Secret Army

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘Excuse me, do you work here?’ she asked, standing in PT’s way as he tried to get by. ‘I’ve brought the mail sacks in, but I need Mr Harvey to sign for these telegrams.’

  A woman came up the steps and walked by as PT snatched the Post Office clipboard. ‘I can sign for them,’ PT said. ‘Mr Harvey is upstairs, bit of a dickey tummy I think.’

  The woman broke into a white-toothed smile that PT would have liked to kiss. ‘Too much brown ale, knowing him,’ she said cheerfully.

  While PT focused on the postal officer’s bum as she turned towards the door, Rosie realised that someone delivering sack loads of mail hadn’t arrived on foot.

  ‘Follow her,’ Rosie whispered, as she jabbed PT urgently in the ribs.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ PT grinned. ‘I barely looked at her.’

  Rosie gave PT a look of utter contempt. ‘I’m not jealous, you idiot. She’s driving a van!’

  ‘Oh,’ PT gasped. ‘Right.’

  But there was no quick way to get the trolley down four steps so Marc and Rosie had to run towards the tiny red Post Office van parked directly in front of the entrance.

  ‘Did you drop this?’ Rosie shouted, as the postwoman opened the driver’s door and threw her clipboard across the passenger seat.

  Rosie checked that there was nobody approaching the entrance and as the postwoman turned around she belted her across the temple with the giant wrench. It was a perfect knock-out blow and Marc dived forwards to catch her fall as she splayed against the side of the van.

  PT and Joel struggled down the steps with the trolley as Rosie ripped open the van’s back doors.

  ‘Can we shove her in there?’ Marc asked.

  ‘It’s stuffed full,’ Rosie said. ‘And there’s four of us.’

  The trolley wheels bounced off the bottom step as Rosie reached in the back of the van and began frantically pulling out mailbags and parcels.

  ‘Can any of us actually drive this thing?’ Marc asked urgently.

  Three storeys up, the doorman threw open a window and yelled out. ‘Security, security! Stop those kids.’

  While he shouted out, the typist who’d found and untied him was making an urgent call to the security staff on the main gates. Fortunately, the office block car park was unguarded and exited on to the road through an open gate less than twenty metres away.

  As Rosie climbed into the front passenger seat, Joel and PT tipped the gun and trolley into the back. The doorman had disappeared from the window, but the bony typist who took his place grabbed a pot plant off the window ledge and flung it down.

  ‘You wait till they catch you,’ she yelled.

  Marc jumped with fright as the pot smashed against the Post Office van, leaving a dent in the roof and sending dry earth and chunks of shattered terracotta through the air.

  ‘Marc, Joel, get in the back with the gun,’ PT ordered.

  Marc didn’t fancy a ride in the back of a van with a dirty great gun crashing about, but at least PT sounded like he had a plan.

  ‘So you can drive?’ Marc shouted.

  ‘A bit,’ PT said, as he slammed the back doors of the van. ‘Well, on back roads and stuff.’

  It was dark in the back of the van, but Marc and Joel were close enough to exchange anxious glances. The cannon stretched from the back doors and rose at an angle, resting on the edge of Rosie’s seat with the muzzle protruding into the cab and almost touching the windscreen.

  ‘Keys,’ PT shouted, as he slammed the driver’s door.

  ‘Already in the ignition,’ Rosie shouted back.

  PT felt overwhelmed as he turned the key. His dad had let him practise driving in America, but that was years back and the gears in the little van were in a completely different configuration. He pressed the clutch pedal and started the engine. It wheezed for several seconds before shuddering to life.

  Gears crunched horribly as PT threw the selector into reverse. Outside, the giant doorman burst out of the front entrance and took the four steps in one leap. Up ahead, two elderly security men were running breathlessly from the main gate.

  ‘Why are we still sitting here?’ Rosie yelled anxiously.

  The door mirrors were angled for the postwoman, not PT’s lanky frame, so he had no view backwards as he lifted the clutch. He didn’t have the feel for the van, and the engine coughed and very nearly stalled before the back wheels finally turned.

  The doorman got his hands on the driver’s side door and ripped it open.

