‘Faff off!’ someone else replied angrily.
I was amazed people didn’t trip and fall and disappear beneath a hundred trampling feet. Then again, I supposed Londoners were used to the drill. Eventually we found ourselves in a long corridor close to the subterranean platform, at least fifty feet below ground level. I heard someone shout, ‘Mind the gap’, and moments later caught a glimpse of a train slowly snaking its way towards the black of a tunnel. We didn’t have underground railways back home, except those that ran through the mountains. Gradually panic was replaced by a sense of relief sweeping through the crowds. We’d made it! We were safe.
‘How long will we have to stay down here?’ asked Freya. ‘It’s awful. It stinks.’
‘As long as it takes,’ Nils replied. ‘Until we get the all clear.’
The station filled rapidly. I noticed that most came prepared, some with books, games and blankets under their arms, others weighed down with bags of food. Some looked as if they’d been here for hours already.
The atmosphere was humid and heavy, the air smelling stale, full of dirt and grime. But the people of London seemed a cheery lot, and I heard laughter as well as babies crying. I watched four men play cards and one of them lose half a crown to the others. To my right an elderly chap began a tune on his mouth organ while tapping his feet. Young children sat in a circle and amused themselves with games.
The first bomb fell. It sounded little more than a dull, distant thud. It was strangely reassuring – sounding so far away it surely meant we were safe. But it was quickly followed by more vibrating thumps and bangs: the detonations arrived in clusters, and they grew louder. And louder!
The chatter ceased. Only the cries of griping toddlers broke the hush. It was as if everyone was holding their breath. I tried to imagine what the crews of the German bombers were thinking as they reached out and flipped their bomb-release toggles, their planes lurching upwards, their heavy load of munitions tumbling from the belly of their metallic death machines. Did they care about the horror they’d unleashed? Or was it all too far away, too unreal, too unimaginable?
A bomb fell nearby. I flinched as the lights flickered. Another struck. The lights went out for a few seconds and then came back on. People lifted newspapers to shield their heads from the dust and dirt falling from cracks between the bricks in the ceiling. Then more bombs arrived. The place shook. I shook. Loki seized Freya and held her tightly. I heard people praying aloud. We all knew the truth: our place of refuge was safe – unless it suffered a direct hit. Then we might be killed or buried alive. The thunder above us seemed unrelenting, as if an angry giant’s boot was stamping down on us. The lights went out, and this time they didn’t come back on. People switched on their torches. I felt a hand reach out and grasp mine. It was Freya’s. I squeezed it tightly. Another bomb struck and our underground world shook. To my left a woman cried out.
Then it stopped. There were no more bombs.
Eventually the siren wailed the all clear.
Slowly people made their way to the surface. What greeted us made me swallow hard. We’d emerged into a very different London. The evening was lit by an awful, flickering, orange glow. It was hot too. Buildings were ablaze, ferocious flames roaring and spitting. The air was thick with the strange odours of cordite and petroleum, reminding me of spent fireworks. Twisted pieces of shrapnel lay on the pavement amid the rubble; the chunks of bomb casings possessed edges that looked sharp enough to slice through human flesh. We spun on our heels and tried to take it all in.
‘They dropped incendiaries,’ Nils shouted. ‘That’s why the fires are so fierce. In some ways they’re worse than the bombs. And it looks like the main station has taken some direct hits.’
I saw a crater in the road. Twenty feet wide and ten feet deep, a burst water main inside it spouted high into the night air. It looked like a fountain. Falling droplets sparkled. They almost looked beautiful. To my right a car was on fire. It burned brightly. As flames consumed it, acrid black smoke lifted into the sky. Then I saw that the driver was still sitting behind the steering wheel. I felt the contents of my stomach rise up and looked the other away.
‘Jesus, Finn!’ Loki placed a comforting arm around Freya’s shoulder and held her close. ‘This is hell on earth.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ I yelled, shielding my face from the searing heat. My palms were shiny with sweat. ‘Even when they bombed Trondheim back home, it wasn’t on this scale.’
Wriggling free of Loki’s grasp, Freya declared, ‘We should try to help.’
