The Escape

by Robert Muchamore

  At first glance they were a father and son; peasants seeking refuge with relatives in the south. Unlike peasants though, Henderson had a silenced pistol in a holster strapped to his chest and his suitcase contained pills, poisons, two grenades and fifteen ingots of twenty-four carat gold. Marc walked with his pigskin bag over his back and a case filled with a light load of clothing and a few tins of food.

  The pair walked through Paris’ southern suburbs at a brisk pace. It was tiring in the heat, but Marc didn’t mind because aching legs took his mind off the dull pain in his mouth. Every so often, they were passed by Germans in Kübelwagens or riding horseback, but the shock of the previous day had worn off and Paris was returning to an uneasy normality. It was a Saturday and children chased through the streets or stood in line at the cinema, while their mothers joined grimmer lines and waited for eggs, milk and bread.

  It took an hour to reach the city limits, but the main road south towards Tours was blocked by a German checkpoint. A French car had been parked across one lane and its tyres sliced to stop it from being easily moved away. The open lane was guarded by six German troops who waved military traffic through while turning away civilian vehicles or anyone on foot.

  ‘Don’t stare at the checkpoint,’ Henderson said sharply, as he tugged Marc across the road and towards a small corner café. ‘It looks suspicious.’

  Marc glanced around to make sure nobody was in earshot. ‘We could go cross country,’ he said quietly. ‘It looks pretty rural and surely they can’t guard every single field.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Henderson agreed. ‘But I want to get to Tours in a day or two at most. If we’re forced to walk it will take a lot longer than that.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We watch and learn,’ Henderson said quietly, as they stepped between the lines of empty tables outside the café.

  ‘I have no bread,’ the owner said apologetically, the instant they stepped inside. ‘Just coffee and a few scraps I made into soup.’

  Henderson was content with black coffee, while Marc asked for the soup and regretted it because it was made mostly with potato and bitter-tasting sausage that left a skin of grease on the surface. They lingered for an hour, saying very little but all the while keeping an eye on the traffic passing through the checkpoint.

  The owner kept stepping out, looking forlornly down the street for his delivery of bread. Eventually he made a phone call and Henderson overheard the head baker telling him that the Germans had commandeered the bakery and were sending all bread supplies to their advancing troops.

  Minutes later a German from the checkpoint purchased half a dozen coffees and carried them across to his comrades on a tray, returning fifteen minutes later with the empty cups and saucers.

  ‘How’s it going, Grenadier?’ Henderson asked. ‘That sun’s a killer.’

  The soldier – who, like most German infantrymen, seemed barely out of his teens – smiled. ‘You speak good German,’ he said.

  ‘I’m an Alsatian,’ Henderson lied, by way of explanation. ‘I grew up speaking German, though I moved away from the border many years ago.’

  ‘Ahh,’ the soldier said uninterestedly.

  ‘We get no news,’ Henderson said. ‘Do you know what’s happening?’

  The soldier laughed. ‘Do you think I get any more news standing out there than you get sitting in here? All I know is that the tanks are advancing and it’s the usual struggle to get enough fuel and food up to our troops to keep things moving.’

  Henderson smiled. ‘I bet you’re happier back here than up at the front.’

  ‘Too bloody right,’ the German said, nodding. ‘I was one of the first over the border at Sedan. I’ve had my share of fighting, and hopefully it will be over soon.’

  ‘I hope so too.’ Henderson smiled at him.

  As the German wandered back to his post the proprietor came across to the table and announced that he was closing.

  ‘You and the Boche are the only custom I’ve had in the last two hours,’ he explained. ‘It’s not worth staying open with no bread, no eggs and sausage that’s hardly worth the name.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Henderson said, as he grabbed his hat off the table and stood up. ‘This bakery – you wouldn’t happen to know where it is?’

