Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day (33 page)

Henderson told Khinde to stay in position and stop the two Kübelwagens, while he moved back towards the pier to see what was occurring on the beach.

‘Paul, cast off!’ he bellowed.

Henderson was surprised by the sight of Germans shooting at two dark figures on the beach. Marc was running down from the clifftop, and had a better view than Henderson.

‘It’s PT,’ Marc shouted, as he raced to within five metres of Henderson. ‘Stop bloody shooting at them!’

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Henderson roared, before turning to shout at Khinde and Rufus. ‘Run for the boat. Marc, you get up there too. I’ll cover.’

But Marc saw Eugene and PT struggling up the slippery rocks at the base of the pier. He locked one arm around a wooden post and gave PT a hand up, but as PT stepped on to the pier he took a shot in the arm.

‘Bastards,’ PT howled, as Marc used all his strength to hold on to his friend.

As Eugene pulled himself up on to the pier, Khinde and Rufus raced over the planks towards
Madeline
IV
. Henderson reached into his pocket and grabbed two hand grenades, hoping they’d hold back the advancing Germans. After pulling the pins, he threw one long distance towards the road and aimed the second carefully through the open door of the Peugeot.

By the time the grenades landed, the leading Germans were less than ten metres from Henderson. He set off down the pier, jogging sideways and spraying the last few bullets in his machine gun. Khinde covered him from the rear of the tug as the first grenade blew all the glass out of the Peugeot.

‘Fuse it, Paul, cast off. Rosie, start moving,’ Henderson shouted.

The harbour, the remaining tug and the barges had all been rigged up to a two-minute length of detonator cord. PT was in a lot of pain and Eugene had to throw him aboard. Paul grabbed a lighter and ignited the fuse as Rosie opened up the throttles so that the boat began crawling away from the pier.

Henderson had told Rosie to do this, but she was wary. She’d never driven a boat before and was scared of leaving him behind.

‘Stand clear,’ Henderson shouted, dropping his empty machine gun before leaping athletically into the rear of the boat as it crept alongside the pier.

PT was laid out on the deck and Henderson tripped over his legs and sprawled across the floor as PT howled with pain. Rosie put the boat to full throttle as three Germans raced up the pier, shooting machine guns at the back of the vessel.

They were too far away for accuracy, but stray shots hit the rear deck and splintered the wooden bridge up near Rosie. She heard a metallic clang and felt liquid spewing down her legs as the boat cleared the end of the pier.

‘Someone get up here,’ Rosie wailed desperately. ‘I’ve been shot.’

Back on the pier, the gendarme was warning the Germans that the pier was possibly rigged with explosives. But none of them spoke good French and with their machine guns blazing hopelessly at the disappearing rump of , they either didn’t understand or didn’t hear.
Madeline IV

‘Oh god,’ Rosie yelled, as Henderson – head still throbbing from his encounter with the deck – climbed up the three wooden steps into the wheelhouse and felt his foot slide through something sticky. ‘Take the wheel. I’m shot.’

The sea was calm and the boat was heading in a straight line, so Henderson was more concerned with Rosie than the boat.

‘Calm down,’ Henderson ordered. ‘Where are you shot?’

‘I don’t know! This is exactly how my dad died. The wound was behind his shirt and we didn’t know until it was too late.’

‘Well, does it hurt?’ Henderson shouted. ‘Tell me where it hurts. Eugene, get up here and take the wheel for a minute!’

‘I’m not sure, but there’s blood everywhere!’ Rosie squealed.

Henderson touched Rosie’s leg and immediately knew the liquid was too thick to be blood. He raised his finger to his lips.

‘Tasty,’ he smiled.

‘What!’ Rosie squealed. ‘Are you nuts?’

‘It’s your brother’s,’ Henderson said, as he looked around the floor and spotted the barrel-shaped can with the bullet lodged in it. ‘German, dark chocolate sauce.’

‘Paul,’ Rosie yelled. ‘I’m gonna wring his skinny little neck!’

Then the pier three hundred metres behind them exploded.