‘Best leave it to others,’ said Nils, anxiously looking round. ‘We’ve got to get across the city. It could take hours in all this chaos.’
‘No,’ Freya replied firmly. ‘There were hundreds of people in the station. Maybe some of them didn’t get out. We’ve got to help.’
‘She’s right,’ I said. ‘At least until the fire service gets here.’
Reluctantly Nils agreed. We ran back into the station. Part of the roof had collapsed. The ticket office was now a pile of bricks. A group of men were frantically grabbing fragments of masonry, chunks of wood and metal, and flinging them to one side of a smoking mound. We got to work beside them, pausing every minute or two to see if anyone could hear the muffled voices of those trapped. Fifteen minutes’ hard graft yielded nothing more than a shoe, an umbrella and a rag doll. All the while buildings around the station glowed, the air filled with spitting and crackling flames as the roaring fire storms tore through one storey after another. Hearing the bells of ambulances, I stopped for a second to wipe the sweat from my brow.
A fire tender with a dozen more men arrived. Unable to manoeuvre the vehicle onto the platform, instead they unrolled their hoses and set about connecting them to a large, camouflaged water tank and to nearby hydrants. As they began dousing the flames the mass of white hose pipes jerked and wriggled like intertwined snakes. The pressure caused water to spray from poorly sealed connections and form small streams which became waterfalls as they cascaded over the edge of the platform. Wardens wearing helmets and armbands began trying to bring order to the streets outside, telling people to keep back, yelling that it was too dangerous and that buildings might collapse at any moment. It was mayhem.
Defeated, having not saved a soul, we eventually gave up. We headed for the exit, or rather what was left of it – mangled iron railings and gates, and smouldering wood. After a few paces I stopped dead. By my right boot was a small tin helmet. Further to my right was another mountain of rubble. The others kept going but I was glued to the spot. Those evacuees, I thought. Surely they’d heeded the air-raid warning. Surely one of those small boys had simply dropped his tin helmet in the rush to get to the shelters. Surely …
I thought I heard a whimper. It came from the mound. ‘Hey!’ I called out. ‘There’s someone under here. Quick, come and help.’
The others returned and we were joined by three young men in uniform. One spoke with a French accent, another sounded Polish. We grabbed, yanked, pulled and heaved, chucking rubble to one side. Others came to help. I found myself gasping for breath, sweat dripping from my nose, my heart pounding. We didn’t stop. We kept digging.
‘Here!’ someone shouted.
I could see a small foot. It was buried deep and we’d have to be careful lifting stuff off in case everything slipped and crushed whoever was beneath. Feverishly we continued clearing a way down. Then, far to my right, Loki called out, ‘I can see an arm.’
There were two bodies! We divided ourselves into teams. It became a race. Eventually Nils and I grasped each end of a long heavy plank. On the count of three, we slowly lifted it and flung it aside. I gasped. We’d revealed a small, pale face, all covered in dust and grime. The child looked calm, peaceful, as if he was just taking a nap. I reached down, cleared away some more bricks, grabbed hold of the boy’s coat collar and pulled. His eyes flashed open. I let out a cry of surprise. ‘He’s alive!’ I shouted. The boy took a small gasp of air.
Then his eyes rolled back into his head. ‘He doesn’t look good.’ I pulled him free. Nils snatched the child from me and rushed him into the arms of the ambulance men. We crowded round as they set to work. And we let out a cheer when, moments later, the lad coughed and spluttered, colour returned to his cheeks and he began sobbing loudly for his mother.
I turned and spotted Loki crouching next to Freya by the mountain of wreckage we’d been dismantling by hand, brick by brick. Half a dozen others were standing round them. I charged back. ‘Hey, he’s still alive!’ I shouted, skidding to a halt. ‘How are you doing? Can I help? You OK?’
Freya looked up at me and shook her head. I saw both fury and tears in her eyes. Another small boy was cradled in her arms. I recognized him. He was one of the lads I’d seen earlier. He couldn’t have been more than six years old. His lifeless brown eyes stared straight up into mine. I felt sick. Britain was at war, and this was what war looked like.
