Henderson's Boys: Scorched Earth

by Robert Muchamore

  The kid stuttered. ‘I …’

  Henderson punched the kid’s kidney so hard that he sobbed with pain.

  ‘We need a spot to hide for a few hours,’ Henderson explained menacingly. ‘Pick a good place, because you’re gonna hide there with us. If anyone finds us, the first thing I’ll do is shoot you in the head. Clear?’

  The kid nodded. He paused to snivel, but spoke rapidly when Henderson threatened another punch. ‘There’s a house down the road. The woman hid two Jewish kids there until the Milice took them all away.’

  ‘Nobody else has moved in?’

  ‘It just happened, like ten days ago.’

  ‘How long to walk?’

  It was only a couple of minutes. The small detached house still had a big Milice boot-print on the front door. The lock was busted and people had stripped the place, ripping out wood for cooking fires and mindlessly smashing what the Milice hadn’t bothered to steal.

  ‘Joel, Sam,’ Henderson said, boots crunching broken glass as he threw the trembling railway worker to the floor. ‘Check out every room, then I need your eyes front and back until we’re sure nobody saw us come in.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Paul asked, as Sam thumped up the stairs.

  ‘Well, I won’t be exchanging Christmas cards with the local communists,’ Henderson explained. ‘So far I’ve killed three of them, held their leader hostage and ripped off their armoury. Hopefully they’ll stop searching if we hole up here for a few hours.’

  ‘Wouldn’t we be better off trying to get out of town?’ Paul asked.

  Henderson shook his head. ‘The communists are based at the railway station and I’ve got no civilian ID to board a train. Major roads in and out of town are for Germans only until the 108th blows through, and in case you’ve forgotten, we’re still supposed to be stopping the 108th.’

  ‘So what’s our plan?’

  ‘Haven’t got one, yet,’ Henderson said. ‘But our snivelling friend down there on the floor is about to start telling us everything he knows about Rouen and his resistance friends.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Team A was shaken and tired as they carried their bikes through fields of barley, being careful not to leave obvious tracks behind them. Half a kilometre from the truck, Luc stripped his mechanic’s overall, while PT and Marc switched 108th uniforms for civilian gear.

  ‘We’ve got two days of rations,’ PT said. ‘We blew almost all of our explosives back at the bridge. So, I say we ride a few kilometres to put space between ourselves and the Germans, then find a decent place to hide. Hopefully we can grab some sleep and move on once the rest of the 108th has passed through.’

  Marc nodded in agreement. ‘Paris is about ninety kilometres. We can stick to small roads and tracks and ride through the night. Even if we don’t push hard, we should make Paris by late tomorrow morning.’

  They were about to resume walking when a swarm of Tempests dropped out of the clouds. It was unlikely the rocket-firing fighter planes would come after a group dressed like regular teenagers, but it seemed best not to take chances with 500-kph rocket-firing planes so they took cover at the edge of a field and watched the action through branches.

  The German anti-aircraft gun protecting the second tank convoy started the battle, but a single British pilot swooped in on a curving course and used two of his eight rockets to destroy the gun. Once this cannon was out of action the Germans’ only defence was to drive under trees, or abandon their vehicles. Over the following three minutes the Tempests took turns, making sweeping runs and firing rockets.

  Team A had no view of the bridge, but they could see the planes dive and hear the distinct whoosh of rockets firing. Based on the explosions they heard, most of the first dozen rockets hit something, but the pickings got slimmer on their second and third attack runs.

  ‘I counted eleven big explosions,’ PT said, as the RAF’s finest shrank into summer haze.

  ‘They’ll want an accurate report when we get to Paris,’ Marc said. ‘If we head for higher ground, we can send Daniel up a tree.’

  They headed north-east across gently sloping fields and eventually found a footpath they could ride bikes on. It was tough to ride fast because the day was getting warm, and even though they were a couple of kilometres from the bridge there was a smell of burnt fuel that made it hard to breathe.

  Daniel was always eager to prove his worth, so he was disappointed when a vista opened up, showing the bridge and its surroundings without any need for his climbing skills. The bridge itself had now completely given way. The scene on the near side was more or less how they’d left it, with one Tiger, the truck and the command tank out of action.