  ‘Come here, you little Herberts,’ he shouted, as he tried to grab PT’s arm.

  As the car shot backwards, the gun rolled off the back of Rosie’s seat and plunged down into a gap. It twisted as it dropped, simultaneously pinning Joel’s ankle to the floor of the van and hitting the gear lever, knocking the car into neutral.

  The engine stalled as Joel screamed out in pain. The doorman caught up as PT frantically tried to restart the engine and get the van back in gear. He reached through the still-open door, grabbed PT under the arm and pulled hard.

  Marc saw what was happening. He didn’t think he was strong enough to stop the doorman without a weapon and the first thing that came to hand was the small hunting knife in his coat pocket. He clutched the handle tight, reached over the back of PT’s seat and stuck the jagged blade deep into the doorman’s grasping arm.

  The big man screamed as Marc tore the knife back towards himself. PT felt a spurt of blood hitting the side of his face, as the engine clattered back into life. The doorman stumbled back and tripped backwards over the mailbags piled on the tarmac.

  PT found reverse gear, then leaned forwards to pull the door shut. Up ahead, the two security men almost had their hands on the front wing. Although PT was shaking he got the clutch up properly and the car started rolling backwards.

  ‘I can’t see,’ PT screamed. ‘Marc, tell me what’s out the back.’

  ‘I think I broke my foot,’ Joel whimpered.

  ‘Go back twenty metres,’ Marc shouted. ‘Steer left … no, left. You’re gonna hit the gate. Other way, other way,’

  ‘You said left,’ PT shouted.

  The confusion was caused by the fact that the boys were facing in opposite directions, but PT managed to correct the steering and they narrowly avoided a short ride into a brick gatepost.

  ‘People?’ PT yelled.

  ‘It’s all clear. Keep going.’

  The little van reversed at speed between two gateposts, then swung into the road that ran along the front of Walden’s factory. PT hit the brake. After a lot of crunching and a couple of seconds studying the little diagram engraved in the metal plate under the gearstick, he selected first gear and juddered away.

  ‘You’re on the wrong side of the road,’ Rosie warned, as she nudged the steering wheel.

  ‘Let me drive,’ PT roared furiously, as he nearly swerved into a parked car while staring at the gear knob trying to find second.

  ‘I can’t see anyone following,’ Marc said, as they began steady progress down a deserted stretch of road.

  ‘So where do we go now?’ Rosie asked.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Luc watched the Poles through a gap in the bomb-damaged warehouse wall. He didn’t speak Polish so he wouldn’t have understood what they were saying even if he’d been close enough to hear, but their body language conveyed everything he needed to know.

  The lanky lieutenant Tomaszewski was in charge. The other man was a hairy private named Wozniak. Wozniak didn’t say much, and Luc knew he wasn’t too bright because he’d let PT fleece him at poker long after the other Poles and Frenchmen gave up.

  The Poles lowered the body of the gun on a length of rope, then followed it down with the loose pieces slung in sacks over their back. Luc smiled at their shocked expressions when they reached the ground and found their unconscious comrade, with his leg buckled and his bloody mouth oozing into the snow.

  They held a heated discussion: did a fall really cause these injuries? Should they carry
on, or concentrate on helping their injured colleague?

  Luc backed away as Wozniak clambered away from the rubble mound and grabbed a dock porter with a four-wheeled handcart. The porter’s suspicious nature was allayed by three ten-shilling notes, which made the better part of two days’ wages.

  The porter looked agitated and tried to hand the money back when he saw the body in the snow. Lieutenant Tomaszewski got him back on side with a lengthy explanation and more money.

  The stricken Pole started to come around as the three men lifted him on to the cart. This made Luc nervous: he might tell Tomaszewski that he’d been attacked rather than fallen from the ladder. But Luc could do nothing to control that part of the situation and it seemed OK as the porter hurried off with the stricken man on his cart, while the two remaining Poles balanced the gun on their shoulders.

  They struggled with the weight and Luc saw there was no way he’d be able to carry the body of the gun and the accompanying sack of accessories on his own. He needed the Poles to get the gun to London.