Loki raised his head and gazed to the heavens. ‘You bastards!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘You bloody, bloody bastards!’
Chapter Three
Far from Prying Eyes
IT WAS ALMOST midnight when our train finally pulled into the tiny station. We were the only passengers left in our carriage. I shook Loki and Freya awake and Nils gathered up our gas masks. Wearily we stepped out into the cool night air.
‘Where the hell are we?’ Loki asked irritably, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. We glanced about for signs. There weren’t any. The station was unlit, the small ticket office deserted. In the moonlight I saw half a dozen ponies huddled together for warmth at the far end of the platform. Ponies? Confused, I scratched my head.
‘There should be a truck waiting,’ said Nils. ‘Not far to go now. And with any luck there’ll be steaming mugs of cocoa waiting for us.’ He led the way towards the exit.
‘This place is weird,’ I observed, noticing that apart from the ticket office and a couple of small cottages there were no other buildings to be seen. All I could make out in the darkness were distant trees in an otherwise flat, open terrain. Surely stations were normally close to cities, towns and villages, I thought. Close to people. Not this one. This one lay at the heart of nowhere.
Our transport, a battered old army truck, was indeed waiting, parked on an area of hard standing outside the station. A rather scruffy soldier leaped out of the cab, ran up to us and saluted Nils half-heartedly, his hand barely reaching his own chin. ‘Welcome, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Do you have any luggage?’
‘No,’ said Nils. ‘It was sent on ahead.’
The soldier looked surprised. ‘What, not even a delivery for us?’
Nils shrugged. ‘No. Sorry.’
‘Damn. The buggers said it would be on your train. Wait here a minute. Shan’t be a tick.’ The soldier ran off into the station, returning a few seconds later with a broad grin, lugging a heavy-looking sack. ‘Phew! They’d have my ruddy guts for garters if I’d left this here.’
‘What’s in it?’ I asked.
‘Nazi uniforms!’ He laughed heartily. ‘Last delivery got left here for days. Right mix-up. Some old dear took a peek and fainted on the spot. Thought Jerry had arrived on our shores and left his dirty laundry out. Daft old bat. Right-o, hop aboard. It’s only a ten-minute ride to Mulberry House. Brigadier Devlin is eagerly awaiting your arrival. I’m Corporal Smith, by the way. Smithy to my friends.’
We clambered into the back of the truck and sat down on small benches. The diesel engine started up, and with a hefty jolt we rattled off on the final leg of our journey.
* * *
Mulberry House lay at the end of a long track that wound through dense woodland. At the gated entrance, complete with cattle grid, our truck stopped and more soldiers inspected our papers by torch light before allowing us to proceed. The vehicle drew to a halt again outside the main entrance. Jumping down onto the gravel drive, we all stared at our new home, a large brick house with tall chimney stacks reaching up into the night sky. In the moonlight, the word bleak sprang to mind as a chill wind whipped about my neck. I shivered and my hair prickled as if full of nits. Looking round, I noticed that there was a small cottage at the side of the main house, partially hidden in the trees.
The door to Mulberry opened and light spilled out. A figure appeared. ‘I know an army marches on its stomach,’ he bellowed, before adding, ‘Well if you don’t like it, you can lump it!’ It took me a few seconds to realize he was talking to someone inside the house. He turned and quickly surveyed the four of us, his eyes settling on Nils. ‘Ah, Captain Jacobsen. Glad to see you all made it in one piece. Splendid. Come in, come in.’ He stepped to one side and beckoned us across the threshold. ‘I’m Brigadier Devlin. Sorry about all that just now. Mrs Saunders made mock hare soup – a special treat, apparently. Didn’t go down too well I’m afraid.’
‘What’s mock hare soup?’ asked Freya.
‘Well, miss, mock hare soup is exactly the same as real hare soup except it’s made without any hare.’
Freya frowned. We all frowned.
‘That’s rationing for you, I’m afraid,’ the brigadier added, shrugging. ‘Cook likes to experiment! You’ll soon get used to it.’
