‘Henderson?’ a smartly suited hotel manager asked warily. ‘Can I see your mouth?’
The Abbeville resistance had been told about Henderson’s missing front teeth and the tension dissipated when Henderson used his tongue to pop out his lower denture plate.
‘A-ha!’ the man said. ‘Your dentist’s name?’
‘Dr Helen Murray, of London.’
‘That’s what I heard,’ the man said, smiling slightly. ‘I’m told that you are a man of influence.’
As Marc came through the door, Henderson turned into a smoky area that combined the hotel’s reception with a small bar. Brandy glasses sat on the tables and a cigar burned in an ashtray, but it took a while for the men and women who’d taken refuge when the German convoy pulled up to start emerging up the steps behind the bar.
‘Sorry if I gave you a scare,’ Henderson said.
There were four men and two women. Henderson had met two of them before in Paris. Both were leaders of important resistance groups and Henderson guessed that the others were too.
‘You certainly know how to make an entrance, Captain Henderson,’ a woman named Celine said, as Henderson kissed her on the cheek. ‘They made me crawl in the back through the sewer.’
Celine was only twenty-two. Her mother had formed an important communist resistance group in eastern Paris. Celine’s followers had twice busted her out of prison, but her mother and both sisters had been executed by a Gestapo firing squad.
‘Am I the last to arrive?’ Henderson asked, as he looked around nervously.
It was extraordinarily risky to bring so many resistance leaders to one place. If anyone was being followed or blackmailed, the Germans would be able to move in and sweep up the whole lot of them.
‘Two or three more,’ the barman said. ‘And of course, Ghost herself.’
Ghost was Maxine Clere, a tall, beautiful, thirty-something with a history of sleeping with Henderson. Her highly successful resistance group had begun in Paris, but now spanned northern France.
Dozens of Ghost’s operatives had been arrested and tortured by the Nazis, but painstaking security meant that the Ghost Circuit survived circumstances that had resulted in other groups being rounded up and executed.
As the hotel manager poured Henderson a complimentary brandy, a bodyguard led Marc to less grand surroundings in the hotel’s gas-lit kitchen. The gloomy space had a smell of old cooking fat and a group of boys sitting around a table. Any male aged between seventeen and forty who didn’t have a full set of exemption papers could be swept off the street for immediate deportation, so the resistance increasingly relied on women and boys in their early teens.
After a glass of wine and a chunk of gritty black bread, Marc was allowed to reverse the German truck into a courtyard. One bag of explosives was brought inside and once the powdered chalk in which they’d been packed was swept up, Marc stood in front of a gnarled butcher’s block and began giving Abbeville’s youngest resistance members a crash course in blowing stuff up.
Topics involved were wiring, detonator cords, the merits of various timing devices and the quantity and placement of explosives required for different objectives. These ranged from a simple tripwire used to blow up a motorcycle messenger, to a large multi-stage detonation that would be required to destroy an iron bridge.
When Maxine finally arrived at the back door with two further resistance leaders, it was gone 2 a.m. She’d known Marc for four years, and gave him a hug. When Marc turned back to his pupils, he found the young faces staring in awe.
‘Was that Ghost?’
‘She’s your friend!’ an awe-struck girl blurted.
‘Can’t possibly say,’ Marc said teasingly, as he wondered how Maxine had got through town after curfew, accompanied by a dozen bodyguards.
These guards began positioning themselves in spots ranging from the hotel’s rear courtyard to the rooftop. The hotel only had twenty rooms and as each resistance leader had brought their own entourage, disputes broke out over the best vantage points.
While the leaders in the bar kept things civil, the atmosphere between guards was tense. All resistance groups were fighting to kick the Germans out of France, but beyond that goal lay huge divides. Communists hated nationalists; resistance groups who believed that extreme violence might provoke a people’s revolution were despised by those who’d do anything to avoid provoking Nazi retribution. And besides the big political issues there were local squabbles over territory and equipment drops.