  Tomaszewski made no attempt to disguise the gun as they moved through the warehouse, but the pair moved as fast as the weight allowed, because the porter dragging the bloody body on his cart was causing a stir amongst the traders. He’d found an open-backed truck and as far as Luc could tell its driver was a decent fellow who was happy to take the Pole to hospital. He even refused the porter’s offer of money.

  Once Luc was certain Tomaszewski and Wozniak were heading back towards the bus he raced ahead of them. Sitting inside the bus was risky, but Luc didn’t fancy being stuck in the luggage hold the whole way to London. He rushed towards the main door, at the front of the bus, a metre behind the driver’s seat. The Poles had no keys for the stolen bus, so they’d left it open. Before stepping aboard, Luc raised the flap over the small side compartment from which the Poles had retrieved the toolkit. He didn’t have a clear idea of how to deal with Tomaszewski and Wozniak and hoped he’d find something useful.

  The compartment smelled like exhaust fumes. There was a balled-up set of mechanic’s overalls, a tow rope, a breakdown warning sign, a big flashlight, bottles of engine oil, distilled water and two small cans of diesel.

  The Poles were now less than thirty metres from the bus. Luc might have used the flashlight to whack someone, but he already had the bike chain and police officer’s truncheon in his satchel. He thought the fuel might be useful if he needed to start a fire, so he grabbed the half-full metal can before diving inside the bus.

  Luc saw the Poles crossing the street through the driver’s-side window and crouched down low before they sighted him. He ran to the back of the bus and threw all his stuff on the back seat.

  As Tomaszewski and Wozniak struggled aboard with the gun, Luc lay sideways across the rear seats and tucked his knees into his chest so that his boots didn’t protrude into the aisle.

  Wozniak sounded distressed as the gun crashed down to the floor. He was upset about losing two members of the team, and although Luc couldn’t understand Polish it seemed that both men were suspicious about what had happened at the base of the pylon.

  The only things Luc understood were the words Walker and the initials SOE. He smiled as he realised that the Poles thought Air Vice Marshal Walker had sent a special squad out to sabotage their operation and wondered what their reaction would be when they found out it was the work of a thirteen-year-old.

  *

  The little Post Office van was full of noise as it belted through the streets towards the centre of Manchester.

  ‘Look at the fuel gauge,’ Rosie said anxiously. ‘We’ll never get to London on a quarter tank and we can’t buy more without petrol coupons.’

  ‘This van is red hot anyway,’ PT said. ‘Even if we had the petrol, every cop within three counties will be on the lookout for a stolen Post Office van with four kids inside before much longer.’

  ‘And no offence, PT, but your driving’s rubbish,’ Marc said. ‘We’ll end up wrapped around a tree at this rate.’

  ‘I can’t get used to this thing,’ PT said.

  As if to prove his point, PT stopped at a T-junction and stalled as he pulled out. The car behind had to slam on the brakes and the driver blasted his horn.

  ‘Don’t honk me, you turd,’ PT yelled, waving his fist as he leaned out of the window and gave the driver the finger. ‘Sit on this, you old goat.’

  The car shuddered as PT let the clutch up too fast, but this time he kept the engine running and they made the turn.

  The only one who wasn’t speaking was Joel. Tears streaked down his face as he sat with his back against the side of the van, tightly gripping his ankle.

  ‘Can you move your foot at all?’ Marc asked.

  ‘No,’ Joel said, through gritted teeth. ‘The whole weight of the gun smashed down on my leg. I broke my arm a few years back and this feels the same.’

  ‘We’ll see if you can put any weight on it when we get out,’ PT said, as the car approached a split in the road. ‘Rosie, have you worked out a route yet?’

  Rosie looked at the Manchester street map she’d found under the passenger seat. ‘I’ve worked out where we are. If we’re not going all the way in the car, I guess we want Piccadilly station.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Marc said, and PT agreed.

  ‘Right, let’s work this out,’ Rosie said, as she turned the folded map to see a different page. ‘It’s about two miles south. Stay on this road.’

  ‘What about the gun though?’ Marc asked. ‘We can’t just walk through a main station in morning rush hour carrying a stolen gun. We need some kind of disguise.’

