Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day: Book 2

  ‘We need to find our parachutist first,’ Rosie said nervously.

  PT only now realised that there was no sign of the spy. He shone his torch up into the branches and solved the mystery.

  Rosie covered her eyes and turned away in horror. The parachutist had landed high in the branches and must have remained conscious for long enough to release his ’chute and equipment, but as he’d tried to climb down he’d slipped. His throat was impaled on the jutting remains of a snapped branch. His jawbone held him up like a coat hook and his feet swung freely.

  ‘Gruesome,’ Marc winced.

  PT turned off the light, before looking back and realising that the German truck had passed them by. Its rear lights were now heading uphill.

  ‘We need to tidy this up so that the Germans don’t find him when it gets light,’ PT said calmly. ‘If they know spies have been dropped into the area they’ll tighten security and that’s the last thing we need right now.’

  ‘How do you tidy that up?’ Marc asked.

  ‘I’ll yank him down.’

  ‘He’s hooked up there,’ Rosie said. ‘You’ll have to tear the bottom half of his face off!’

  ‘If I have to, that’s what I’ll do,’ PT said bluntly. ‘We’ll roll him in the parachute silk, strip off his gun and equipment, and stuff him inside that metal pig pen at the end of the field.’

  *

  The surviving parachutist was a tubby little man named Bernard Prost. He wore rectangular glasses and sat at the kitchen table trembling over a mug of coffee. Everyone was up except for Paul, who’d picked up a bad cold and was sleeping upstairs.

  PT stood at the sink scrubbing blood out of his shirt, while Maxine sat out on the doorstep, comforting Marc and Rosie, who’d been upset by the shocking death and the trauma of hiding the disfigured body.

  ‘It’s a mess,’ Bernard mumbled. ‘We needed two people to successfully infiltrate the telephone—’

  Henderson raised a hand and interrupted. ‘Think about your training, man,’ he said firmly. ‘You don’t tell me or anyone else about your mission. What if one of us was captured and interrogated? Now, where are your photographs?’

  ‘In the small case,’ Bernard said.

  Henderson had no confidence in this rather nervous man. ‘I know that the death of your partner is a shock,’ he said, as he opened the suitcase. ‘But that goes with the territory of being a spy. You have to be strong … oh, for god’s sake. What the is this?’hell

  Henderson pulled a bar of chocolate with English writing on the wrapper out of Bernard’s case.

  ‘I understand food is in short supply in many areas,’ Bernard explained. ‘Chocolate has a high energy content.’

  ‘But it’s chocolate!’ Henderson gasped, as he threw more things out of Bernard’s case. ‘The first checkpoint you reach, the Germans will open your case and arrest you on the spot. And this, look at this!’British

  Henderson held up a shirt with a Fifty Shilling Tailor label stitched into the collar. ‘Didn’t MI5 train you in anything? You’d better go through your things and remove anything that looks even slightly British.’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone from MI5,’ Bernard explained. ‘I’ve not had any formal training. I believe the Brits are building a training facility for undercover agents, but it won’t be ready for several months.’

  ‘Hopeless,’ Henderson said, tutting loudly as he turned over more items in the suitcase and found the identity photographs he needed to complete Bernard’s fake paperwork.

  Maxine stepped in from the doorway as Henderson trimmed the photograph to the proper size for a French identity card. She looked at Bernard and spoke.

  ‘Would a woman be a suitable replacement for your missing partner?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Bernard said uncertainly.

  ‘I’ve always fancied Paris,’ Maxine said, smiling.

  Henderson shook his head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Maxine. You’re returning to Britain with me and the kids.’

  ‘Do you think I’ll get along with your wife?’ Maxine replied sarcastically.

  Henderson shrivelled in his chair. ‘I’ve already explained that my wife has certain difficulties. It’s not a normal marriage in any sense.’

  ‘So you’ll be filing for divorce?’ Maxine snapped.

  Bernard had a smug little grin on his face that made Henderson want to thump him.

  ‘Maxine …’ Henderson mumbled. ‘I can’t authorise you to do this.’

