Henderson's Boys: The Escape (20 page)

‘What do you think we do?’ Henderson said as he charged towards the door. ‘Run like hell!’

Charles Henderson and Marc Kilgour belted down the corridor. The German guards were out of sight, but could be heard barging through the fire doors behind them.

Marc’s greatest fear was a dead end, but the carpeted corridor ended with a door leading on to a fire escape. As they ploughed through, Henderson noticed a fire-alarm handle on the wall and gave it a pull.

‘Should set the cat among the pigeons,’ Henderson gasped, as they raced down the stairs with the alarm ringing in their ears.

There were two flights between each floor and as they reached the fifth floor a Gestapo officer in a dressing gown was peering down the hallway, wondering if the alarm was for real. Henderson took aim with the machine gun, but the magazine jammed. At the same moment one of the guards above them leaned over the banister and blasted several automatic rounds, tearing chunks of soft plaster out of the wall and shattering a tall window.

Henderson ditched the machine gun and used his silenced pistol to kill the German standing in the doorway. More random shots came from above as the pair made it down to the fourth floor, where a small group of German officers stood on the landing.

‘French troops,’ Henderson shouted, hiding his pistol as he pointed upwards and tried his best to sound like a panicked maintenance man. ‘They’ve shot two officers and started a fire.’

Marc barged through the crowd with his German pistol tucked inside his trousers. The Germans dived for cover as more bullets rained from above. One daring officer decided to go upstairs and investigate. He was machine-gunned by a green-uniformed guard coming the other way before he made it up three steps.

All Marc could hear as he made it to the third floor was a lot of swearing and yelling in German. Men were filing out on to the staircase, some heading up to investigate the shots and screams up on the next landing, some evacuating because of the fire alarm and the remainder milling about looking as if they needed someone to give them orders.

Henderson reckoned the staircase would become dangerous when the Germans stopped arguing and worked out who they were really after, so he led Marc through the double doors and into a corridor identical to the one they’d evacuated three storeys further up.

‘Don’t run,’ Henderson said, as he slowed to a brisk walk.

Because of their hotel uniforms, the Germans they passed in the hallway accepted their presence and some even looked to them for advice.

‘Probably just a false alarm, sir,’ Henderson explained, sticking to French because it might be suspicious if he used his near perfect German. ‘Go downstairs to the lobby and the fire marshals will direct you out of the building.’

Once they’d passed a dozen rooms and two sets of swinging doors, Marc reckoned they were relatively safe.

‘Chaos is the best disguise of all,’ Henderson said.

Immediately ahead of them, a door clicked open and a young Gestapo officer emerged from his room, buttoning his tunic. His movements were calm and he clearly assumed that the fire alarm was fake.

‘What’s happening here, gentlemen?’ the officer asked.

Marc expected Henderson to politely tell the officer that he didn’t know and point him towards the fire escape, but before he knew what was going on, the German officer was backing into his room with Henderson’s silenced pistol aimed at his head.

‘Get in here, shut the door,’ Henderson ordered.

Marc rushed into the plush hotel room and shut the door as Henderson forced the Gestapo officer to sit down on the bed.

‘Strip,’ Henderson ordered, before turning towards Marc. ‘Where’s your pistol?’

‘Tucked in here,’ the boy said, as he pulled it out of his trousers.

‘I’m going to put on his uniform,’ Henderson explained. ‘Keep your gun aimed at the Boche while I change. If he makes a move, shoot him in the head.’

Henderson rested his gun on a wooden chest as he unbuttoned his overall. Marc stood with his gun aimed at the German, who didn’t seem to be in any rush to undress.

‘You’ll both end up before a firing squad,’ the young officer said, as he unbuttoned his shirt.

‘Maybe,’ Henderson said curtly. ‘But you’ll be dead a bloody sight sooner than that if you don’t get a move on.’

The gun felt heavy and Marc was alarmed as the officer dropped his trousers, revealing a jock-strap and a leather sheath containing an ivory-handled dagger set with a gold swastika. Henderson could see the tension in Marc’s face and tried to reassure him.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Henderson said. ‘If he’s in the Gestapo, he’s bright enough to know that a bullet travels faster than a knife.’

