‘The English Air Force must be reduced morally and physically so that it is unable to deliver any significant attack during the German crossing.
‘Preparations for the landing operation must be completed by the middle of August.’
Adolf Hitler, 16 July 1940.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Natural History Museum, London, UK – Intelligence Ministry wartime HQ
Eileen McAfferty stepped out of the lift and found herself in a shiny-floored basement corridor, barely wide enough for two people to pass. She was thirty-one years old, but dressed like someone older, in cardigans and floral prints. Her shoes, as always, were flat, with their tongues cut open because she was overweight and her feet swelled in the heat.
It felt desperately hot as McAfferty read the room numbers off, door after door. Some were left open to circulate the air, and sounds of chattering typewriters and telephone conversations came from inside. People swooped in and out holding folders or occasionally pushing a trolley piled with files. They all looked so purposeful that McAfferty was afraid to ask for directions.
Finally she spoke to a pencil-thin man in a three-piece suit, her accent heavily Scottish.
‘Room eighty-three is to the left,’ the pencil replied. ‘Double doors. That’s the Minister’s office, you know that?’
You could see on his face that he thought someone like McAfferty had no business going into the Intelligence Minister’s office.
‘I’m late,’ she explained. ‘Signal failure on the Piccadilly line.’
‘Really?’ the man said unsympathetically. ‘I’d hurry up, if you’re late for the Minister. He’s been biting people’s heads off all week.’
Twenty minutes behind schedule, McAfferty found herself in the Intelligence Minister’s office. It was a grim space with oak furnishings, moved from less secure offices in Whitehall. The walls were peeling and the only natural light came through a slot window near the ceiling.
‘Ahh.’ The man behind the desk smiled at her. ‘I’ll have a strong tea and a shortcake. And these gentlemen...’
‘This is Miss McAfferty, your Lordship,’ the Minister’s secretary said. ‘The tea lady will be along shortly.’
‘Oh,’ the Minister stuttered. ‘Terribly sorry. I’m Lord Hawthorne. This is Colonel Jackson, Deputy Director of Army Intelligence and Eric Mews, Deputy Minister from the Department of Economic Warfare.’
McAfferty shook the important hands and swept her skirt beneath her legs before taking a seat. Jackson and Hawthorne were establishment men, with posh accents. Mews was more common stock: a Labour Party man, with a north-east accent and an unlit pipe.
‘I’m new to this intelligence malarkey,’ Mews said bluntly. ‘My job is to set up a new organisation known as the Special Operations Executive. I’ll have to be honest with you, ducks. I’ve not even heard of your Espionage Research Unit and nor have quite a few people who’ve been in this game for a lot longer than I have.’
McAfferty nodded. ‘I believe the ERU dates back to a rivalry between the Army and the Navy during the last war. The Army had a small espionage unit that concentrated on German military technology. When the Navy found out, they set up their own equivalent. The ERU had a few dozen operatives at its peak in 1918, but has rather withered on the vine since then.’
‘The plan is for all branches of the intelligence service to come under a single command structure for the duration of the war,’ Lord Hawthorne explained.
‘That sounds sensible.’ McAfferty nodded.
‘So what manpower does the ERU have?’
‘There’s me and Betty at the office in Greenwich,’ McAfferty explained. ‘Then there are three operatives. Mr Gant was injured on an operation in Norway last summer. Then there’s Mr Moon who’s based in Gibraltar and Mr Henderson.’
‘And you run this organisation?’ Colonel Jackson asked.
‘Officially I’m a field assistant. But our chairman Captain Partridge suffered a stroke last summer and hasn’t been back to work since.’
‘And he wasn’t replaced?’ Hawthorne gasped. ‘What the devil are the Navy playing at?’
‘I’m not party to decisions at senior level,’ McAfferty explained diplomatically. ‘I mucked in when I returned from working with Henderson in Paris two months back.’
‘Do you have much experience in espionage work?’ Hawthorne asked suspiciously. ‘Henderson is an important resource and an operation like this needs expert handling.’