  ‘,’ Maxine scoffed. ‘You’re in no position to Authorise authorise me to do anything, Charles Henderson. It’s settled. If we successfully complete the air-raid operation I’ll head to Paris and work with Bernard.’

  ‘But,’ Henderson spluttered, turning uncharacteristically red.

  Rosie came in from the doorstep and looked at Henderson. ‘Sorry to interrupt your argument,’ she said, ‘but it’s three-thirty a.m. We need to send a message to McAfferty to confirm what happened with the drop.’

  Bernard rose up out of his chair. ‘I’ll help,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ Henderson replied, scowling at the tiny photograph now glued to Bernard’s identity card.

  ‘It’s more secure,’ Bernard said insistently. ‘My transmission averages fifty-two words per minute.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  9 September 05:57 The Farm

  Rosie, Maxine and Bernard stood around the kitchen table in their night clothes. PT, Paul, Marc and Henderson were dressed and ready to leave in the truck.

  ‘OK,’ Henderson said. ‘Our big day is finally here. Did we all sleep well?’

  There were a few nervous laughs before Henderson cracked a smile. ‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘You all know your jobs and you all know how important they are.

  ‘PT, you’re off to Dunkirk, via Calais. Marc is handling Boulogne. Paul and I will deal with Calais. Finally, Maxine and Bernard will be setting incendiary beacons at Dieppe and Le Havre respectively. I’m not one for great speeches, but I do want to say keep calm at all times and make absolutely sure you have all the equipment on your checklists before you leave the farm.

  ‘I set my watch by BBC radio when I first woke up and the time is now five fifty-eight. All of you have pocket or wrist watches. Make sure they’re properly wound and telling exactly the right time. The RAF raids on all five ports are set for eight-forty. We’ll want beacons at all five ports burning three minutes before that, so that the bombers have a target for the final ten miles of their approach.

  ‘Everyone except Maxine and Bernard is due back here before ten p.m. If you miss the boat, there are emergency supplies, navigational charts, maps and blank identity documents hidden on this farm and at two locations nearby. There are small vessels all along the coast and my best advice is that you wait for a calm sea and try crossing the Channel. Britain’s pretty big, so navigation isn’t a problem, but be careful you don’t hit any mines as you come ashore.

  ‘Now, Marc and I have to go to work. Paul and PT are riding with us so now’s your moment if any of you want to say goodbye to Maxine.’

  As Henderson headed outside to start the truck, the three boys took turns hugging Maxine. She soon had tears streaking down her face.

  ‘You’re all so brave,’ Maxine sniffled. ‘I couldn’t be any prouder if you really were my sons.’

  ‘Don’t forget to drop my gear off when you pass through Boulogne,’ Marc said.

  Maxine nodded. ‘Between two trees, after the duck farm, before the junction, and there’s a stone slab with your initials scratched into it.’

  ‘You can’t miss it,’ Marc confirmed.

  Paul was the youngest and the most upset. He gave Maxine a second hug as Henderson walked out to start the truck. The vehicle was more than ten years old and usually needed a few turns with a hand crank before it got going in the morning.

  ‘Thanks for all the great dinners, Maxine,’ Paul said, trying to hide his tears behind a smile.

  ‘Paul, you’ve b
een a joy to have around. Thank you, and I’ll write to you in England as soon as I can.’ Maxine was now crying again.

  ‘We’re up and running, boys,’ Henderson yelled from the doorway.

  After briefly wishing Rosie and Bernard good luck, the three boys jogged out and squatted on top of the equipment in the back of the battered old truck.

  Maxine looked at Henderson. ‘Are you still sulking, or do I get a goodbye kiss?’

  The Sunday between the parachute drop and the day of the air raid had been planned as a time to relax and prepare, but Henderson had been unhappy with Maxine’s decision to stay in France and the tension between them had soured the mood.

  But Henderson managed a smile and pulled her close for an intense goodbye kiss. ‘If I’d only met you before my wife,’ he said.

  But Maxine wasn’t fooled. ‘We had fun,’ she said, smiling bravely. ‘And now it’s over, because you’ll either go back home to your wife, or get yourself killed.’