  ‘When I lived near Chicago I had a case for my fishing rods,’ PT said. ‘That would have covered it.’

  ‘And where are we going to buy one of those at twenty to nine in the morning?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Is the trolley still back there with you, Marc?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Marc replied.

  ‘OK, here’s what we do,’ Rosie began. ‘When we get to the station, one of us goes inside, checks the train times and buys five tickets to London.’

  ‘Why five?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Because they might be looking for four kids,’ Rosie explained.

  ‘Buy three,’ Joel said. ‘I’m not gonna make it out of this van.’

  ‘It might feel different when you try to walk,’ Rosie said.

  ‘It won’t,’ Joel said, irritated that nobody seemed to believe the seriousness of his injury. ‘Even if I could limp on I’ll only slow you down. I’ll wait until your train leaves, then I’ll surrender. Walker said it doesn’t matter how many of us get to London, only that the gun does.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ PT said. ‘But that still doesn’t explain how we get through the station.’

  ‘That’s what I was saying before you all interrupted,’ Rosie said. ‘While I go in to buy our tickets and check the train times, you boys need to tie the gun to the trolley and then disguise it as best you can. You can tie my coat or a couple of the mailbags over it, then hang our satchels off the side. If anyone asks we say it’s curtain poles. We got bombed out and we’re heading to our aunt’s house on the edge of London.’

  ‘It’s still gonna look like a gun if people know what they’re looking for,’ Marc noted. ‘What if we hide out for a couple of hours? We could try finding an old rug in a junk shop and roll it up in that.’

  ‘No way,’ PT said. ‘That’s going to take an hour at least.’

  ‘Next right, then left,’ Rosie interrupted urgently, before PT continued.

  ‘All that time we’re four kids standing around with a big heavy gun and a stolen Post Office van.’

  PT seemed to be getting the hang of the van as they made a brief stop before crossing the traffic coming in the other direction and taking an easy left turn.

  After three-quarters of a mile through city streets, the little van rattled down a steep slope and splashed through a puddle as it passed under a railway arch. As they r
eached the brow of the ramp on the way out Rosie saw eight railway tracks stretching out to their left and a dark-green steam engine belching soot as it accelerated away from the station.

  It was the morning rush hour and bodies were pouring out of Piccadilly station, joining bus queues or heading into the city on foot. PT parked up on the kerb, level with the far end of the station platforms, and reached inside his coat for the wallet he’d stolen from the young farmer.

  ‘Two pounds should be more than enough for tickets,’ he said, as he passed Rosie the money. ‘We’ll follow you in and meet you by the ticket office.’

  ‘No,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘Disguise the gun as best you can and I’ll see you back here. We don’t want to be standing around inside the station with that gun for one second longer than we have to.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Rosie stepped out of the van and took off her coat, passing it to Marc who was already on the pavement dragging the trolley out of the back. She was drier than she’d been when she arrived at the parachute factory, but her clothes were still damp and even in wartime a girl in muddy trousers and boots was an odd sight. Still, the commuters all seemed too worried about getting to work to bother looking at her.

  While Rosie stood in a long ticket queue, Marc and PT tied the gun to the trolley and did their best to disguise it by wrapping it in mailbags and using Rosie’s coat and a couple of satchels to disguise its shape.

  Joel dragged himself to the edge of the van. After unlacing his boot, he used the morning light to make a proper inspection of his leg. There was a huge swelling under his sock at the join between his ankle and foot.

  ‘Looks completely buggered, mate,’ Marc said sympathetically, as he reached into Joel’s satchel and grabbed his surrender letter. ‘You’d better keep that handy in case the cops turn up.’

  By the time the boys had the trolley ready Rosie was coming back out of the station, waving crazily to get them to hurry up.

  ‘We’re being summoned,’ Marc said, as he looked at Joel sitting in the back of the van. ‘Are you gonna be OK?’

  ‘I’ll be great if you get the job done,’ Joel said, as he pulled himself back inside the van. ‘Close the doors. This hurts like hell, but I’ll take the pain for as long as I can, to give you a chance to get away.’