‘He’s the only active British agent in France,’ Colonel Jackson added. ‘The Boche are planning an invasion. Any information he can provide us on German strategy will be hugely important.’
‘What’s your background exactly?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘My father worked as a riveter in the Clyde shipyards,’ McAfferty replied. ‘I went to my local grammar school and won a partial scholarship to Edinburgh University. I got a double first in Economics and French, then spent three years with the diplomatic service – first stationed in France, then a two-year posting in Malaya. Unfortunately, the opportunities for ladies in the diplomatic service are limited to secretarial work. I found typing tiresome so I came back to London and joined the Espionage Research Unit.’
Hawthorne pushed his chair back, clearly rather impressed. It was rare for a working man’s daughter to go to university in the 1920s. Obtaining a first-class degree and joining the diplomatic service without a public-school background or family connections was positively stunning.
‘Do you like intelligence work?’ Colonel Jackson asked.
‘Somewhat,’ McAfferty admitted. ‘The ERU is very small, so you get lots of responsibility. A big cog in a small machine, as they say.’
‘Sounds like you’re a smart lass to me,’ Mews said, resting a hand on McAfferty’s shoulder with a gesture that she found warm but patronising. ‘There certainly doesn’t seem any reason to bring some naval officer with no intelligence experience in over your head. I’ll assign you rank and status in line with your role as the leader of an intelligence organisation.’
‘What ranks are Henderson and Moon?’ Colonel Jackson asked.
‘Commander,’ McAfferty said.
‘You’ll have to be a captain then,’ Lord Hawthorne said, before laughing aloud. ‘How does that sound, Captain McAfferty?’
‘Not Captain,’ Colonel Jackson said. ‘The equivalent rank for a Wren
5 is Superintendent.’
‘Mr Henderson might not be happy,’ McAfferty noted. ‘I mean, I worked as his assistant. He’s been in the Navy for more than ten years …’
‘There’s a war on,’ Mews said firmly. ‘I’m creating a new intelligence organisation from scratch and I have the power to assign civilians whatever rank they require to get their jobs done. The ERU is a naval department, so you’ll receive naval rank and naval pay. I’ll send the papers through for your commission and you have my number. If you need more people, larger offices or anything else, just let me know.’
‘Well, I suppose,’ McAfferty said warily. ‘But my feet tend to swell up, so if I’m to wear a uniform, I hope the Navy has some shoes that fit comfortably.’
‘Men’s shoes,’ Colonel Jackson suggested. ‘Extra-wide fitting or something. I’m sure they’ll dig up something suitable.’
Lord Hawthorne cleared his throat. ‘Leaving Miss McAfferty’s footwear aside for a moment, perhaps we should discuss Henderson’s position in France.’
‘Yes,’ McAfferty said, stifling a smile as she marvelled at the turn her day had taken. ‘Henderson has spent most of the last week laying plans for the trip north. He’s arranged French papers for himself, his lady friend Maxine and six children.’
‘children?’ Mews said. ‘Where the hell did all that lot come from?’Six
‘I’m not certain,’ McAfferty said. ‘I believe he’s taking two orphaned toddlers home to their grandparents, but to minimise the risk of our communications being intercepted and/or decoded, we keep messages short and only ask qu
estions if we have to know the answer.
‘They’ve obtained fuel for a truck and a car, and I believe they’ve arranged accommodation on a farm near Calais. Once they arrive, Henderson is going to scout the coastline and German military bases to find out whatever he can about the invasion plans. If possible he’ll also try to sabotage them.’
‘good,’ Lord Hawthorne said, nodding enthusiastically. ‘Although I suppose there’s a limit to how much sabotaging a single agent can do.’Very
‘What about the secondary objective?’ Mews asked.
‘Minister, our secondary objective is to gather information on the German occupation,’ McAfferty said. ‘As you of course know, the Special Operations Executive wants to start sending agents into occupied France as soon as they’re trained, but we have little idea what’s going on over there.