With all the tension and the fact that armed bodyguards were making frequent trips to the hotel’s wine cellar, Marc started wondering whether the odds of the resistance groups starting to shoot at each other were greater than the odds of a Gestapo raid.
On the plus side, this meeting showed how powerful the resistance had become. A couple of years earlier it had been tiny and the Nazi security apparatus had such a grip that its leaders would never have dared assemble like this.
Upstairs in the bar, Henderson found himself squashed against the back wall in a haze of cigarette smoke. When Maxine entered, Henderson was surprised to recognise the man alongside her. He was a US Army colonel named Hawk. Henderson had met him three months earlier, during a short and risky return trip to the UK aboard a Lysander aircraft.
‘Good evening,’ Hawk said, speaking French that was competent, but clearly not his first language. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but the information I’m about to give was extremely time sensitive. It is exactly 0300 hours. We have a full moon, so by now German spotter planes and coastal lookouts can’t have failed to see a massive Allied fleet crossing the English Channel.
‘Paratroops have already begun advanced raids to soften up heavily defended beaches. The invasion fleet is the largest in human history. More ships, more men, more planes than any previous operation. Four summers ago, Hitler snatched France, and you’ve been living under his tyranny ever since. Tonight, the United States and her allies will begin the job of taking France back.’
Henderson drained his second brandy as the room erupted in cheers and wild clapping. A full minute passed before Hawk felt able to resume.
‘Now that the invasion has begun, the resistance must act as our eyes and ears behind German lines,’ Hawk announced. ‘Your groups were assigned multiple operations tonight. By the time the first Allied troops hit the beaches in a couple of hours’ time, resistance and Maquis groups all over France will have performed seven hundred separate operations, ranging from the destruction of German radar stations, to cutting railway lines and telephone cables. There are tough times ahead and some of us aren’t going to make it. But France will soon be free again!’
*
Henderson didn’t have enough fuel to drive the truck back to Beauvais. The local resistance reluctantly offered 20 litres of diesel, but said it was too risky carrying it through the streets during Abbeville’s midnight-to-sunrise curfew. They’d have to wait until morning.
After Maxine, Colonel Hawk, the other resistance leaders and the bodyguards left, Marc and Henderson found themselves sharing a small but comfortable twin bedroom on the hotel’s second floor.
It was 4.30 a.m. and nearing first light when they climbed into bed. Henderson was wary about spending time in a location known to ten resistance leaders and their entourages, any one of whom might have been compromised by the Nazis. But a proper bed beat his bunk in the forest and he woke at eight to the echo of Royal Navy artillery blasting the coast 10 kilometres away.
Marc had slept less soundly and stood by the window, already dressed. ‘I wonder how it’s going,’ Marc said. ‘The Germans have had four years to fortify the beaches.’
Henderson sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘There’s not enough money in the world to make me swap places with some poor infantryman jumping out of a landing craft, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘The sea will be choppy too, judging by the way that tree out there is swaying.’
‘You think they can do it?’ Marc asked.
Henderson laughed. ‘If they’re trying, someone must be confident that they can pull it off.’
‘What’s in the dossier Colonel Hawk gave you?’ Marc asked, pointing at a fat manila wallet on the table between the beds.
‘Hawk’s got a task for us. Says it’s going to be our only focus during the initial phase of the invasion.’
As Henderson spoke he opened the wallet, pulled out a map and spread it over the bed to show Marc.
‘I only got a minute with Hawk, because he had dossiers for all the other resistance groups too,’ Henderson explained. ‘The thing that scares the Allies most is getting their men off heavily defended beaches. Once that’s accomplished, the thing that scares them most is the German heavy tanks, in particular the Tiger and King Tiger.’
‘Our side will bring tanks though, won’t it?’ Marc asked.
‘Naturally,’ Henderson said. ‘But Tigers have bigger guns with much greater firing range than any British or American tank. In the east, Tigers have wiped out whole battalions of Soviet T34 tanks before they return one accurate shot.’
‘Are our tanks better than Soviet ones?’
