‘I’ve told you all I know,’ Marc said. ‘I don’t like it either. I’ve got cows to milk no matter how late I get home.’
‘German arseholes,’ Louis said, as he turned to walk away. ‘Shouldn’t be using a kid your age anyway.’
‘Smooth talker,’ Rufus said, smiling at Marc as Louis disappeared around the side of the coal shed.
Marc reached the top of the ladder and swung back an inspection hatch. The diesel fumes made his eyes sting as he looked inside. Khinde passed up the canvas bag and a few seconds later the first phosphorous bomb sploshed down into the tank.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
14:48 The Farm
There were two labourers working somewhere out in the fields, but to all intents Rosie was alone. She’d spent the morning making sure everything was packed. After preparing lunch for Eugene and the other two prisoners who worked on the farm she’d gutted three chickens Eugene had killed before he left for Calais on a bike and put them in the oven together with a leg of pork.
As three o’clock approached she crossed the road and the overgrown field of a neighbouring farm, eventually reaching a cottage with a small shed at the end of the garden. She checked the battery meter on the transmitter before flicking the power switch and watching the familiar orange glow of the valves behind the perforated metal grille.
Every Morse operator has slightly different preferences and as Henderson had used the key last, Rosie adjusted a pair of knobs to set the keying height and the power of the spring. The set was still warming up so she tapped out I FEEL SORRY FOR GUTTED CHICKENS, to make sure she had everything right before plugging in the Morse key and her headphones.
On the stroke of three Rosie double checked the frequency dial and began to transmit a coded message saying that everything was fine. Usually, McAfferty would only transmit a short phrase to say that she’d received the message, but today she transmitted more and Rosie jotted down the letters. When the transmission ended, she took out a pencil and decoded the message.
TELL SERAPHIM ALL IS GOOD. 337 BIRDS SET FOR RAID. WEATHER CLEAR. YOU’LL BE HOME IN TIME FOR BREAKFAST. LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU, MCAFFERTY OUT.
16:21 Calais
It was a warm afternoon and the stuffy meeting room was giving Henderson a headache. He stood at the head of a table beside an SS officer translating a long rant from the chairman of the Calais Chamber of Commerce.
‘… furthermore, we feel that it is impossible to work in an environment where the Germans do business with a gun to our head. The army sets ridiculously low prices for our goods and labour and if we refuse to sign contracts on their terms either our businesses are confiscated, or the goods are requisitioned. The French economy will be nothing but ashes if affairs continue in this way.’
The SS officer stood up and spoke angrily. ‘The Reich is at war and French business must serve the war economy, in addition to this—’
Before the German uttered another word, the glass rattled and it felt like the air was being sucked out of the entire room. In the next instant the window frames flew inwards. A huge roaring sound filled the air, the floor shook and broken glass sprayed across the tabletop, embedding itself deep into the far wall.
Henderson shielded his face as his body was thrown back against the fireplace behind him. At first a few stones and a chunk of masonry blew across the table, then the entire room was engulfed in dust.
The Frenchmen around the table cursed, but had only suffered cuts. Outside in the cobbled square were screams and a loud crash as a blinded truck driver swerved into an oncoming horse and cart. There seemed no chance that the meeting could continue, but Henderson feared that the SS officer might require him for some investigative task, so he bolted out into the corridor.
The rooms on one side of the long hallway had taken the full blast of the explosion in the headquarters building across the square. People working in the offices at the back were only affected by noise and vibrations. They gawped in shock as colleagues poured into the hallways, dusty, coughing and with glass shards embedded in their flesh.
An emergency siren blared as Henderson bounded down a set of fire stairs. He made it out into the square and the dust had cleared enough for him to see some of the damage his gelignite sticks had caused to headquarters. A huge section of the façade had been ripped away, whilst inside the second and third floors had concertinaed down into the first, making a further collapse likely.
Blood drizzled from a cut over Henderson’s right eye, but he couldn’t stop to investigate because he needed to meet the boys at a stables, five minutes’ walk away, that was used as a supply depot.