  ‘Of course,’ the proprietor said, as he began lifting chairs on to the tabletops. ‘It’s less than a kilometre – you must have passed by as you came towards us. But there’s no way you’ll get any bread. The master baker told me that the Germans are taking every loaf and ordering him to run the ovens flat out. They’re threatening to shoot anyone who stops working or asks to go home. He says he’ll be out of flour by tomorrow.’

  Henderson left a decent tip and Marc followed him outside into the sun as three trucks crammed with troops roared past on the cobbles. They were waved through the checkpoint without slowing down.

  ‘What can we do?’ Marc asked, as the pair began walking towards the bakery.

  Henderson wanted Marc to start thinking for himself and tested the boy as they walked. ‘What did you notice about the checkpoint?’

  Marc shrugged. ‘They weren’t stopping anyone unless they were French.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Henderson nodded. ‘And any vehicle that either looked German or had a German at the wheel got waved through. Plus, most of the trucks only had one man in the cab.’

  Marc smiled. ‘Which makes them easy to pinch if the driver steps out.’

  Henderson nodded again. ‘The soldier mentioned a basic flaw in the German tactics. It caused them problems in the east last year and with luck it might make our journey across the front line a lot easier than it would have been to cross the trenches during the Great War.’

  Marc was confused. ‘What flaw?’

  ‘The Germans fight by advancing rapidly with massed armour. Tanks, motorised artillery, etcetera. The trouble with this is that their armour charges ahead, but if it goes too far too fast it outruns the supply lines and ends up stranded without food to feed the men and diesel and ammunition to feed the tanks.’

  ‘Is that why the advance stopped north of Paris for three weeks?’ Marc asked.

  ‘That’s right. So all we have to do is stop a bread truck or a fuel tanker, bash the driver over the head, put on his tunic and we should be able to get right up the German lines. They’re advancing too quickly to build fortifications, so if we find a country lane or a flat field, we might be able to keep right on going into French territory.’

  ‘But won’t the French troops shoot when they see us come towards them?’

  Henderson nodded. ‘Without a doubt,’ he said seriously.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The bakery was one of the most modern in Paris, with a steel-framed building set behind brick walls and three aluminium chimneys venting the smell of warm bread across the neighbourhood. Germans guarded the front gate and an elderly man in a white overall was laid out in the shaded portion of the courtyard, apparently suffering from heat stroke.

  At the rear, three trucks stood in line – one German and two requisitioned from local businesses. A procession of soldiers and exhausted-looking bakery workers ran between the rear entrance and the back of the leading truck. Each person carried a basket of hot loaves, which were unceremoniously thrown into the back of the leading truck until it was piled high. All the while an overweight German logistics officer bawled at everyone to work faster.

  When the truck was filled, the canvas awning over the back was tied in place to stop the bread toppling out. A German infantryman with his shirt drenched in sweat climbed up to the cab and slammed the door. He wanted to mop the beads of sweat running off his bald head, but as he reached towards the tunic thrown across the passenger seat he noticed the boy crammed into the footwell with a pistol aiming right at him.

  ‘Act normal,’ Marc whispered, in his broken German. ‘Start the engine and drive or I’ll shoot you in the head.’

  The perspiring German gave a wary nod as
he reached around and slotted a key into the steering column.

  ‘Good man,’ Marc said, as the engine growled to life and the cab filled with the pungent aroma of the German’s sweat.

  Either nervous, incompetent, or both, the German made a hash of lifting the clutch, making the truck shudder as it moved away. This was followed by grinding cogs as he struggled to find second gear.

  ‘I need you to collect a friend,’ Marc said, squeezing out of the cramped footwell as they turned left, away from the bakery and out of sight of the other Germans. ‘Take the second street on the right and stop by the bridge over the railway line.’

  Marc kept the pistol pointing at the German all the while as he pulled himself up on to the passenger seat.

  ‘Turn here,’ Marc said, but the German knew and was already slowing down.