Henderson shrugged. ‘American Shermans are fast, but they’re lightly armoured and none of their crews have battle experience. British tank crews have more experience, but the less said about the quality of British tanks the better.’
‘The Tigers can’t be indestructible,’ Marc said. ‘The Soviets have been winning their war for months.’
‘Of course not,’ Henderson said, as he pointed to the map. ‘The turret of a tank has to be light enough to move quickly so that’s always lightly armoured, and if you’re brave enough to get close, a wodge of plastic or a well-placed grenade will blow the tracks off. There’s also a reason why everyone but the Germans prefers light tanks. Tigers are expensive to make and difficult to maintain, so they’re only built in small quantities.’
‘So what’s our job?’ Marc asked.
‘Hitler has no idea whether the Allies are going to invade via the shortest crossing near Calais, further west in Normandy, or both.’
‘So where are we going to invade?’ Marc asked.
Henderson smiled. ‘Colonel Hawk didn’t tell us that, probably doesn’t even know himself. I expect we’ll find out where the first landings have taken place when we next listen to BBC France. The point is, Hitler has merged two tank battalions to create the 108th Heavy Tank Battalion and stationed them exactly halfway between Calais and Normandy.’
‘Beauvais,’ Marc said, as he worked it out. ‘That’s why Luc and Paul were sent to blow up the tank train.’
Henderson nodded. ‘Our masters in Britain clearly knew the invasion was coming when they asked us to pull that one off.’
The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. As Henderson threw his bedcovers over the map, a stooped maid waddled in holding a tray of bread and cheese, a carafe of water and a pot of coffee.
‘Your fuel will be here in one hour,’ the woman said. ‘The sooner you leave the better, because your German truck can be seen from the road.’
Henderson nodded in agreement. ‘I’ll be gone as soon as I’m fuelled.’
Marc peeled the covers off the map as the maid closed the door.
‘So,’ Henderson said. ‘According to this dossier, the 108th currently has twenty-two Tigers and thirty-four King Tigers – and they’ll be low on fuel and spare parts following the tunnel blast. Our job is to keep the 108th in the Beauvais area for as long as possible. And when they set off for the front lines, we’ve got to try getting ahead of them to make sure they don’t go anywhere fast.’
Part Two
June 15th–June 16th 1944
CHAPTER TEN
Thursday 15 June 1944
The Germans who swept through France in 1940 had snappy uniforms and modern equipment that made them seem like men from the future. These first occupying troops had orders to behave correctly towards French people and faced heavy punishment from their own officers if they looted or behaved badly.
Four years on, Captain Henderson found himself among Germans who seemed much more sinister. Sun streamed through the windows as he sat in one of Beauvais’ largest bars, dressed in his stolen OT uniform. Beauvais had once been a Luftwaffe town, but German air power had collapsed and the place was crammed with soldiers from the 108th Heavy Tank.
The 108th had been created by merging two depleted battalions that had fought long campaigns in the east. Six million Germans and fifteen million Soviets had already died in this war. Both sides employed scorched-earth tactics in which retreating armies burned or blew up entire towns and villages.
Civilians who survived the fighting were routinely rounded up and shot, or shipped off to Soviet Gulags or Nazi labour camps, depending on which side won.
This kind of ruthlessness wasn’t something men could switch on and off, and Germans who’d fought in the east brought brutal tactics with them when they got reassigned to France. As individuals Henderson found the men of the 108th OK, but as a group there was a casual viciousness about them. It was like stroking a massive dog that might turn on you at any second.
The veteran tank crews had threadbare uniforms with patches sewn over patches. Razor blades were in such short supply that the only men who didn’t have beards were teenaged reinforcements too young to grow them.
Henderson had got himself into a poker game. One of his fellow players threatened a waiter with a bullet in the foot when he took too long delivering a round of drinks. It was hard to laugh with them at incidents like these, but people who upset the 108th had a nasty tendency to get strung from lampposts or turn up dead in a ditch.