Once the two men were both stripped down to underwear, Henderson took his silenced pistol and ruthlessly shot the German through the head. A great red splat hit the wall behind the bed and a chunk of hair and skull slid down the wall. Marc was so shocked that he stumbled back towards the door and almost dropped his gun.

‘Bloody hell,’ the boy gasped. ‘Couldn’t you have tied him up, or knocked him out?’

Henderson shook his head as he stepped into the dead officer’s black trousers. ‘Tying up takes for ever and knocking out is an imprecise science at best. If you stick a bullet through his brain, you know he won’t be coming back at you.’

Marc could understand the logic, but the ruthless act had dented his faith. Henderson had seemed different back at the house when he’d given Marc water and cleaned his face, but was he really just as bad as Oberst Hinze?

‘Don’t just stand there,’ Henderson snapped, as he pointed towards a battered suitcase lying on the floor. ‘See what you can get. That’s a German pistol you’re holding and he might have spare ammunition.’

As well as two clips and a box of ammo, Marc found three grenades on a belt, wrapped inside a set of battle fatigues that stank of urine and sweat.

‘Are these any use?’ Marc asked.

Henderson broke into a broad smile. ‘The ability to blow stuff up is always useful,’ he said, nodding. ‘So what do you think of the uniform? It’s not perfect, but I think I can pull it off.’

Marc nodded. ‘He was a bit taller than you, but it’s OK.’

‘I’d lose the velvet jacket,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s distinctive and they might be looking for it.’

‘So what’s our plan?’ Marc asked, as he took off the waistcoat. ‘Or are you still working on it?’

Henderson looked at the striped markings on his black uniform as he placed a grey, peaked cap on his head. ‘Looks like our friend Mr Corpse was a senior officer. Nobody will expect us to head out the front of the hotel and get in a German car, so that’s exactly what we’ll do.’

Marc looked aghast. ‘Are you insane?’

‘We’ve caused panic,’ Henderson said, as he stared into the mirror and looked at his stubble. He didn’t quite look the part, but there was no time to shave. ‘Once the panic dies down they’ll lock this hotel down tighter than the Führer’s toupee.’

With that, Henderson placed his silenced pistol into a leather holster and passed one of the grenades to Marc.

‘Once you pull the pin, you’ve got about fifteen seconds before it explodes.’

‘OK,’ Marc said weakly, as he stared briefly at the grenade before forcing it into his trousers.

With a gun tucked into the waistline and a grenade bulging from his pocket, Marc worried that his trousers were going to fall down as he left the hotel room and followed Henderson’s black uniform down the corridor.

The fire alarm meant the lifts were out of action, so they walked down the staircase that ran beside it. The alarm itself had stopped ringing, but the plush lobby was crammed with confused Gestapo officers. Nobody paid the blindest bit of notice as Marc and Henderson shuffled between bodies.

Marc caught snippets of conversation. Depending upon who you listened to the situation varied from French commandos holding men hostage on the top floor, to a fire, to a hoax played by a drunken officer.

‘Coming through,’ Henderson said, speaking his most pompous German and holding Marc firmly by the shoulder. ‘Urgent message from the Oberst.’

As Henderson approached the doors at the front of the lobby he pulled the pin from the grenade and dropped it into the earth beneath a potted palm. Marc had never been through a revolving door and looked perplexed, but it wasn’t the right moment to hang around and Henderson gave him an almighty shove before shuffling around inside the door. They stepped out into fresh air and a line of officers smoking and holding glasses of wine. It was almost nine and the sky was purple.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ Henderson said, as he pushed Marc through the line of officers. ‘I must escort this messenger.’

As soon as Henderson broke clear of the officers and started down the steps a German infantryman who looked no more than eighteen stood in front of Henderson, clicked his heels and gave a Nazi salute.

‘Heil Hitler. Do you require transport, sir?’