The ports along France’s northern coasts were prime bombing targets so the Germans split their supplies between fourteen depots. The stable block was lightly guarded because it usually stored nothing more deadly than office supplies and a few spare boxes of ammunition. However, Henderson had forged Oberst Ohlsen’s signature and used his position inside the German bureaucracy to arrange for boxes of detonators and half a truckload of high explosives to be transferred from an armoury further out of town.
Henderson walked past his truck and gave the slightest of nods to Paul and PT as they peeked between the canvas flaps at the back.
The guard on the gate leading into the stables knew Henderson and was anxious for news. ‘What’s going on up there? I didn’t see any bombers.’
‘Some kind of explosion, gas leak maybe. Luckily I was in a meeting across the square, but there’s a lot of injured and the French haven’t got much, so I ran around to pick up all your medical supplies.’
‘Good thinking,’ the guard said. ‘Vogt’s inside, he knows where to find everything.’
The Germans kept their horses elsewhere, but the place still had a whiff of manure as Henderson walked around to a small office and found Vogt, a First World War veteran with a wooden stump at the end of his right leg.
‘Boxes delivered from the barracks yesterday,’ Henderson said urgently. ‘Ohlsen needs them.’
‘The explosives?’ Vogt said incredulously. ‘I had them put over in the end stable, well away from and everything else. But I can’t release weapons to anyone but German army personnel, you should know that.’me
Henderson knew this would be a problem and resolved it by pulling his pistol. Two gasps from the silenced weapon made a textbook execution: one bullet through the heart and one through the head. Henderson strode briskly across the courtyard and banged on the entry gate. As the guard opened up, Henderson punched him hard in the face and yanked him inside. The German reached for his machine gun, but Henderson beat him to the trigger and shot him through the head.
After looking up and down the street to make sure nobody was coming, Henderson yelled across the road to his truck. Eugene had started the engine the instant he saw the guard disappear and Henderson had to drag the dead guard away by his ankles before the truck’s front wheels ran him over.
Henderson closed the gate as Eugene, PT and Paul jumped out.
‘Paul, come with me,’ Henderson ordered. ‘You boys pick your vehicles from the paddock.’
Henderson’s closeness with Oberst Ohlsen had enabled him to keep Maxine’s Jaguar and the ancient truck, but most Frenchmen faced a different reality. The German Army had requisitioned hundreds of vehicles, sometimes with the promise of compensation and sometimes by outright theft. Two dozen of these were kept in a paddock at the side of the building.
While Henderson stripped the machine guns from the dead guards and helped Paul to load some of the explosives and detonators into the back of his truck, Eugene and PT shopped for an extra truck and a motorbike.
Any which had been painted with German markings were out. Eugene identified a newish Renault truck and jumped in to check the fuel gauge as PT found an elderly but solid looking motorcycle with a big leather seat.
‘Keys in the ignition,’ Eugene said, as the pair lifted the motorbike and some fuel cans into the back of the Renault truck.
; As Henderson helped PT and Eugene load the rest of the German explosives into the Renault, Paul leaned into the back of Henderson’s truck and wrote the vehicle registration numbers on to a set of stolen travel permits with Eugene’s name on them.
‘Don’t fold the paper until the ink dries,’ Paul said, as he gave PT the documents, then helped him transfer phosphorous bombs and some other equipment from Henderson’s truck into the Renault.
Five minutes after entering, Henderson, Eugene and the three boys ended up standing on the cobbles in between the two loaded trucks.
‘I believe that’s everything,’ Henderson said, before looking at Eugene. ‘Are you OK with your background story and the route to Dunkirk?’
‘No problems,’ Eugene said. ‘Me and PT will be ready to meet you back at the harbour near the farm. You’ve got enough of your own stuff to worry about.’
Henderson looked at Paul. ‘Get the chain and the notice, then go open up.’
