Henderson’s Boys 4: Grey Wolves

by Robert Muchamore

  Lael separated the pencil around a near-invisible line where the colour of the paint changed, revealing a sharpened silver spike in the hole where the lead would usually run.

  ‘Agents in the field report excellent results with these. The blade is toughened steel, so put a little oil on it once in a while to stop it from rusting. Whatever you do, don’t sharpen the pencil.’

  Marc tapped the point against the tip of his finger. ‘Sharp,’ he said.

  Troy laughed. ‘Who would have thought that, genius?’

  As the boys spoke, Lael and Yetta scooped their English clothes into canvas sacks and passed them over.

  ‘Don’t even think about taking any of them,’ Lael warned. ‘I’ll bring your cases up to your hut later when we’ve done all the alterations. Now you two need to go back to the house for the Brigadier to sort out your money and identity documents.’

  ‘Oooh money,’ Marc said, as he headed out in one of his new shirts. ‘I wonder how much we’re getting.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Yetta shouted after them. ‘And tell the next pair to get down here.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Madeline II cruised out of Porth Navas Creek at ten the next morning, with Lieutenant Commander Finch at the helm. It was a fine day, but Henderson ordered the kids to stay below in the rear crew compartment. The locals had got used to seeing the German boat on test runs, but a bunch of kids standing on deck would be sure to set tongues wagging in the villages along the shore.

  The boat was designed for sixteen, so the crew of eleven had been crammed into the nine bunks in the bow, Henderson and the boys had the six bunks in the rear compartment, while Rosie and Boo shared the captain’s quarters, thanks to the addition of an upper bunk.

  The boys squatted on beds in the cramped compartment, playing cards with the morning sun shining through the rear deck hatch above their heads. The boat’s three prop shafts ran beneath their feet and the third engine was only separated from them by a couple of metres and a wooden bulkhead.

  It was calm as they cruised out of the creek and down the Helford River, with Finch keeping their speed low to avoid upsetting the oyster boats fishing in shallows over the mudflats. But once they reached the ocean, Finch opened the triple throttle and put Madeline II up to twenty-two knots. The vibration from the prop shaft rattled the metal bed frames as the speeding boat bounced violently off the waves.

  It was funny for about five minutes – laughing as the cards jiggled in their hands and their mattress springs squealed – but the voyage would last fifty hours and they’d be stuck in here for most of that time.

  PT said he wasn’t putting up with it and went up on deck. The Royal Navy ensign fluttered on the rear flagpole as he stood with his hands on the deck rail watching the three water jets thrown up by the propellers.

  Behind the small bridge the deck was dominated by six fuel tanks which had been custom-built to fit in the bays where the Germans stored their torpedoes. The extra diesel would enable them to cruise at high speed for lengthy periods, but the trade-off was the danger of an explosion if they were shot at.

  To minimise Madeline II’s chances of being attacked by friendly fire, she would travel south with a Flower Class corvette, HMS Columbine. She was twice the length of Madeline II, with a crew of eighty and six deck guns to Madeeline II’s two. Although Columbine offered protection, her class had been designed for escorting slow merchant ships and she couldn’t steam above twelve knots over long periods.

  Only the light through the deck hatch gave the boys any clue about the passage of time, but this was closed when the water got choppy. Even when conditions were good they had to stay below deck because Henderson didn’t want the crew of Columbine asking awkward questions about a boatload of kids.

  Meals came and went in rectangular metal trays. The only escape was when they walked the length of the boat to use the toilet in the bow, stopping off to say hello to Boo and Rosie. Joel and Paul threw up a couple of times and everyone got headaches from the diesel fumes. They invented games to eat up time: who can balance a playing card on their nose for longest, who can hook their foot behind their neck, who would dare to eat all the greasy pink bits everyone had picked out of their lunch?

  When they got within eighty nautical miles of Lorient, Columbine peeled off to join two sister ships in a U-boat hunt. The boys were allowed up on deck for some air, and found the White Ensign swapped for a Swastika and the deck crew in German uniform.