‘We need basic information on everything from curfews and train times to permits, landing spots and German security measures. When Henderson leaves France, he’ll bring back as much original documentation as he can muster so that SOE’s forgery department can get to work making copies.’
‘Well,’ Lord Hawthorne said, glancing at his watch before making a sweeping gesture to indicate that the meeting was over. ‘Colonel, I expect I’ll be seeing you at the club this evening. Superintendent McAfferty, a huge amount is riding on Commander Henderson’s operation. The future of Britain could hinge upon his ability to give us advance warning of a German invasion.’
McAfferty was overawed and her feet hurt so much that she dreaded the long walk back to the lift. She reached across the desk and shook the Minister’s hand.
‘Henderson is an outstanding agent,’ she said. ‘I have every confidence in his success.’
* * *
5Wren – a female member of the Royal Navy, derived from WRNS (Women’s Royal Naval Service).
CHAPTER TWELVE
Northern France
Lucien Boyle was four years old. He had dark hair, serious eyes and currently stood at the roadside fifteen kilometres north-east of Abbeville, facing the side of a burned-out tank.
‘Come on then,’ Henderson sighed. ‘What are you waiting for?’
The boy looked back over his shoulder. ‘You have to undo my button,’ he explained.
Henderson leaned forwards and caught an unpleasant smell. They’d been on the road for two and a half days, sleeping at the roadside or in the back of the truck. Everyone was grubby, but Lucien was the worst because he sometimes wet himself in the night.
Henderson jerked Lucien’s shorts and underpants down with a single movement. The instant the youngster’s penis was exposed he blasted the tank tracks.
‘Crikey,’ Henderson cursed, as he flicked beads of the youngster’s urine off his hand. ‘Couldn’t you wait two seconds?’
Lucien looked a touch upset, but Henderson staved off tears by giving him a quick kiss on the forehead. ‘You’re a good boy,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Run back to the truck.’
As Henderson unzipped to pee himself, Marc reached out the back of the truck and lifted Lucien over the rear flap. The little boy wandered to the middle of the floor and settled on a mound of pillows and cushions. His five-year-old sister Holly shoved him away.
‘You stink!’ she blurted. ‘Get off me.’
Once Henderson was back in the cab he blasted the horn, telling Maxine to lead off in her convertible Jaguar, with the truck trundling behind. In the back of the truck, Rosie grabbed Holly and pulled her away from her brother.
‘Don’t even about starting another fight,’ Rosie said, as Holly scowled at her.think
‘He keeps weeing himself!’ Holly said, stamping her heel on the metal floor. ‘He stinks.’
‘I stink,’ Lucien stormed.don’t
‘Both of you, calm down,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s not long now. We should reach the farm before dinnertime.’
Marc sat up near the rear of the truck and called Lucien over. ‘Come sit with me, mate.’
Lucien was tired and grumpy. He cuddled up and closed his eyes as Marc looked out the back of the truck, awed by the carnage on all sides.
The countryside north of Abbeville had seen some of the heaviest clashes between French and German troops during the first phase of the invasion. The road had been patched up and cleared of debris, but the surrounding countryside was littered with mangled weapons. Many dead horses and humans had been piled up and cremated before they putrefied, but the blackened pyres remained and you didn’t have to look too hard to spot rat-gnawed flesh rotting in ditches or between bushes.
The bombing here had a more intense focus than in the south and anything left standing had been crushed by tanks or artillery as the Germans raced westwards in their successful attempt to split France in two and cut the most powerful battalions of the French Army from their supply lines.
Marc tried to imagine what kind of hell the local people must have experienced, hiding out in fields or sheltering in basements as bombs and machines ripped their world apart.
The truck and the Jaguar drove on six more kilometres. The late afternoon sky threatened rain and they had little company, except for German military vehicles coming in the opposite direction. They eventually reached a tiny settlement that had escaped the worst of the fighting. The row of five peasant cottages appeared unoccupied, but German vehicles were parked out front and a security post manned by two armed guards stretched across the road.
