Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day (25 page)

Aircraft technology had improved rapidly in the build-up to the war and the Whitley’s five-year-old design lacked speed and manoeuvrability. Flying without a fighter escort, the medium bomber would be easily picked off by German fighters. Its only defence was to hedge hop – the technique of flying extremely low in pitch darkness. This required a highly-skilled pilot but made the aircraft nearly impossible to detect either on radar or from the confines of a fighter cockpit several thousand metres above.

Henderson watched the bomb doors open as the aircraft skimmed the hillside at more than a hundred and fifty miles an hour. A large pod dropped out of the bay and slammed down in the field a few seconds later.

After signalling four flashes to indicate a safe drop, Henderson switched out the lights, grabbed the large canvas bag and raced across to check the next field, where the pod had landed.

‘That’s our cue,’ Marc said.

As PT ran back downhill to help Henderson, Marc and Rosie watched through binoculars as the Whitley applied full power and went into a steep climb. While it was safe to drop items like plastic explosives and guns into a field, more delicate items like radios, detonators and humans need parachutes, which require a much higher altitude to open safely.

After climbing to more than three hundred metres, the Whitley turned in a wide arc. Once the bomber was facing back towards him, PT flicked the lamps on. Rosie had moved around to the same side of the hill as Marc and the pair now acted as spotters, watching as the parachutes opened and then tracking their path to the ground.

‘I’m following the one on the left,’ Marc said, as he watched the moonlight reflecting off the top of a white ’chute through his binoculars.

‘Right,’ Rosie said, as she momentarily lost track of the second parachutist. She took the binoculars away from her eyes and saw that the wind was blowing her target severely off course. ‘He’s going way left of the field,’ she said anxiously. ‘It’s all woods over that way, he’ll get tangled.’

Rosie began sprinting downhill towards the trees, glancing up occasionally to track the parachute. Once Marc was certain that the first parachutist was going to land on target he chased after her.

As the pair neared the bottom of the hill, the bomber had passed behind and was making a rapid dive for its treetop-skimming ride home.

PT switched out the signalling lights for the last time as Marc and Rosie crashed through the undergrowth beneath the trees. It was pitch black and as neither of them had a torch their only option was to feel blindly until they heard a crash in branches less than twenty metres ahead, followed by a blood-curdling moan.

‘That’s not good,’ Marc gasped, as he charged towards the noise.

The moonlight illuminated streams of white parachute silk hanging down between the branches, but there was no sound apart from mulch crackling underfoot.

‘Hello?’ Rosie called, cupping her hands around her mouth. ‘Hello?’

Marc looked up and saw that the ropes attached to the parachute led high up into the trees. He couldn’t see the parachutist, but there was the unmistakeable outline of a large backpack snagged in a fork between the branches.

‘Mate?’ Marc asked uncertainly, as he gave a gentle tug on the rope.

This produced some rustling, until the pack overbalanced and the whole thing came crashing down. Marc dived back so that it missed his head, but the pack was heavy enough to knock him down when it hit the lower part of his leg.

‘Ooof!’ Marc groaned, as tree roots jarred his back.

Rosie closed in, half expecting to see a man hooked into the arm straps. ‘You OK?’

‘I guess,’ Marc said. ‘But where the hell is he?’

As Marc shoved the pack off his legs and stood up, Rosie noticed torchlight coming through the trees behind them.

‘We’ve spotted traffic,’ PT reported when he’d made a few more steps. ‘Looks like a Boche truck coming up the road. Might be routine, but they could have spotted the parachutes. Whatever it is, Henderson’s run off with the other parachutist and the equipment from the pod. He wants us to escape around the back of the hill so that we don’t cross the Germans’ path.’

‘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.’

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 been 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.