  It was four on a Saturday afternoon. Madeline II’s communication officer received a message via London to say that they were expected. Shortly afterwards radar picked up a fishing boat in the right spot.

  Rather than risk canoes, or take Madeline II into a French port, where her mysterious arrival and crew’s lack of German would raise suspicions, Henderson had arranged a liaison at sea. E-boats such as Madeline II routinely stopped and inspected fishing vessels, so even if they were spotted from the coast there would be nothing suspicious about it.

  Nicolas’ boat was called Istanbul. Built in the last century, the sail-powered fishing boat had been laid up for more than a decade, but was now back in service because the fishermen had no fuel. Her sails were brown and heavily patched, the hull was rotten and coated with barnacles and the old hulk creaked eerily with every wave, as if she was breathing.

  ‘Did I ever mention that I hate boats?’ Paul said, as Madeline II came alongside in mercifully calm water.

  Istanbul’s crew comprised Nicolas and his teenaged grandsons Michel and Olivier.

  The Royal Navy crew didn’t waste time, swinging a wooden gangway between the two ships to slide heavier items, while suitcases and provisions were simply thrown. Once the goods were over, it was time for the people. Henderson saluted Finch and led the way, crossing the gangplank with a safety rope hitched under his arms.

  ‘How are you?’ a woman shouted in English, from the trawler.

  Paul, Marc, Rosie and PT were delighted to see Maxine Clere, who they’d first met the previous summer.

  ‘How have you been?’ Rosie asked. ‘I didn’t realise you were the radio operator.’

  ‘I’ve been living in Paris,’ Maxine explained. ‘I’ve been giving the Gestapo the runaround for a year, but it was getting too dangerous so they moved me here for a couple of weeks and booked me a ride home.’

  As the kids took turns on the violently swaying gangplank over to Istanbul, Henderson tried to give Maxine a kiss. She only allowed him a peck before she began handing over detailed notes.

  ‘I’ve not had long in the area,’ Maxine began, ‘but I have drilled security into them at every opportunity. Alois is a good man. Madame Mercier is extremely valuable to us, but she doesn’t like being told what to do.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Henderson said as he slipped the notes into his jacket. ‘I’ll read these through and burn them before we reach shore.’

  Directly behind, two British airmen were crossing the gangplank over to Madeline II.

  ‘I’m holding up the show,’ Maxine said. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘Let’s have lunch some time,’ Henderson said. ‘Somewhere expensive, my treat.’

  Maxine gave Henderson a nod, then quickly hugged Paul, Marc, Rosie and PT in turn and told them to be safe before crossing over to Madeline II for her voyage home.

  Life aboard the German boat had been pretty miserable, but she was a luxury liner compared to Istanbul. As Lieutenant Commander Finch opened Madeline II’s throttles and turned for home, Nicolas herded the new arrivals towards a large hold under deck, which was designed for storing fish.

  ‘All below,’ Nicolas ordered.

  Henderson jumped first and helped carry their luggage down. The stench of fish was unbelievable, and there wasn’t much space once Henderson, Boo, six kids and luggage were jammed in. When they thought it couldn’t get worse, Nicolas told them to sit down before his well-built teenage grandsons fitted a slatted wooden frame to a shelf above their heads.


  A net filled with the morning catch was then emptied out over the slats and the deck hatch closed above them. As a result they were in darkness, stifling hot, with the boat pitching and the layer of dead fish dripping its juices into their hair and down their collars.

  ‘Germans often search us when we return to port,’ Nicolas explained, ‘but they never delve into anything fishy so you’ll be OK.’

  *

  The journey back to port took until six. The fish were taken out of Istanbul’s hold, but the human cargo had to wait until dark, which at this time of year was after ten o’clock. They peered up anxiously as boots creaked across the deck, and were relieved to see Nicolas’ seventeen-year-old grandson Michel rather than a German guard.

  ‘There’s a patrol, but they’re up by the harbour mouth,’ Michel explained. ‘Take what you can carry, but nothing that slows you down. We can get the rest of your luggage tomorrow.’