  The Tempests had done all their work across the water. By the time the aerial attack started, the Germans had planned their diversion and turned their vehicles around. What remained of the first group and the whole of the second had been caught on open road that offered little cover.

  Much of the view was obscured by smoke, but Luc raised his binoculars and reported what he saw between gusts of smoke.

  ‘They’ve lined about ten dead up by the road,’ Luc said. ‘There’s at least two dozen in the field getting medical treatment.’

  ‘What about vehicles?’ PT asked.

  ‘Looks like the planes hit four Tigers, two motorised artillery and wrecked at least ten trucks or cars. There might be another Tiger. It looks like a busted track sticking out of a ditch.’

  PT took the binoculars to confirm Luc’s estimates.

  ‘So four or five Tigers,’ PT said happily, ‘added to the one on our side and the one that tipped over when we blew the bridge. If they started with fifty-four, they’re now down to forty-seven or forty-eight.’

  ‘Almost fifteen per cent of the 108th’s heavy tanks,’ Marc noted. ‘And Henderson’s team might do more damage in Rouen.’

  ‘Not bad for a few kids setting off on bikes with no plan and a couple of bags of explosive,’ Michel said proudly.

  But the mood was less triumphant once they’d all looked through the binoculars. Edith passed them on after the briefest glance and retched on an empty stomach.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Marc asked.

  Edith smudged a tear. ‘There’s a guy down there with half his face hanging off,’ she said. ‘He’s no older than PT.’

  ‘Screw him,’ Luc said forcefully. ‘I hope he’s in as much pain as my brother was when the Nazis killed him. If I thought I could pull it off, I’d sneak down there and lob a couple of grenades at the wounded.’

  Edith sobbed as Marc spoke furiously. ‘Luc, for once in your life can’t you shut up? We’ve all lost people we love. Your brother isn’t an excuse for you to act like an arsehole.’

  Marc and Luc had a long history of kicking off, so PT forced himself between them. Before he could say anything, a boom echoed from the direction they’d just walked.

  ‘Bet that’s our truck,’ Daniel said. ‘Someone found Luc’s booby trap.’

  PT looked alarmed. ‘That means the 108th sent men after us before the Tempests blew the bridge, or the local garrison has been called out from Gournay-en-Bray. Whichever it is, I want as much distance between us and them as possible. So let’s stop the bickering and start pedalling.’

  *

  The fifteen-year-old railway worker was called Xavier. He was no hard-core communist, just a kid who wanted to fight with his local resistance group. He looked desperate as Henderson grabbed him by the throat and thrust him backwards into a chair.

  ‘We’re gonna be here for at least a couple of hours,’ Henderson said. ‘If you answer my questions like a good boy it might not be so bad. If you mess me around it’ll get painful, and you’ll still answer my questions in the end.’

  To make his point, Henderson ripped a jagged-toothed hunting knife from a sheath clipped to his belt.

  ‘I don’t like all this,’ Xavier blurted, as his hands trembled. ‘Why do resisters fight each other, instead of the Germans?’

>   ‘Good question,’ Henderson said, giving a smile. ‘You hungry? I’ve got some chocolate.’

  Xavier shuddered at the thought. ‘I’m more likely to puke right now.’

  ‘Forgive me if I lack sympathy,’ Henderson said. ‘But you and your pal tried to shoot my brains out. So what do you work at on the railway?’

  ‘Station porter,’ Xavier said.

  ‘You must see a lot of comings and goings, with Gaspard and his friends?’

  ‘A bit,’ Xavier agreed. ‘But they’re careful. I’m only ever told what I need to know, and usually that’s not much.’

  ‘Seen a lot of action?’

  ‘Not a lot. It’s all woodland south and west of the city,’ Xavier explained. ‘I’ve been out there helping when Americans parachute equipment.’

  ‘Gaspard organises the drops?’

  Xavier nodded. ‘He has a radio operator who gets instructions. Gaspard splits what we get with Maquis who live in the forest.’

  ‘And what does he use it for?’