The barrier marked the divide between the Somme and the Pas-de-Calais regions. The Germans wanted France back to normality and were encouraging people who’d fled south to go home and resume normal life, but the Pas-de-Calais, at the northernmost tip of the country, was an exception.
This area had been designated as a special military zone. A dozen Luftwaffe
6 bases had been constructed from which regular attacks were being launched on Britain and a huge number of soldiers had been sent in to the area for training exercises.
The Pas-de-Calais was exactly where you wanted to be if you planned to spy on German invasion plans, which is precisely why the Germans were being cautious about who got in or out.
‘Out, out, out and line ,’ a German roared, making a fair stab at the French language. ‘Hands in the air. No sudden moves.’up
Maxine and PT stepped out of the Jaguar, Paul and Henderson from the cab of the truck, while Marc and Rosie jumped off the back before helping the little ones.
Henderson had spent a week bribing and cajoling, first obtaining forged identification papers for everyone except Lucien and Holly and then taking on the much more complex business of securing paperwork required to enter the military zone.
‘Monsieur Boyle,’ a German grenadier7 said, as he stood in front of Henderson inspecting his driver’s licence. ‘Aged thirty-two. Why are you not in military service?’
‘My back was injured in a farm accident some years ago,’ Henderson lied. ‘My military exemption certificate is in your hand.’
‘You look healthy enough to me,’ the German sneered as he looked at it.
‘I have good days and bad days.’
‘And a very friendly doctor, no doubt,’ he snorted. ‘Are these all your relatives?’
Henderson nodded. ‘My wife, Maxine. Paul, Rosemarie and Marc are my children. Philippe Tomas and the two little ones are my brother’s children.’
‘Where is your brother?’
‘We’ve not heard – but he’s a German prisoner, most likely. His wife died in a bomb blast during the invasion.’
Hearts thumped in the line-up in front of the truck as the officer snatched more documents from Henderson and asked him to step across to a wooden table set in the dirt alongside the barrier.
Their documentation was all filled out on stolen forms, carefully crumpled and indistinguishable from the real thing, but anyone who interrogated Henderson’s ‘family’ for any length of time would realise that they had widely differing accents. A thorough search of the truck would reveal the radio transmitter, s
everal guns and a variety of espionage equipment, hidden in a compartment beneath a false floor.
‘You are a farmer?’ the German said suspiciously, waving to attract his superior as thunder rumbled. The sun was vanishing under dark clouds.
‘Is there some problem with that?’ Henderson asked.
The officer was a stooped man with wisps of grey hair. He looked at the grenadier and spoke in German.
‘I’ll have to telephone headquarters,’ he said, unaware that Henderson could understand him.
‘You get back in line,’ the grenadier barked as his boss disappeared into a cottage with the paperwork.
Henderson gave the others a reassuring smile as he walked back, but it didn’t fool anyone.
Time passed, with Lucien and Holly fidgeting, army vehicles passing and a truck filled with labourers skimming through after a ten-second inspection of documents waved from the driver’s cab. Then it started to rain.
Drizzle became a torrent, blasting the grey road in windswept sheets as trees buckled and air howled through blast-damaged cottage windows. The sky was almost black when Maxine finally stepped out of line.
‘Can we put the children in the back of the truck, at least?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want them catching a cold.’
‘Back in line,’ the guard yelled as he waved his rifle at her. ‘I have to stand here day and night, rain or shine, in this French shithole. You can do the same.’
After nearly three hot days inside the metal-sided van, Marc found the rain refreshing. Lucien was in a playful mood after his nap and ducked beneath Marc’s untucked shirt to blow a raspberry on his belly. Normally this would have been funny, but Marc was on edge and the isolated setting freaked him out.
There was nothing in any direction except for the checkpoint, the cottages and the road cutting through overgrown fields. He tried not to imagine what would happen if their true identities were unearthed, but knew that the Gestapo would subject everyone to terrible torture before they were shot.
Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day: Book 2 Page 10