  They swiftly passed suitcases and equipment out on to deck. Michel’s younger cousin Olivier stood on the shore keeping lookout. As they made dry land, Olivier pointed them up the alleyway towards Alois’s workshop. Their joints were stiff after being caged for so long and a queue formed for the toilet in the courtyard, with two boys peeing at a time.

  ‘Keep the noise down and don’t flush until we’re all done,’ Henderson warned.

  Back inside Nicolas had a bowl of hot water and they took turns washing hands and faces before tucking into bread, cheese and cold chicken. They all stank of fish, but after six hours they hardly knew it.

  ‘PT, Joel and Troy will stay at my brother’s house,’ Nicolas said. ‘They can rest tomorrow. On Monday we’ll sort out jobs for the older two. I know a man who may be able to get one of them a job in the U-boat maintenance yard instead of the construction site. Troy will work on Istanbul with me.

  ‘Mr Henderson, it’s late, so you and Marc can sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, Madame Mercier will send a car and you will meet her for lunch in Lorient. She has lodgings arranged for you and jobs at Mamba Noir – that’s her swankiest club.’

  ‘Time to smooth-talk some Krauts,’ Marc said.

  ‘Which leaves us three,’ Boo said, pointing at Paul and Rosie.

  ‘Yes, the communications team,’ Alois said. ‘If you aren’t too tired, I suggest you cycle out tonight. Maxine’s transmitter is all set up at the cottage. She suggested that you spend a couple of nights there before finding a new location known only to yourselves.’

  ‘Will we get there before the curfew?’ Paul asked.

  ‘It’s a half-hour ride and curfew is eleven,’ Alois said. ‘But even if you don’t make it, you’ll be a few kilometres away from anything the Germans are interested in.’

  It took a while to sort out the luggage and adjust the saddle on one of the bikes to fit Paul. Then it was time to split up. Joel, PT and Troy were already being led out by Olivier when Henderson called them back.

  ‘Keep safe,’ he told everyone. ‘The next few days will be tricky. People are wary of new arrivals, so keep a low profile. Keep contact to a minimum. I’ll work out a discreet communication system and get you word on how to use it. Don’t take risks. Don’t rush to make friends with everyone or go asking stupid questions until you know who you’re dealing with. Remember your training. Good hunting and good luck.’

  Part Three

  Four and a half weeks later

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sunday 22 June 1941

  German army uniform wasn’t ideal for police work. Edith squatted in a doorway on the wharf at Kerneval, and heard the patrol’s hobnail boots on the cobbles half a minute before they saw her.

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ she said cheekily, as they came around the corner.

  The Germans seemed to be getting older. These two could have been twins with their bald heads and fat bellies.

  ‘Got any sweets, boss? Chocolate, bon-bons?’

  But neither German spoke French. Edith asked for chocolate in German, but this only irritated them, and one shook his fist at her. When the boots faded out, Edith ran up the side street to Alois’s workshop. She was surprised to see only Troy there.

  ‘Patrol’s just gone by. Where are the others?’

  ‘Joel and PT aren’t back from work,’ Troy explained. ‘Nicolas is flat out on the floor with his back but we can still do it if you keep lookout.’

  ‘I guess,’ Edith said. ‘We really ought to have two though.’

  ‘We’ll have to risk it,’ Troy said, as he threw Edith a ragged grey scarf. ‘Don’t let the agent see your face and only speak if you really have to.’

  They headed down a back street, parallel with the dockside. It was past ten, but still too light for comfort.

  Troy took a padlock off the side door of a small warehouse, as Edith walked on and checked for signs of life amidst the boats.

  Troy moved quickly on Edith’s thumbs-up. The tide was out, so he had to go down slippery rungs fitted to the dockside before stepping on to Istanbul’s deck. He cut into the bridge to pick up a sack filled with clothes, then covered his face with a balaclava before opening the doors of the fish hold as quietly as rotten wood and rusty hinges allowed.

  ‘I’m suffocating down here,’ the new arrival protested. ‘I’ve been sick twice. I’ve had nothing to drink.’

  When Troy had arrived with Henderson’s team four weeks earlier they’d had a nightmare getting the stench of fish out of their clothes. So the new system was for agents in the hold to strip down to their underwear before jumping in.

