Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day: Book 2 Read online

  Henderson looked deeply disappointed. ‘Supposing a man to have a valve, is there anywhere he might get one?’had

  The assistant laughed. ‘Short of robbing the Germans in their barracks, I doubt it.’

  Henderson’s eyes lit up. ‘Would you know where that is?’

  ‘Sure, my dad and my sister are helping them repair equipment up there now. They took over the university building across the river, but you’re wasting your time. They won’t give you anything.’

  ‘Guess you’re right,’ Henderson said sadly. ‘I’ll let you get back to your cannibalisation.’

  The smell of the street hit Marc again as they went out into the alleyway.

  ‘Looks like we’re buggered on the radio front, boss,’ Marc said sadly.

  Henderson smiled determinedly. ‘Marc, if there were no valves in Bordeaux we’d be buggered. All we’re facing is a minor difficulty.’

  Marc laughed as they turned back on to the street and approached the truck. ‘You’re probably the most wanted man in France. You’re not seriously gonna try robbing a German barracks are you?’

  Marc stopped by the truck, thinking they’d be climbing back inside, but Henderson kept going towards the docks.

  ‘Come on,’ Henderson said. ‘I’ll bet you ten francs that we don’t head home empty-handed. All we need do is find a boat with a German name written on the bow.’

  *

  While Maxine, Rosie, Henderson and Marc travelled into Bordeaux in the truck, PT and Paul stayed back at the pink house.

  Paul hated the noise and chaos of the toddler-packed consulate and Henderson had made it clear that he only wanted Marc for company during his quest for radio spares. The pair had formed a strong bond travelling south from Paris together and Henderson made no effort to hide the fact that Marc was his favourite.

  Maxine had put bread and jam out in the kitchen before she left and Paul scoffed three thickly buttered slices. Bread and jam was his favourite breakfast and he planned on having the same for lunch if Henderson wasn’t back by then.

  After eating he headed upstairs to get an artist’s pad and a small pack of coloured pencils Maxine had found for him. He’d owned a more elaborate selection of inks and pastels, but they’d gone down along with all his other possessions on the Cardiff Bay.

  The three boys shared the second largest bedroom in the house, and PT had taken advantage of Marc’s early departure to spread himself over the double bed. PT was usually moody until lunchtime, so Paul crept around making sure he didn’t wake up.

  When Paul and Rosie’s parents were alive they’d worried about Paul being so shy. His mother made Paul go to birthday parties when he didn’t want to, while his father had enrolled him in manly activities such as the Boy Scouts and a boxing club.

  Despite Rosie taunting him for being a wimp and a couple of thrashings from his father, Paul resisted with violent tantrums until both schemes were dropped and his parents came to accept him as a quiet boy who enjoyed his own company.

  Having his right arm in a sling made it awkward to carry his pad, pencil tin, a slice of bread and jam wrapped in greaseproof paper and a hip flask filled with water. It was impossible for Paul to feel truly happy – with his father having recently died and his future uncertain – but as he sat by a stream just beyond the grounds of the pink house with the sun on his back he felt warm and relaxed.

  A friend of Paul’s late father was a Professor of Art at a Paris university. The professor had recognised Paul’s talent and on several occasions allowed him to sit in on studio sessions with his students. Paul had been intimidated by the much older students, but loved being in a place where art was the centre of everything and having the chance to try out pastels and charcoal for the first time.

  Paul used one of the techniques he’d learned from the professor and timed himself making three-minute sketches. A duck on the lake, a vista of the pink house and surrounding hills and a frustrating attempt to capture the sheen of a ladybird’s shell. Conscious that he only had twelve precious sheets left on his pad, he kept all the drawings on a single side.

  After ninety minutes drawing, Paul took a break and lay back on the grass. He ate the slice of bread and drank water that had baked in the metal hip flask. He’d planned to stay out all morning, but his bowels had other ideas and he strode briskly back to the house and locked himself in the toilet.

  It was still only half-past eleven, so he decided to head back out. But as he passed down the hallway he noticed Marc’s pigskin bag leaning against the wall in the hallway.