‘Everyone brace,’ Henderson shouted, as a huge wave caused by the explosion rushed towards the little boat.

The bullet had torn through PT’s right bicep, but a tight bandage stemmed the bleeding and he sipped at a bottle of rum from the tug’s medical cupboard to numb the pain. He was doing OK, and even shared some of the banter in the cramped crew quarters below deck.

The crossing could have been a nightmare, but there was no sign of enemy activity and the sea was calm. German submarines used hydrophones, which could detect even the smallest boats on a quiet sea, so Henderson kept the noise to a minimum by running at a moderate seven-knot pace.
Madeline IV

Ten kilometres from Britain they encountered a search and rescue launch that had spent several fruitless hours looking for downed bomber crews. All British vessels had been warned to look out for a small grey tug, and the final stretch of their journey was spent under the protection of a vessel twice their length and with 45mm cannons mounted reassuringly front and rear.

Rosie and Henderson felt nostalgia for their homeland as they pulled in at a tiny fishing harbour. Paul only had vague memories of Britain, while Marc, Khinde, Rufus and Eugene felt apprehensive about the welcome they’d receive in a strange country whose language they didn’t understand.

There wasn’t much moonlight, but enough to make out the endless coils of barbed wire and tank traps stretched across the beach, along with the outlines of terraced houses behind the quay.

As soon as the tug was safely lashed to the harbour wall, the captain of the search and rescue vessel saluted from deck and sped off towards his base in Folkestone a few kilometres down the coast.

Two elderly home guardsmen helped secure the end of a boarding ramp. Henderson was the first ashore and was delighted to see Eileen McAfferty walking towards him, as quickly as bad feet would allow.

‘Look at you in uniform!’ Henderson shouted. ‘Someone get me a camera!’ It felt wonderful to be able to speak his own language with his own accent. ‘And I do believe I’m going to have to start calling you , judging by all those stripes.’
sir

‘Bloody well done!’ McAfferty said, as she reached out for a handshake.

But Henderson ignored the hand and kissed McAfferty on both cheeks before bringing her into a tight hug.

‘Where’s the boy who got shot?’ McAfferty asked. ‘We got the signal from search and rescue. There’s an ambulance crew waiting.’

As PT was helped off the boat two ambulance men stood with a stretcher, but he made it to the ambulance with nothing but a bit of support from Eugene.

‘We’ve got sandwiches and hot tea under the bandstand back there,’ McAfferty said in French, as she pointed towards a hexagonal structure in a courtyard behind the quay. ‘You must all be for a cup of tea.’
gasping

Khinde and Rufus looked baffled as the home guardsmen looked them up and down.

‘You’ll need a shirt here, mate. You’ll freeze your nipples off in winter!’

‘Have you heard from Maxine and Bernard?’ Henderson asked.

‘Bernard transmitted a brief message about an hour ago,’ McAfferty explained. ‘Both their beacons ignited to the satisfaction of bomber command. They’re going to meet up and take the first train to Paris in the morning.’

‘And you must be Rosie!’ McAfferty said brightly, as Henderson shook hands with the home guardsmen. ‘We finally meet face to face after all that Morse code!’

Rosie had pictured McAfferty as a glamorous Maxine type, and managed to be both startled and tearful as she was pulled into the ample bust of the Scotswoman.

‘Is everything good with you, love?’ McAfferty asked.

‘It’s so nice to finally meet you in the flesh,’ Rosie said, grinning. ‘And I’m fine, thanks for asking. It’s a massive relief to be home – I couldn’t be happier.’
absolutely

Paul stood just behind, and he whispered in Marc’s ear, ‘As long as you don’t mention my dark chocolate sauce to her, that is.’

The 9 September raid on France’s northern ports was the largest bombing raid the world had seen up to that point. The successful ignition of phosphorous beacons at Le Havre, Dieppe, Boulogne, Calais and Dunkirk enabled the three hundred and thirty-seven bombers to attack under cover of darkness, while achieving bombing accuracy similar to a much riskier daylight attack.