Henderson climbed behind the wheel of his truck, while PT and Eugene got into the cab of its much more impressive looking companion. Once both engines were running, Paul opened the gate and gave PT a wave as they turned right and charged up the cobbles. Henderson turned left and stopped at the kerb.
Paul quickly closed the gate, then locked it with a hefty padlock and chain before sticking up a cardboard notice and running off to jump in the back of Henderson’s truck. The notice was written in German and read, Gone to lunch, back in 35 minutes.
16:57 Cliffs, near the Farm
Rosie had tied back her hair, put on her best dress and even a dab of lipstick. She strolled along the clifftops, staring out to sea like she hadn’t a care in the world. The tide was way out and a few German soldiers walked along the beach, collecting up the last of the equipment that had been used in the day’s training exercises.
The white cliff tapered down when it reached the pier. Rosie found herself standing close to a German guard post. She looked at the four powered barges and a matching pair of medium sized tugboats painted in military grey before stepping on to the wooden boards of the pier.
A smoking German stepped away from the guard hut. His tone was firm, but not unfriendly.
‘Sorry, my dear,’ he said, using fairly decent French he’d learned while trying to pick up girls. ‘Can’t come any further.’
Rosie had never spoken to the soldier before, but she’d seen him walking up and down the beach. ‘Oh,’ she said listlessly, before cracking a lipstick-red smile. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I’m not at all with it today.’
The soldier took a long puff on his cigarette. He was small but stocky, with prickly black hair sticking out around the sides of his helmet. Rosie guessed he was twenty-one at most.
‘What you all dressed up for?’ he asked.
‘Dunno.’ Rosie shrugged. ‘Just felt like it. There’s to do here except work on the farm. No school, no money, not even petrol to go anywhere.’nothing
‘I’ve got a sister your age,’ the German laughed. ‘She’s the same. When she was ten she tried to run away. Told my mum she was going to Berlin to become a dancer. She got as far as the train station and my dad dragged her home and thrashed her. Me and my little brothers thought it was so funny, because usually only us boys copped it.’
‘Can I have a puff?’ Rosie asked.
The German looked at her like he knew he shouldn’t, but gave her the cigarette anyway. Rosie took the biggest puff she dared and was surprised by the heat of the smoke in her lungs.
‘Haven’t seen your artist brother for a few days,’ the guard noted as he took the cigarette back.
‘He’s had a bad cold,’ Rosie explained. ‘Gone into Calais today to see a doctor. So, are you out here on your own all night?’
The guard pointed towards the hut. ‘There’s three of us. One of us is supposed to be out here on lookout, but it’s dead. Mostly we sit inside and play cards or listen to the radio.’so
‘Sounds boring,’ Rosie said, with a dramatic sigh.
‘Life’s boring,’ the guard laughed. ‘But I tell you something. I’d rather be guarding some nowhere harbour like this than about a million other jobs you can get in the army.’
‘So how long do you have to stay on duty?’
‘It varies,’ the guard explained. ‘It’s supposed to be twelve-hour shifts, but they’re low on manpower, so they put it up to fourteen or even sixteen hours.’
‘So what time do you get off?’
‘You’re a bit young for a date if that’s what you’re driving at. You should be careful – some of the guys in my barracks are animals. They’d get you drunk and try all kinds of dirty stuff.’
Rosie flushed red with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t mean ,’ she gasped. ‘Just … I dunno, making conversation, and I wondered how long you had to go.’that
‘I’m off at eleven,’ the guard said.
‘Right,’ Rosie said. ‘And does anyone bring you hot food or anything?’
‘Nothing as exciting as that, girl. We bring stuff out in tins, like corned beef. You get sick of it.’
‘Revolting,’ Rosie said, smiling. ‘And boring.’
The German laughed. ‘You know, maybe you and my kid sister are on to something. When you get down to it, life pretty boring.’is
‘Well,’ Rosie said, smiling as she pointed her thumb backwards over her shoulder. ‘I’d better get home before my mum yells at me for not helping with the dinner. Nice meeting you – er …?’
‘Manfried.’ The German smiled.