The four of us were told to wait in the large drawing room. Freya warmed her hands in front of a roaring log fire while Nils slumped in a leather chair and began impatiently drumming his fingers on its arm. Loki and I wandered around the room inspecting the various paintings and maps hung on the walls and the many tatty books wedged in equally tatty bookcases.
The door opened and the man we knew only as ‘X’ breezed in. He still had his raincoat and trilby on and he was clutching a thin leather document bag. He was followed by three others: the brigadier, another man in army uniform and a woman carrying a tray.
‘Welcome,’ said X, making a point of greeting each of us with a warm smile and vice-like handshake. Then he removed his hat and coat and fiddled with the clasp of his bag. ‘Help yourselves to cocoa,’ he said. ‘Oh, and this is Mrs Saunders. She’ll be looking after you here – cooking, washing, that sort of thing.’
Mrs Saunders struck me as the homely sort. She was a large lady with rosy cheeks and a smile that was probably comforting if you were five years old and suffering from toothache. She banged down the tray, wiped her hands on her floral apron and left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘Right,’ said X, clearing his throat. He’d removed some papers from his bag and straightened up. He was ready to begin. We took our seats.
‘Welcome to Special Operations, STS Mulberry. That stands for Special Training School, by the way,’ he began. ‘I’d like to formally introduce you to Brigadier Devlin, who will be your commanding officer.’
I guessed the brigadier to be in his late fifties. Standing rather stiffly, his chest stuck out and shoulders pushed back, he struck me as a career soldier, but one clearly too old now for confronting the enemy eye to eye on the battlefield. He nodded at each of us in turn and managed only the faintest of smiles.
‘And the other chap here is Sergeant Walker, your senior training instructor. He’s a hard taskmaster and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. But do as he says and you may just learn something useful. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Walker replied with a sly grin. He was much younger than the brigadier, taller too, and had a mop of ginger hair.
‘I’ve prepared a short opening address,’ said X. ‘Just to highlight the key points about your time here. It won’t take long. As you already know, I am in charge of Special Operations. Last time we met you’d just escaped from Norway and successfully delivered into our hands vital intelligence revealing the location of a hidden German battleship. You might be keen to know that a team of commandos have landed in your homeland. As we speak they are making final preparations to scuttle the ship before she sets sail. The German navy, the Kriegsmarine, are about to be dealt a heavy blow, and maybe, just maybe, Allied Atlantic convoys wil
l be safe from attack, and thousands of sailors spared a watery grave. At least for now.’
Loki punched the air and shouted with delight.
‘Pipe down, Mr Larson. The war’s not over yet!’ X barked sharply.
I felt proud. Many people had risked their lives to bring the fistful of photographs and maps to England safely. Loki, Freya and I had been part of it. We’d got caught up in the dangerous work of the local Resistance and, when everything began to go wrong, I’d found myself lumbered with the priceless intelligence. The Germans were onto us, though, and quickly closed in, arresting our families. Our time was up. As fugitives, we’d run out of friends to turn to and places to hide. And we’d still had the blasted documents!
As Loki and I had grown up flying alongside our fathers, who were pilots, we’d decided we had only one way out – to steal a plane and pray that we knew enough to get her up and down safely. We did – just! The Heinkel 115 float plane had just been sitting there in the fjord, almost as if it was waiting to be nicked.
Following our landing and debriefing in Scotland, X turned up and made us an offer. Would we like the opportunity to hit back at the enemy? Would we mind going back to school? No ordinary school, but a rather special one where we’d be trained as secret agents. X was a shadowy figure, sharp-featured, with cold, hungry, steel-grey eyes. Perfect for his clandestine job. He received his orders directly from the British prime minister, Mr Winston Churchill, and I think that meant no one dared question his authority.
‘First, I guess you’re all wondering where you are.’ X turned and inspected a large map pinned to the wall. ‘This map shows southern England.’ He tapped a finger against it. ‘London’s here.’
‘What’s left of it,’ Loki muttered.
X frowned. Nils explained, ‘We were delayed by an air raid.’
Death Ray Page 2