‘Two pair,’ Henderson said in German, as he laid his cards on the table in front of him.
The crowd gathered around the poker table jeered as a bearlike tank commander named Otto Scholl screwed up his face.
‘Two pair,’ he growled. ‘Queen and nines, beats your eight and five.’
Henderson acted annoyed as the burly commander scooped two months’ wages off the table, but he was actually relieved. The mood in the room was heavy and things might have turned nasty if he’d cleaned Scholl out.
‘I’m broke,’ Henderson said, as he stood up. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’
Nobody minded Henderson leaving the table, but four other losing players wanted a chance to win their money back and didn’t like it when Scholl stood up and started stacking his winnings into neat piles.
‘Hard luck, OT,’ Scholl said, as he slapped Henderson on the back. He made OT sound like an insult, because soldiers had a natural resentment for any organisation that didn’t fight on the front lines. ‘How about I buy you a drink with some of your own money?’
He and Henderson moved to the bar and ordered red wine, because that’s all there was.
‘You must travel, working for the OT,’ Scholl said. ‘See much?’
Henderson knew Scholl wanted news about the invasion. ‘Only what I hear on the radio, same as everyone. The Allies have their foothold in Normandy, but are going nowhere fast.’
This remark gave Henderson an opportunity to try getting information out of the tank commander. ‘I’m surprised your battalion hasn’t been moved up to the front.’
‘Army command is scared that they’ll divert their forces to Normandy, only for the Yanks to stage a second landing in Calais or Dieppe.’
‘Bet you can’t wait to get at ’em?’ Henderson asked.
Scholl shook his head. ‘I’ve done my share of fighting,’ he said. ‘Happy enough letting some other poor bugger get on with it. And besides, Normandy’s a long way.’
Henderson faked surprise. ‘From here? Can’t be more than two days’ drive.’
‘Tanks are built to ride long distances on trains,’ Scholl explained.
‘There’s hardly a train line in northern France that’s not been cut by the resistance,’ Henderson said. ‘That much I do know.’
‘A Tiger needs an overha
ul every 750km. And although their top speed is good enough, things start to break if you drive at more than fifteen kph over any distance,’ Scholl said. ‘Designers kept adding more and more weight to the Tiger, but the engine struggles to shift it. If they send us to Normandy we’ll be lucky if half the tanks make it without at least one breakdown.’
‘And fuel?’ Henderson asked.
Scholl rocked back on his seat. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘Those beasts must burn a lot of juice,’ Henderson said. ‘And it’d be nice to know you’re gonna be around long enough for me to win my money back.’
Scholl roared with laughter as he tapped the bundle of francs and reichsmarks inside his jacket. ‘If I hang on to this I’ll lose it to someone,’ Scholl said.
‘I’ll take care of it for you,’ Henderson said.
It wasn’t a great line, but Scholl had drunk a skinful and erupted with laughter. ‘I bet you would,’ he roared. ‘Bet you bloody would, but I’ll get it sent to my sister before you get your hands on it!’
Henderson wondered how to steer the conversation back towards the fuel situation. ‘I guess there’s worse things than spending a sunny afternoon in a bar,’ he said. ‘But I really need to get back to work.’
Scholl snorted. ‘I’m not stopping you.’
‘No, no!’ Henderson said, waving his hands at the misunderstanding. ‘I’m supposed to be surveying bridges on the road to Amiens, but my truck is bone dry. I’ve heard a rumour that there’s a fuel train coming into town later this week.’
‘You won’t get a drop – our battalion will have priority,’ Scholl said. ‘I don’t know of anything coming by rail, but they’re expecting a dozen road tankers this evening.’
Henderson smiled. ‘If I made it worth your while, do you think there’s any chance that fifty litres of diesel might find its way into my tank?’
‘Why are you so keen to get back to work? Why not stay here and take things easy?’ Scholl asked.
‘I like to keep my mind occupied,’ Henderson said. ‘And the poker games get expensive.’
Henderson's Boys: Scorched Earth Page 6