‘I’m Rosie,’ Rosie said. ‘Maybe I’ll talk to you again some time.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
17:10 The Farm
When Rosie got back to the cottage the kitchen was stifling and filled with the smell of the rosemary she’d rubbed on to the slow cooking pork. The fire under the oven seemed low, but as she grabbed the tongs to add coal she was startled by footsteps coming from the hallway that led towards the bedrooms.
‘Dumont,’ Rosie said, startled. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Cases and bags all packed up,’ Dumont said suspiciously. ‘Where are you going?’
The back door was never locked, so stepping into the kitchen and yelling to see if anyone was about would be OK, but Dumont had clearly been nosing around inside the bedrooms. Rosie was furious and had to think quickly.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ she answered unconvincingly. ‘We’ve been getting a lot of mice, so we didn’t want things to get chewed up. What were doing back there, anyway?’you
‘I came looking for the boys. Thought they might want to hang out for a couple of hours.’
Paul, Marc and PT had been banned from going anywhere near the village since Marc and PT’s arrest, but PT still occasionally went hunting with Dumont.
‘Marc’s working,’ Rosie said, as she dropped a small shovelful of coal into the kitchen range. ‘PT’s gone into town to take Paul to a doctor.’
Dumont raised his eyebrows. ‘Your brother’s so weedy. I never get sick.’
Rosie had never liked the way Dumont picked on Paul. ‘I suppose no self-respecting germ would go near you,’ she said curtly.
‘Cheeky,’ Dumont said, as he stepped up close to Rosie. ‘You know, you look pretty with all that lipstick. What you need is a good strong boyfriend, like me.’
Dumont made Rosie uneasy at the best of times and he was close enough that his body odour was overpowering the herbs.
‘Go home and take a bath,’ she said, crinkling her nose and stepping back. ‘You smell worse than a pig.’
Dumont didn’t like this. He hissed as he grabbed Rosie’s arms and shoved her back against the worktop beside the sink.
‘Get off,’ Rosie screamed, as Dumont pressed his body against her and forced a kiss on the lips.
‘Make me,’ Dumont teased, as he tasted the lipstick smeared over his top lip with the tip of his tongue.
Dumont grabbed Rosie’s thigh with one meaty hand and dug his thumb in hard. She
was determined not to give him satisfaction by showing how much it hurt as she glanced around, looking for a weapon.
‘You’re all on your own,’ Dumont teased, as he put his other hand on Rosie’s bum. ‘What you gonna do to stop me?’
Rosie’s classmates in Paris often teased her about her bulky shoulders and unladylike arms, but they were a distinct advantage as Dumont tried another vile kiss.
‘You’re so powerful,’ Rosie said meekly, smiling as if she’d changed her mind and wanted him.
Dumont grew excited and clutched Rosie’s bum tighter, but as he started to kiss her again Rosie grabbed his ear and tugged with all her might.
‘Bitch!’ Dumont shouted as he took half a step back. Rosie was weaker than Dumont and only had a few seconds to stick the advantage. She lunged forwards and sunk her teeth into Dumont’s nose.
‘Happy now?’ Rosie screamed, pulling herself free as Dumont clutched his face.
She thought about running out the door and screaming for one of the two labourers, but she didn’t know where they were and couldn’t risk being caught by Dumont, so she moved towards the oven, grabbed the coal scoop and dug out flaming lumps of coal.
Dumont had regained enough composure to lunge forwards, but Rosie swung around. Her leg seared with pain as it caught the knob on the oven door, but she threw the burning coals at Dumont’s chest and his shirt caught light as he backed away.
‘I’ll kill you,’ Dumont screamed, frantically bashing his flaming shirt as he crashed backwards into the kitchen table.
Rosie grabbed an iron frying skillet that hung above the stove and gave Dumont a two-handed smash on the kneecap. Still on fire, he fell to the floor and rolled on to his chest to smother the flames. Rosie stepped astride his body and knocked him out by smashing the heavy skillet against the back of his head.