The raid is thought to have destroyed more than a quarter of the German barge fleet, almost half of the available tugs and more than half of the Germans’ fleet of high-speed patrol boats. This level of destruction, combined with the Luftwaffe’s continued failure to take control of the air space over the Channel, forced Hitler into a new strategy.

On 11 September, the German Navy and the Luftwaffe jointly proposed that they could defeat Britain by starving and terrorising its population. The Luftwaffe would switch its focus from annihilating the RAF to the destruction of British cities. The German Navy would concentrate its submarine fleet on the destruction of British merchant ships supplying food and weapons.

On 16 September, Hitler formally agreed to abandon the invasion of Britain
.

MOST SECRET

1 October, 1940

Dear Charles,

Following your memorandum on the value of underage operatives in occupied France and our discussions in London last week, we have, somewhat reluctantly, agreed to your proposal to train an espionage unit comprised entirely of boys aged between eleven and seventeen years.

I am uncomfortable with a use of boys that borders on exploitation, but these are desperate times and both the Prime Minister and I were compelled by your argument that these young men could give us a significant edge in the struggle that lies ahead of us.

The funds and necessary equipment for your new unit will be made available through your commanding officer, Eileen McAfferty. The designation of the new unit shall be Espionage Research Unit B.

Yours sincerely,

Eric Mews (Deputy Minister for Economic Warfare)

READ ON FOR THE FIRST CHAPTER

OF THE NEXT HENDERSON’S

BOYS BOOK,
SECRET ARMY
.

‘Stand by yer beds!’ Evan Williams shouted. ‘Lights out in minutes.’
seven

He was a small Welshman with one big eyebrow. Twenty-four boys lived in his dorm. They hurried barefoot over the cold lino, putting toothbrushes in foot lockers and draping towels over radiators before standing at the end of their metal-framed beds ready for inspection.

Each bed was immaculately made. Belongings had to be packed neatly inside a foot locker, with boots or plimsolls cleaned and resting on top in a ten-past-ten position.

‘Attention!’

Each boy snapped into a rigid position. Ankles together, eyes forward, shoulders back. Williams would have liked the boys to wear matching pyjamas, but clothing was short and newer arrivals wore whatever they’d brought with them.

‘Not bad,’ Williams said grudgingly as he passed the first pair of facing beds. At the next he reached under the mattress and dug two fingers between the rusted bed frame and mattress.

‘In the name of our
lord
!’ Williams gasped. His giant eyebrow fired upwards as he jabbed a rusty finger under the nose of a thirteen-year-old with curly brown hair and deep-set eyes.

Troy LeConte knew he was being fitted up: the beds were old and you could reach under any of them if you wanted rust stuck on your finger. It was Williams’ way of showing that he could get you, even if you stuck to all of his petty rules.

‘Well, LeConte?’ Williams demanded. ‘Cat got your tongue? What is this?’

Troy didn’t know the English word for rust, but reckoned a quick answer beat none at all. ‘It’s your finger, sir,’ he said, with a heavy French accent.

This raised cautious laughter from the other boys and Williams looked irritated.

‘I know it’s my finger, you stupid frog,’ he roared. ‘I’m asking you what’s my finger.’
on

Troy went cross-eyed as Williams dabbed his chunky finger against the bridge of his nose.

‘I don’t know the word,’ Troy explained.

‘You little retard!’ Williams shouted, as he grabbed the neck hole of Troy’s string vest, yanked the lad forwards and cuffed him around the head. ‘Cold shower, five a.m.,’ he barked, before letting go and moving up to the next bed.

Troy rubbed his head before standing crisply back to attention. He hated Williams, but had seen plenty of lads come off worse during inspection. He turned his head as far as he dared, watching the relief on each boy’s face when Williams passed them by.

‘Mason LeConte,’ Williams said, when he was almost at the opposite end of the room, ‘Well, well, it seems stupidity runs in the family.’

Troy’s brother Mason was only eight, but that didn’t stop Williams from twisting his ear and yanking it up until he dangled on tiptoes.