a certain
closure for Horace on the horrors he experienced during the
war. He expressed on more than one occasion that this book is
for his prisoner comrades – the men who suffered at the hands
of their fellow man.
The experience of writing this book has made my life richer;
meeting a man like Horace and hearing of his suffering has
humbled me. I doubt whether my generation could have coped
with the experiences these men went through. I relayed some
of the stories to my children Callum, 9, and Emily, 12. They
were fascinated, and listened at times in disbelief as I
described the prisoners’ suffering and the callous, barbaric
acts committed by mankind. I think it is important that we
never forget the suffering an ordinary individual goes through
during war and remember that Horace was one of the lucky
ones. He came home.
We must continue to teach our children about the futility and
horrors of war. The politicians that instigate them must
question their conscience. They never suffer; only the young
men and women of their country and the countries they fight
with.
My children met Horace. We socialised with him and his wife
Brenda. I count myself fortunate to have met such a man as
Horace Greasley and take it as a great honour that he
approached me to write his book.
I only hope that I have done it justice.
Ken Scott
May 2013
This book is based on a true story, on information gathered
from eyewitness accounts and over one hundred hours of
interviews. It is a story about misery, genocide and
enslavement… it is a story of one man’s daring in the face of
adversity.