  ‘A lot of the others come up with schemes,’ Xavier said. ‘But Gaspard never wants to do much.’

  ‘The Ghost Circuit notified Gaspard that the 108th was coming. Did they make any plans to slow them down?’

  Xavier shook his head. ‘They say it’s not necessary. They say it’s not about if the Allies win the war, but when.’

  ‘Who’s they?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘Gaspard and his cronies. They have an unofficial arrangement with the German command. The Germans turn a blind eye to the parachute drops. In return, Gaspard keeps the Maquis out of Rouen and nobody shoots at the Nazis.’

  ‘So does the resistance do anything?’

  ‘The railways are our turf,’ Xavier explained. ‘We sabotage trains and steal cargo, but targets in town are off-limits.’

  ‘So Gaspard’s positioning himself for a big communist uprising?’

  ‘He wants to be Mayor of Rouen, as soon as the Germans are gone.’

  Henderson laughed. ‘Gotta love politicians! Soldiers fight and die less than a hundred kilometres west, and that communist prick’s only worried about winning an election when it’s all over.’

  Paul came into the little kitchen as Henderson spoke. ‘Are you hearing this?’

  ‘Most of it,’ Paul said. ‘I checked with Sam and Joel. There’s no sign that anyone saw us come in here. I reckon we’re OK.’

  ‘Good,’ Henderson said, then he pointed at the backpack filled with explosives. ‘Any bright ideas on how to sabotage the 108th with that lot?’

  ‘You might destroy one or two tanks,’ Paul said, as he peered down into the bag. ‘But security will be on red alert after our grenade attack on the fuel depot. We got lucky last night, but we can’t rely on air raids enabling our getaway a second time.’

  ‘I’m no fan of suicide missions either,’ Henderson said thoughtfully. ‘But from what young Xavier tells me, the resistance in this town has got way too chummy with the Germans. So while the Nazis concentrate on protecting the 108th, I reckon we should try making life a bit less cosy for Gaspard.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Team B had slept a few hours in shifts and eaten out of tins, and it was getting dark as Henderson, Joel, Sam and Paul got ready to leave the house.

  ‘You’ve been a massive help,’ Henderson told Xavier, as he tied the fifteen-year-old to a dining chair. ‘I wouldn’t want you to rot in here. I’ve written a note to go through the door of that butcher’s shop up the street. I’ll put it through the letterbox and they’ll untie you in the morning.’

  Xavier nodded as Henderson prepared a gag, made from one of Xavier’s socks with a ball of candlewax stuffed inside it.

  ‘Joel did wash it out,’ Henderson said. ‘You’re a decent kid and I wish we’d met under better circumstances. You’ve got a few bruises coming out. Tell everyone that I tortured you for the information and you should be OK.’

  Xavier made a muffled groan as Henderson forced the gag in and secured it with a leather dog collar they’d found in a kitchen cupboard.

  Then, to Xavier’s surprise, Henderson grabbed his knife and slit the base of his earlobe. As Xavier moaned in pain, Henderson tipped the chair on to its side, making it look like Xavier had been kicked into the dirt and broken glass on the floor.

  ‘That’s for your own good,’ Henderson said. ‘I didn’t tell you because there’s no advantage having time to think about it. The cut will bleed across your face for ten or fifteen minutes and you’ll look a proper sight when they find you in the morning.’

  As a final thought, Henderson grabbed two ten-franc notes from his trouser pocket and tucked them into Xavier’s trousers.

  ‘Who’s ready?’ Henderson asked, as he grabbed his backpack.

  Paul, Joel and Sam were all dressed for a warm evening.

  ‘I’ve got no ID, so you three need to walk ahead and warn me of any checkpoints,’ Henderson said. ‘Are you all clear on your roles?’

  The boys nodded, then said awkward goodbyes to Xavier before heading out into darkness. The first part of their journey was a six-minute stroll to a laundry. Henderson banged angrily on a grille and spoke with a German accent.

  ‘You have my uniform?’

  Clothes were in short supply, so even bags of dirty laundry had to be guarded. A fat old Frenchman puffed a cigarette as he waddled to the door.