  Marc looked along the pavement and was pleased to see no signs of life. It was Saturday and the government offices on either side of the street were closed. As the truck rode over the hump of the bridge, Henderson popped out of a hiding place on the embankment that led down to a pair of railway lines. He jogged into the road behind the truck and pulled the driver’s door open as it came to a halt.

  ‘Out,’ Henderson shouted, waving a German pistol in the soldier’s face. ‘Don’t mess us about. You’ll be OK if you stay calm.’

  The German stepped from the cab with his hands raised and Henderson told him to walk towards the railing. As soon as he stepped on to the pavement, Henderson put the muzzle of his silenced pistol against the back of the German’s head. The shot knocked the soldier forwards and he slumped dead over the railing, exactly as Henderson had hoped.

  After pocketing his pistol, Henderson grabbed the German around his thighs and lifted him up. The dead body flopped over the side of the bridge and crashed through a canopy of leaves before landing on the embankment beside the railway with a snap of twigs and the rustle of dead leaves.

  ‘Pass his tunic out,’ Henderson said hurriedly, as he rushed back to the truck. ‘I’ll need that and his helmet to get through the checkpoint.’

  *

  The fuel gauge showed full and the road leading south towards the German lines was clear. The only traffic they encountered beyond the checkpoint was a column of factory-fresh tanks, heading for their first taste of battle. The bare-chested crews leaned out of the hatches to escape the stifling heat.

  Twenty kilometres south of Paris the truck was waved through another checkpoint – with Marc sliding into the footwell – and they finally saw the first proper sign of German presence, in the form of a tented command post with a field hospital behind it. Another couple of kilometres brought them to a line of smouldering farm buildings. Destruction seemed pointless when everyone knew that the Germans were going to win and Marc wondered if the buildings might have caught fire by accident.

  Things became more hectic when they reached the edge of German territory. A single-file column of armour almost a kilometre long stood along the road awaiting orders to advance. The tanks were wide and Henderson had to pass slowly, often with a set of wheels running in the grass verge.

  The fields beside the tanks were dotted with exhausted French troops. The Germans had captured more than a million French soldiers during the early part of the invasion. But guarding prisoners was a drain on German manpower and feeding them practically impossible. So while French prisoners in the north had spent the past month penned into fields, dying from disease and starvation, soldiers captured now were simply stripped of weapons and equipment and ordered to march south.

  The ones who remained were injured or sick and had no option but to suffer in the sun without even water, while their enemy calmly waited to be resupplied before pushing onwards. Marc had seen plenty of suffering during his journey from Beauvais to Paris, but the sight of young soldiers dying of thirst and hunger seemed especially chilling. Beyond this human wreckage, another field was piled high with orderly stacks. Tin helmets, rifles, ammunition, grenades.

  Henderson managed a smile. ‘When I was a boy, I had a collection of lead soldiers,’ he said. ‘Before I went to bed, my mother would make me tidy them all up into piles, just like that – only smaller.’

  The thoughts of childhood made Marc realise that he knew nothing about Charles Henderson. ‘Do you have a wife or children, sir?’

  ‘I had a daughter, but she died of tuberculosis when she was a baby. My wife took the loss very badly.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marc said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and wishing he hadn’t asked.

  ‘She broke down completely at one point,’ Henderson admitted. ‘We’d like another child, but my spending so much time abroad makes that difficult.’

  After passing through a village crowded with German troops, they came to a fork and Henderson picked a dirt road that obviously wasn’t the main highway. The lane twisted and trees overhung from either side, creating a dappled shade.

  ‘I think we’re past the last of the Germans,’ Henderson said, driving as quickly as he dared.

  Marc dived off his seat when they came to a clearing from which an artillery piece aimed straight at them. Henderson realised that they were French.

  ‘Marc, get up and hold the wheel,’ he shouted frantically, remembering that he was still wearing a German tunic and pulling it down his arms.

  As Marc steered, the French soldiers began to shout and Henderson slowed down. It was fortunate that they’d taken one of the commandeered French trucks, because a German army vehicle would have caused outright hostility rather than suspicion.