Henderson was counting in his head and knew that the grenade would explode within four seconds. ‘Something fast,’ he said, pointing towards a motorcycle with a sidecar. ‘Are the keys in the ignition?’

‘Yes, Herr Major,’ the infantryman said, nodding. ‘Fully fuelled and ready to—’

A white flash erupted from the front of the hotel, followed by a shower of glass and smoke that sent a dozen Gestapo officers toppling down the hotel’s front steps. Screams rang from inside as Henderson grabbed Marc and dragged him towards the motorbike.

Henderson felt a sharp pain where a splinter of glass had nicked his ear, but he had to ignore it as he straddled the bike and Marc vaulted into the sidecar. Henderson kicked the starter and he felt the engine vibrate between his legs, but he hardly heard a thing because his ears still rang from the blast.

‘When I stop, you run to the car and grab the bag from the trunk,’ he shouted.

Marc wasn’t sure what Henderson meant, but realised once he’d taken a sharp left out of the hotel driveway and another into the side street where he’d parked his battered Fiat. The boy had one leg out of the sidecar before they stopped at the kerb.

Henderson kept the motorbike running as Marc struggled to open the trunk.

‘Push the button and twist the handle,’ Henderson shouted, as a set of headlights turned into the alleyway behind them.

It only took Marc a few seconds to get into the back of the Fiat, but it felt like minutes. He grabbed Henderson’s briefcase – which contained gold and money – and his own pigskin bag and threw them into the sidecar before jumping on top of them.

Henderson realised that the Mercedes saloon behind them was driving too fast to be routine traffic. It was coming after them, with a brace of motorcycles for company.

‘Use your pistol,’ Henderson ordered. ‘See if you can fend some of them off.’

He pulled away from the kerb while Marc was still perched awkwardly on top of the briefcase.

Age had shrivelled Yvette Doran, but years of farm work had kept her fit and her movements were swift and precise. Each night she made Hugo and Paul share a tin bath and inspected them for cleanliness afterwards.

‘Nails,’ she said firmly, as the two boys stood in front of her wearing pyjama bottoms donated by a neighbour.

Hugo held out his hands and Yvette brushed her calloused thumb across the youngster’s soft skin. It had been many years since the old lady had looked after kids and the podgy softness of the six year old’s hands made her smile.

‘Not bad,’ she said fondly, as she kissed Hugo on the forehead. ‘And you combed your hair so it doesn’t tangle. Now show me those teeth.’

Hugo opened up proudly.

‘I’ll make a gentleman out of you yet,’ she said. ‘But you need to get around the back more with the toothbrush. Don’t just clean at the front.’

Hugo leaned forwards and gave Yvette a kiss on the cheek. ‘Goodnight,’ he said fondly, before bouncing up the wooden staircase on his bare feet.

Paul was five years older and the old lady took a quick glance at his nails and made him lean forwards to check behind his ears.

‘How come you don’t do this to Rosie?’ Paul asked.

Yvette laughed. ‘She’s almost a woman. I don’t trust you boys.’

At first Paul had found the inspection a little embarrassing, but he knew that the old lady had a good heart and a week had been enough to get used to her eccentricities.

‘I’ll miss you and your sister when you go,’ Yvette said.

‘We’ll write to you from England,’ Paul said brightly, but the prospect of leaving made him sad. The Dorans’ cottage was a comfortable refuge from the war and much as he wanted to fulfil his father’s wishes and return to Britain with Mannstein’s documents, he wasn’t relishing the prospect of more refugee-strewn roads and a potentially dangerous sea voyage.

‘You can stay down here and draw for an hour if you want before bedtime,’ the old lady said.

Paul shook his head. ‘I’ll just say goodnight to the Father, then I’ll go upstairs and help Rosie pack.’

He walked from the kitchen to the living room, but found the retired priest asleep in his armchair with a newspaper strewn over his lap and reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose. Paul didn’t want to disturb him, so he crept upstairs and found Rosie. Strands of wet hair hung down her nightdress as she arranged clean clothes inside a suitcase. Hugo always seemed to find a second wind around bedtime and he was jumping energetically on the bed.