  Henderson quickly shook Bernard’s hand before climbing behind the wheel of the truck. Maxine was right about him never leaving his wife, and in some ways her staying behind had saved him from an awkward break-up. But he liked Maxine a lot and felt miserable as he drove off the farm, watching in the side mirror as she disappeared through the cottage door and catching a final glimpse back at her Jaguar as the truck turned on to the road.

  He’d grown used to driving the sports car and the hedgerows seemed to move in slow motion as the clattering truck drove down the empty lanes. The security post on the outskirts of Calais pulled Henderson over.

  ‘Slumming it today,’ the guard noted.

  Henderson pointed into the back. ‘My youngest’s got a doctor’s appointment, so the Jag wouldn’t cut it.’

  A five-minute ride took them into the cobbled square behind army headquarters. Henderson shook Marc’s hand through the hatch behind his head.

  ‘Be safe,’ he said, feeling unnerved by the smallness of Marc’s hand. ‘I’m asking a lot of you, boy. There’s no shame in failing, just make sure you’re on that boat by ten o’clock tonight.’

  As always, Kommodore Kuefer and his driver, Schroder, stood by their big Mercedes, smoking cigarettes. The German architect had spent three days in hospital after being stabbed by Houari and bore a large pink scar on his chin.

  ‘Sorry Marc’s late,’ Henderson said. ‘This old truck isn’t so swift.’

  Unless it was raining Kuefer and Henderson always exchanged a few words in German. Henderson wanted to make sure that no last-minute alteration would ruin Marc’s schedule.

  ‘Boulogne today?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘Meeting here in Calais first, then down to Boulogne,’ Kuefer confirmed. ‘If ever you’re down that way you have to eat at Gérard’s, the food is magnificent.’

  Kuefer blew a kiss to emphasise his point as Marc climbed into the car. The German hadn’t met the other boys before. Henderson introduced Paul as his younger son and PT as his nephew and the two lads politely shook Kuefer’s hand.

  Marc stared at the back of Schroder’s head as the Mercedes drove out of the cobbled square, uncomfortable with the thought that if everything went to plan the two Germans only had a few hours to live.

  *

  06:44 Calais

  Henderson acted like a model employee and never missed an opportunity to please Oberst Ohlsen. He’d set a regular schedule each morning, spending ten or fifteen minutes flirting with the female admin staff and picking up the latest gossip. Then he’d go to the wireless room and collect any radio messages or telegrams that had arrived overnight, which meant that he often knew what was going on in Berlin before the Oberst himself.

  When Ohlsen and his assistant arrived shortly after seven o’clock, Henderson would be waiting with fresh coffee, German newspapers and the urgent messages. Unless Ohlsen was exceptionally busy, Henderson would be invited to stay for coffee and the Oberst’s general mood and off the cuff remarks often contained as much valuable intelligence as the official communications.

  On this particular Monday, Henderson also sprinkled a vial of toxic crystals into the sugar bowl. He wasn’t sure what it contained, only that it had been specially prepared by a London chemist and carried over by the dead parachutist.

  ‘How was your day off?’ Ohlsen asked cheerfully as he came into the office ahead of his assistant.

  ‘Any day off is a good one,’ Henderson replied, as he took the Germans’ coats and hooked them up outside. When he got back, Ohlsen’s assistant was pouring coffee into the three cups.

  ‘You don’t take sugar, do you Boyle?’ he asked.

  ‘Four spoons for me,’ Ohlsen said, as Henderson shook his head.

  12:15 Boulogne

  Marc yawned as the Mercedes pulled up across the street from Gérard’s fish restaurant.

  ‘You don’t look so good, Marc,’ Kuefer noted.

  ‘Tired,’ Marc said, as he looked behind for traffic before opening the car door out into the road.

  ‘Things should calm down in a week or two when we run out of barges to convert,’ Kuefer said. ‘I can go back to designing gun turrets instead of converting rotten canal barges, and I’ve heard that the administration will be reopening schools once the harvest is in.’

  ‘And I’ll not have to drive up and down these damned coast roads,’ Schroder added. ‘I’ll probably have the pleasure of fighting my way through the English countryside instead.’