  ‘Marc, you back already?’ he shouted.

  But Paul knew Marc hadn’t taken the bag with him: he’d seen it in the wardrobe upstairs when he fetched his pencils. Paul loosened the draw-string and saw that it contained one of Marc’s shirts and several days’ worth of food.

  Paul checked the rooms downstairs, looking for PT. When he didn’t find him he headed up, stepped into their bedroom and saw that PT had packed his things.

  PT was old enough to make his own way in the world, but Paul didn’t like the fact that he’d taken Marc’s bag and found it suspicious that he’d chosen to sneak out of the house when nobody else was around.

  As he stepped out of the bedroom, Paul heard a thump in Henderson’s room along the hallway. He crept up to the door and saw PT leaning over the bed, going through the equipment in Henderson’s suitcase.

  Paul watched as PT turned over the guns and equipment, then gasped as the older boy found the leather pouch in which Henderson kept gold ingots and currency.

  ‘Put it back,’ Paul blurted, charging in through the doorway and wondering if he’d done the right thing as his words echoed into the huge room.

  PT jolted with fright, but was relieved to see that it was only Paul, who presented no physical threat to him.

  ‘I thought you were out drawing,’ PT said peevishly.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘But why leave?’ Paul asked. ‘I thought you liked it here.’

  ‘All I want is a quiet life,’ PT said. ‘It was nice hanging out with you guys. I liked the idea of crossing the mountains to Spain. But now Henderson’s changing it all. I mean, radio transmissions? Contacting the British Government? That’s dangerous shit and I’m staying away from it.’

  ‘So leave then,’ Paul said indignantly. ‘But after all Henderson and Maxine have done for you these last three weeks, how can you steal his stuff? You’ve got loads of money. Rosie saw it.’

  ‘I’m not taking everything,’ PT said as he pulled three gold ingots out of the pouch. ‘But in troubled times like these a lot of people prefer gold to dollars or francs.’

  ‘Come on, put it back,’ Paul begged.

  PT pocketed the three ingots. ‘Paul, I’ve got my own problems and I can’t afford to get into trouble. Tell Henderson that I’m grateful for everything he’s done and sorry I had to take some of his gold.’

  Paul didn’t like PT much, but Rosie would be upset if she came home and found him gone. ‘Why don’t you stay until tonight and talk about it?’ he said. ‘Put the gold back and I’ll not mention it, I swear.’

  ‘I’m leaving as soon as I’m packed.’

  There was a pause as the two boys eyed each other warily.

  ‘So I guess it’s goodbye,’ Paul said uncertainly, reaching out to shake hands.

  PT smiled as they shook. ‘I guess it is.’

  Paul mustered a smile but felt uneasy as he backed out of the room. His brain worked hard as he headed downstairs. On the one hand, Paul had no great liking for PT and wouldn’t miss him, but sneaking off and stealing from Marc and Henderson left a nasty taste.

  Paul considered what he knew about PT. PT claimed that he’d run away from a father who beat him, worked as a cabin boy and made several thousand dollars beating crewmates at poker. But PT always got shifty when you asked about his background. No one really believed his story and Henderson had openly speculated tha
t the money was stolen.

  So, PT was a liar and a thief, and after three weeks living in the pink house he’d heard enough of Rosie and Marc’s stories to work out that Henderson was a British agent. Paul guessed PT could walk to Bordeaux in about an hour, or maybe get there even quicker if he hitched a lift. The important question was, what would he do when he got there?

  If PT approached the Gestapo and offered them information in return for a reward, there could be a German reception committee waiting for Henderson and the others when they got home. Although Paul doubted that PT would go to the Nazis with information, he wasn’t trustworthy and the consequences would be terminal if he did.

  Henderson and Maxine would be tortured and executed as British spies and the fate of Marc, Rosie and himself was unlikely to be pleasant. Marc had already had one of his front teeth ripped out by a Gestapo officer.

  Paul took the decision to act, but what could he do? PT was four years older and with one arm in a sling Paul had no chance in a direct physical confrontation. He’d have to take PT by surprise, and he only had minutes to come up with a plan.