  ‘Where’s my equipment?’ the agent asked. ‘I had three large cases, one with over sixty thousand francs.’

  Troy cut him dead. ‘Stop yapping. I don’t care what you’re up to, who you are, or where you’re going.’

  Running around in your pants covered in fish juice is as suspicious as it gets, so Troy went back up the ladder, and waited for a nod from Edith before leading the new arrival across the dockside. They shepherded the agent up the side street and into the warehouse.

  It was dark, except for a few cracks of light coming through gaps in the tin roof. Troy threw down the bag of clothes and felt inside to find a bar of soap, as Edith switched on a hose and passed it to the agent. He gulped several mouthfuls before using the cold water to scrub off the stench of fish.

  ‘When does the rest of the welcoming committee get here?’ the agent asked.

  ‘Nobody gets here,’ Troy said. ‘Clean and scrub, quickly. When you’re dressed, go outside and turn right. Pass two streets, turn left, use the key inside this envelope to open the door of number twenty-five. There’s food in the house, along with all your equipment. Tomorrow morning you need to leave the house by six. It’s too risky going through the station at Lorient, so walk to Queven and catch the bus. They brought in a new dark-green ration card on Thursday. There’s one for you in the house. Make sure you destroy your white one because the Krauts will arrest you if you’re found with two. Is that all clear?’

  ‘How old are you?’ the man asked.

  Troy was exasperated. ‘Did you pay any attention at all during your training? The less we know about each other, the less the Gestapo can find out if they get their hooks into us. Now hurry the hell up.’

  Edith threw the agent a grubby towel, as Troy laid out his clothes.

  ‘Throw that soap away when you’re done,’ Troy said. ‘Hitler himself couldn’t get a bar of soap around here.’

  ‘What about these?’ the agent asked, as he held up his fishy underpants.

  ‘Leave it here,’ Troy said. ‘We’ll take it out with the boat tomorrow and dump it in the sea.’

  ‘I was told there might be a fall-back,’ the agent said, as he pulled on his vest. ‘If the bus doesn’t turn up, for instance.’

  ‘If things are desperate, come back here to the harbour.’

  ‘But I haven’t got any names. The men on the trawler hid their faces when we boarded. The crew on Madeline II didn’t even let me take a proper look at the fishing boat as
we approached.’

  ‘We’ll spot you, provided the Krauts don’t spot you first,’ Troy said.

  Once the agent was dressed, Troy passed over the envelope containing his house key and bus ticket. Edith checked that the street was clear before pointing him in the right direction.

  ‘Good luck,’ Troy said.

  ‘Thank you,’ the agent replied, though you could tell from his tone that he was put out at the way he’d been treated.

  Troy peeled the balaclava off his head, as Edith turned the hose back on to wash the soap suds down the drain hole.

  ‘What was he expecting?’ Edith asked. ‘Brass bands and banners in the street?’

  ‘Probably scared out of his wits,’ Troy said. ‘He wanted his hand held, but unfortunately that’s not how it works.’

  *

  The Anchor was a small café-bar. It served cheap meals to Organisation Todt workmen with their special high-calorie ration cards. The men preferred stews and soups that could be eaten fast so they could get on with the important business of drinking, fighting and gambling.

  PT sat at a small table, holding court with twenty men packed around. His overalls were stiffened with dried-out concrete and he stank of twelve-hour shifts. For the first couple of weeks, the work had nearly killed him. He’d lost ten pounds, gained a dark tan and calluses on his hands. His body was young enough to adapt quickly, but the monotony of manual work crushed his spirit.

  ‘I’m not taking your money,’ PT told an elderly fellow, as he stacked up three cups and clutched them to his chest. ‘You’re going to lose, I’m too good for you.’

  The crowd roared with laughter. His grizzled opponent pounded on the table, red face, red beard, chewing on a cigar stub.

  ‘I know your game inside out, boy!’ red beard shouted. ‘I’ve seen this con played all over the world and you ain’t even very good at it.’

  ‘He’s doing you a favour,’ a monster called Gilles shouted. ‘Piss off out, old-timer.’