  Marc looked across the street and saw that Gérard’s was already filling up with its usual lunchtime crowd of German officers and wealthy French. It rankled Marc that in all the time he’d worked with Kuefer he’d never once been invited inside.

  ‘If you see Louis at the dockyard, tell him I’ll be arriving at around two-thirty.’

  ‘Right,’ Marc said, as he started to walk.

  Gérard’s ma”tre d’ stepped out beneath the grubby cloth canopy over the doorway. ‘Good to see you, Kommodore Kuefer. Your garden table is ready.’

  Once his boss was out of sight Marc quickened his pace. If he was hungry he’d usually go straight to the dockyard to beat the queue of labourers to a hot lunch, but the dockyard stew only took a few minutes to eat so Marc had often used his boss’s leisurely lunch breaks to explore, and he’d come to know Boulogne well.

  After turning off the street, Marc broke into a run. Like all the ports in the Pas-de-Calais, Boulogne had a heavy German presence, but he was known as Kuefer’s translator and nobody ever bothered him. After skimming past a pair of miserable looking soldiers he sprinted down an alleyway between two rows of houses, ducking beneath strands of washing and getting yelled at when he crashed into an old man hidden behind yellowed bed sheets.

  At the end of the alleyway, he ran past filthy wire cages crammed with ducks, then jumped over a fence into the overgrown garden of a bombed-out house. There were two mature oaks and a tall hedgerow between himself and a convoy of German trucks blurring past on the main route east.

  As instructed Maxine had left a canvas bag between the trees. Marc crouched down and unbuckled it to check what was inside: phosphorous bombs, plastic explosive, detonators, fuse cord, piano wire and two pistols. He noticed a sheet of pink paper jutting from the front pocket and smiled when he read it:

  I saved you the last piece! Good Luck. M.

  Marc pulled a soggy block of bread pudding out of the pocket. Maxine cooked a mixture of French and English dishes and bread pudding had become his favourite. He checked the pocket watch Henderson had given him and made sure he had time before tucking in greedily.

  The last mouthfuls were tinged with sadness. Would he ever see Maxine or taste her bread pudding again?

  When there was nothing left he licked the sugar off the greaseproof paper and realised that Maxine was the closest thing he’d ever had to a mother. Rather than throw her pink note away, he folded the paper three times and tucked it deep into his trouser pocket.

  Marc struggled with the heavy bag and took a different
alleyway back towards the docks. Rather than risk being searched on his way into the secure perimeter around the docks, he stopped by Kuefer’s Mercedes, unlocked the trunk and buried the bag deep inside beneath rolled-up plans, umbrellas and leather coats.

  The roads around the dockyards were sealed off by gates and sentry boxes, but the German on the gate was used to Marc coming and going and barely glanced at his paperwork.

  ‘Where’s your boss?’ the guard asked miserably.

  ‘Stuffing his face at Gérard’s,’ Marc said. Although his German still wasn’t fluent, it had improved hugely over the weeks he’d spent working as Kuefer’s translator.

  ‘Officers,’ the guard said, making the word sound like a curse and giving an gesture as Marc ducked under the gate.up yours

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Marc smiled.

  The port had two large rectangular harbours which were separated by a natural peninsula. The sun was high and as he walked along the waterfront more than two hundred barges bobbed on the twinkling water, tied ten to fifteen abreast at each mooring.

  They varied from huge coal barges more than a hundred metres long and now converted to carry tanks, down to narrow boats made for the still waters of the Dutch canal system. All had been given a thin coat of grey paint and had numbers stencilled on the side of their hulls.

  At the far side where the harbour broke on to the open sea, Marc noticed that there were fewer barges than there had been the previous Thursday. This confirmed intelligence picked up by Henderson that the Germans were beginning to spread the barges across beaches in preparation for the invasion in exactly one week’s time.

  Behind the twin harbours lay a broad canal that was a kilometre long and lined with the small boatyards where the conversion work was still progressing. The prisoners took lunch in two shifts and Marc sidled up to two African men. They formed part of a larger group of dark-skinned prisoners who’d finished eating and were throwing dice against the upturned hull of a fishing boat that hadn’t touched water in a decade.