  * * *

  4Boche – offensive slang term used to describe Germans.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Bordeaux Institute of Science and Medicine made an ideal base for the town’s German garrison. Student accommodation housed soldiers, there was a dining hall, sports facilities and a university hospital for the wounded. Tanks and artillery pieces suffering after two months’ campaigning were being refurbished in the institute’s main square, while handheld weapons and communication equipment got serviced in the laboratories.

  Across the street from the main gate a café did a good trade serving off-duty Germans. Marc and Henderson jostled through cigarette smoke and green uniforms and made their way towards the most important looking men in the room.

  Henderson’s language skills were considerable. He not only spoke all five major European languages but could conjure a variety of local accents. Marc stood alongside as Henderson became Captain von Hoven, from the merchant ship SV Hamburg. His bearing grew stiffer and his accent belonged to a German aristocrat.

  After flamboyantly offering to buy the three senior officers brandies, he raised a toast to German conquest, congratulated them on their role in the collapse of France and expressed regret that an injury sustained while falling over on the deck of a ship had kept him out of the fighting.

  ‘France is a backwards nation,’ Henderson said, loud enough for half the bar to hear. ‘All its glories are in the past. Today it’s a nation of peasants, foul toilets and broken telephones. The French might not know it yet, but this invasion is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to them.’

  The officers nodded in broad agreement.

  ‘We’ve been here two weeks and not had a squeak out of the locals,’ one officer noted. ‘My men are under strict orders to behave decently towards them and the French are reciprocating.’

  ‘All the French care about is food in their bellies,’ another officer slurred. ‘They haven’t had a leader worth the name since Napoleon. That’s why we broke their backs so easily.’

  The barman didn’t understand German, but his face gave the impression that he’d spit in their glasses given half a chance. Henderson poured three rounds of extra-old brandy down the officers’ necks and refused to let them return his favour.

  ‘I can afford it,’ he insisted. ‘And it’s the least I can do for men who fought for Germany while I dragged a shipload of Brazilian timber across the Atlantic.’

  Marc was briefly introduced to the German officers as a cabin boy aboard Captain von Hoven’s ship. While Henderson socialised, Marc sat at a wobbly table, choking on cigarette smoke and taking his time over a baguette and a coffee. He could follow most of Henderson’s conversation, thanks to a gift for languages and a kindly teacher who’d given after-school German tuition to his cleverest pupils.

  After half an hour, during which one officer left but two others got drawn to the free brandy, Henderson made a discreet thumb signal.

  Marc came over and spoke meekly in broken German. ‘Captain von Hoven, sir, I don’t mean to be impertinent, but we need to find the spare parts if—’

  ‘What?’ Henderson roared, grabbing Marc by the scruff of his shirt. ‘You know I hate it when you mumble. Speak like a man.’

  Marc started over, speaking firmly. ‘We need to replace the broken valves, Captain. Perhaps if you’re going to stay here drinking afternoon you could give me some money and I’ll go and look for them.’all

  The four Germans laughed at Marc’s sarcastic tone as Henderson crouched down and yelled right in the boy’s face. ‘Do you fancy a week in the ship’s brig, my boy?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Marc said meekly.

  Henderson grinned at the German officers. ‘My ship has a brig,’ he explained. ‘It’s right down in the hull, directly beside the main boiler. It’s all bare metal and it gets so hot that they emerge covered in blisters.’marvellous

  ‘Would you like that, boy?’ a drunken colonel jeered, as Marc acted suitably scared.

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain.’

  The Germans were amused by Marc’s squirming, but Henderson looked at his watch and gave him a friendly shoulder squeeze.

  ‘He’s a good lad, really,’ Henderson said. ‘Nags worse than my wife, but he puts in a good day’s work. Quite remarkable, when you consider that he’s French. And we really do need replacement valves for our shipboard radio. We’ve walked all over this godforsaken town and drawn a complete blank.’

  The youngest of the four officers gave a friendly smile. ‘What are you looking for exactly?’