  ‘We’re closed,’ the guard said, pointing to a sign as he shone a torch in Henderson’s face. ‘We open at five tomorrow morning.’

  Henderson used information Xavier had given him. ‘You live at twenty-one Rue Beaumont, don’t you?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘And if I do?’ the guard asked.

  ‘I’ve heard rumours that your daughter passes communist newspapers,’ Henderson said. ‘Perhaps I could arrest her. Put her in a cell for a night of interrogation.’

  To seem extra sinister, Henderson made a gesture like he was cupping a pair of breasts. This threat made the guard stiffen up like he’d had iced water tipped down his back.

  ‘If you give me your ticket I’ll fetch it for you. But your uniform might be wet. There’s nothing I can do about that.’

  Henderson didn’t have a laundry ticket, but he made like he had one in his wallet. As the guard reached through the grille to take it, Henderson grabbed the man’s shirt and slammed him against the inside of the grille as Joel pointed a silenced pistol at his head.

  ‘Let us in or I’ll blow your head off,’ Joel hissed.

  The guard bent awkwardly, undoing a bolt with his free hand before turning a latch. Henderson barged in, knocking the guard backwards.

  ‘Two German uniforms,’ Henderson told the guard, as he pointed at Joel. ‘An officer’s uniform for me. Enlisted man for him.’

  ‘Who are you?’ the guard asked, as he backed up down a short hallway. ‘We don’t do things like this in this town. If the Nazis don’t catch you, the resistance will.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Henderson said. ‘Now where can we get uniforms?’

  They’d entered at the back, so they had to cross through an area full of wooden washtubs, mangles and steam irons. The floors were puddled and there were mounds of smelly washing ready for the next day’s work. They reached a collection area where suits and uniforms hung from rails behind a counter, while unironed laundry was stacked up in numbered cotton sacks.

  ‘Tie him up,’ Henderson ordered.

  As Paul and Sam made the guard lie on the floor and trussed him up, Henderson and Joel picked uniforms that fitted. Joel found a cloth soldier’s cap, but the laundry didn’t deal with the stiff braided caps worn by army officers and there were no belts or boots.

  Fortunately Henderson’s plan relied on getting close to the Germans, not on passing a detailed inspection. They left in a hurry through the laundry’s front door. The 11 p.m. curfew was getting close and people were hurrying home. Streets that had been closed for the 108th to pass through had been reopened and unlike earlier there
was a large security checkpoint in operation on a road leading to the station.

  The quartet avoided this route. Instead they turned on to a side street which was lined with parked cars – a highly unusual sight during a fuel shortage. One was an impressively long Mercedes staff car, but the rest were shabby French vehicles that had been seized from civilians for use by officers in the local army garrison. Some even had large metal containers on the roof, indicating that they’d been converted to run on coal gas.

  Henderson looked at Joel and spoke quietly. ‘Steal something that looks like it’ll shift and check there’s at least a quarter tank of petrol before you start the ignition.’

  ‘Will do,’ Joel said.

  Beyond the parked cars lay a small, pedestrianised square, set up exactly how Xavier had described it. There were no signs banning Frenchmen, but there were three cafés and a restaurant around the square and their street terraces were dominated by men in German uniform enjoying a warm summer’s evening.

  Xavier hadn’t been able to name the restaurant where the most senior Germans drank and dined, but the expensive look and the stripes and pips on customers’ uniforms made identifying it easy. There were even several black-uniformed SS officers drinking at an outside table.

  As Joel prepared to break into a car, Sam came to a halt by the giant Mercedes, Paul walked to the square’s entrance and Henderson strode on towards the restaurant with the senior officers sitting outside.

  A bell jangled over the doorway as Henderson entered a muggy restaurant. The hot weather meant that the tables outside were much busier, and none of the diners inside paid any attention to Henderson’s slightly out-of-kilter uniform as a waitress approached.

  ‘Is it too late to dine?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ the waitress said. ‘Our chef has to get home before the curfew.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Henderson said. ‘Then is there at least time for some drinks with my friends?’

  The waitress turned back to look at a smartly dressed Frenchman behind the bar, who nodded.

  ‘Any table you wish,’ the woman said.