  ‘Lean out of the window so they can see you’re a child,’ Henderson ordered.

  Marc did as he was told and shouted, ‘We’re not Boche! We’re not Boche!’ over and over.

  Three French soldiers came out of hedges alongside, their rifles pointing at Marc and Henderson. Henderson slowed the truck to a halt, but kept the engine running and a foot on the accelerator in case things got rough.

  ‘What’s in the back?’ a bearded French sergeant demanded, as he pushed the butt of his rifle through the window beside Marc’s head.

  ‘Fresh bread sir,’ Marc said.

  At the rear, another soldier had ripped open the canvas awning and found himself under bombardment from hundreds of loaves, bouncing into the dirt before rolling off down the hill.

  ‘Where is this bread from?’ the sergeant aiming the gun demanded.

  ‘They commandeered my truck and forced us to drive from Paris,’ Henderson lied. ‘We killed the German who was sent with us and decided to try finding our way through the lines.’

  There seemed to be six troops in total and they were running into the road and tearing hungrily into the fresh loaves. This irritated the sergeant who was questioning Henderson.

  ‘Where’s your discipline?’ the sergeant shouted at the soldiers. ‘Get back under cover.’

  ‘There’s more than a hundred German tanks just a couple of kilometres from here,’ Henderson said. ‘They’re gearing up ready for another push. If we clear some of the bread out of the back, you could all ride with us.’

  ‘No thanks,’ the sergeant sneered. ‘The rest of our regiment surrendered this morning. Us six decided to stand and fight. But we’ll take some bread if that’s OK.’

  Henderson was almost too stunned to speak as the sergeant stepped off the running board of the truck and lowered his rifle. ‘Panzer tanks have got twice the range of that artillery piece,’ he explained. ‘They’ll take one look through their binoculars and blast you out of the road.’

  The sergeant looked down at his boots like a little boy in a lot of trouble. ‘Germans bombed my house,’ he explained. ‘Wife, mother and two daughters, all dead. Most of us have some experience like that. I’d sooner get blasted than look any Boche in the eye and call him sir.’

  ‘Are you sure all your men feel the same way?’ Henderson asked.

  The sergeant stepped back from the truck and shouted, ‘The nice fellow here says there’s two hun
dred tanks coming our way and he’s offering you a ride south. If any of you want to take it, go right ahead.’

  The hungry soldiers had mouths stuffed with bread, but they all shook their heads.

  Marc didn’t know whether to be impressed by their bravery or appalled at their stupidity.

  ‘Well, good luck then – I guess,’ Henderson said. ‘If you’ve taken all the bread you need I’ll get going. Do you know if there are any more Germans south of here?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘I reckon all you’ll find is empty French positions and soldiers with tails between their legs.’

  As Henderson drove away he heard someone banging on the side of the truck and pulled up. He expected someone to say they’d changed heart and wanted to climb in the back, but instead a skinny lad stepped on to the running board beside Marc and jabbed a sheet of paper through the window.

  ‘I don’t have an envelope or a stamp, but the address is at the top of the paper and I reckon you’ve got a better chance of getting it to my wife than I have.’

  Marc was startled. The soldier seemed more like one of the older lads from the orphanage than someone with a wife.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Marc said.

  Henderson shook his head as they drove on beneath the hanging branches. ‘War does funny things to people,’ he sighed. ‘Mad bastards.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The diesel-powered truck had seen better days and the engine became unhappy at anything over fifty kilometres per hour. Henderson had resigned himself to fate and didn’t bother to hurry: if Herr Potente had arrived before his message and taken the children, there was nothing he could do.

  Every so often, Marc would climb through to the back of the truck and pass loaves to the hungry soldiers lining the road, but Henderson told him to close the canopy whenever they got into traffic because he didn’t want to risk getting mobbed. They stopped and ate a good meal in Blois, courtesy of a restaurant run by an Englishman who was an old friend of Henderson.