  Henderson pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his jacket. The German snatched it, read it and then tilted it towards the colonel.

  ‘You think we can help a fellow German?’

  The colonel passed the note to Marc. ‘We’ll keep an eye on your captain for you,’ he smiled. ‘Take this across the street. When you get to the gate, tell them Colonel Graff said you can have whatever you require.’

  Marc nodded politely, but he was awed by Henderson’s powers of manipulation. As he headed out of the café the barman poured out more brandy and Henderson raised another toast.

  ‘Long live the Fatherland,’ he shouted.

  *

  Paul exited the front of the pink house and sat near the entrance steps, grinding palms against his cheeks as he tried to think straight. Apart from two unwilling excursions into a boxing ring and occasionally getting thumped by Rosie, his main experience of fighting came from movies.

  In a flash of genius he remembered seeing a film about American gangsters where a prison guard had been floored using a sock stuffed with billiard balls. There were no billiard balls around, but Paul reckoned his long grey socks and the loose pebbles fringing overgrown flowerbeds would do the trick.

  It wasn’t easy with one hand. His shoe and sock came off without difficulty but he had a rougher time holding the sock open with his splinted arm and dropping in rough stones that snagged on the grey wool. When the sock felt sufficiently heavy Paul gave it a couple of test swings.

  He decided that the best technique was to wrap most of the sock around his wrist and flick it like a cosh, but doubts surfaced as he crouched beside a tree trunk a few paces from the house, awaiting PT’s exit. Ensuring that PT didn’t leave seemed good in theory, but the reality of his slight frame and a broken arm made Paul wonder if surprise would be enough of an advantage.

  PT looked solemn as he left the pink house, a small brown suitcase in one hand and Marc’s pigskin slung over his back. He turned and took a few backwards steps, looking at the house and clearly torn about leaving.

  Paul considered dumping the sock and making another attempt at persuading PT to stay. But he had no new arguments and his idea was fuelled more by cowardice than any realistic belief in success.

  As PT crunched down the gravel driveway, Paul felt himself sweating in places he barely k
new he had. He found courage from somewhere, however, and when the moment came the sock belted the side of PT’s skull with a horrid thunk.

  ‘Shit!’ PT yelled, as the blow and the weight of his luggage pulled him over.

  Stone chips spewed up as PT landed heavily in the gravel. A streak of blood broke through his hair as he rolled on to his back, but to Paul’s alarm the blow hadn’t knocked him out.

  ‘What are you doing, you little idiot?’

  ‘You know too much,’ Paul shouted back. ‘Stay down or I’ll whack you again.’

  But PT reared up defiantly. Paul feared a beating if PT got back to his feet, but the sharp-edged stones had shredded his sock and as Paul swung a second time they burst out through a hole in the toe. A few hit PT but the big ones all missed.

  ‘Stop it,’ PT shouted. ‘Do you want me to beat you up?’

  PT tried standing up again, but his head swirled and a stone chip was jammed in one eye. Paul reckoned a handful of dirt in PT’s other eye would even the odds, so he scooped up loose gravel and threw it hard.

  As PT tried to shield his eyes, Paul kicked him in the gut. The shoe connected, but PT grabbed the flying ankle and twisted Paul’s foot around. Paul crashed down into the gravel, groaning with pain as he landed on his bad arm.

  Blood dripped off PT’s chin as he loomed over the younger boy. Paul winced, expecting a hammering as PT’s knee pinned his thighs to the ground, but as PT’s fist bunched, Paul’s flailing hand found a large stone and he swung upwards.

  The face of the rock hit PT in the temple. Paul wriggled as PT’s fist glanced off his head, but a second later PT’s shoulders drooped and he listed sideways. The churning gravel had thrown up clouds of dust. Paul coughed violently and his stomach burned with pain as he sat up – but he’d finally knocked PT out.

  *

  There was a warm atmosphere as the quartet rode the van back towards the pink house under late afternoon sun. Rosie was exhausted after her day at the refuge, but it was a good kind of tired: the kind you get when you feel you’ve accomplished something.