Secret Army

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘Wow!’ Mason gasped. ‘What are these things?’

  ‘Tarantulas mostly,’ Paul explained. ‘That’s Mavis, a cobalt blue. You see how the legs and body are bluish and reflect the light?’

  ‘Can you take him out?’ Troy asked.

  ‘Her,’ Paul corrected, as he shook his head. ‘The males are smaller and quite dull-looking. You wouldn’t want to handle Mavis. Some spiders only look scary, but cobalt blues are mad. She’ll go crazy for no reason. Her poison isn’t deadly but her fangs are a third of an inch long.’

  ‘Where’s the biggest one?’ Mason asked as he moved along the cages, closely followed by Troy.

  ‘The goliath at the bottom is biggest,’ Paul explained. ‘But she hides inside her piece of pipe all the time. Mrs Henderson traps dormice in the fields and gives her one every two or three days.’

  ‘Why are they here?’ Troy asked.

  ‘Mrs Henderson worked in the insect house at London Zoo,’ Paul explained. ‘When the war started they were told to kill all the dangerous animals like snakes and scorpions.’

  ‘Why?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Well, if a bomb hit the zoo the poisonous animals could escape. But Mrs Henderson didn’t want to all her spiders to die, so she smuggled some of them out. At first she kept them at her flat in London, but now they’re all up here.’

  As Paul said this he opened a jam jar filled with live crickets and shook a few into a cage populated by a colony of small orange-legged spiders. After doing this he opened a notebook and logged the time, the cage number and exactly what he’d fed them.

  ‘You can give a worm to Maxine if you like,’ Paul told Mason. ‘She’s a baby Mexican fireleg. Not very aggressive, but she’s got special hairs on her body that’ll make your skin burn if you touch her.’

  ‘Eww,’ Mason said, shuddering as Paul plucked a bright-pink earthworm out of a compost drum by the back door and dropped it into the younger boy’s palm.

  ‘She’s quick, so I’ll take the lid off the cage and you drop it straight in,’ Paul explained, as the worm curled up in Mason’s palm. ‘Ready?’

  To everyone’s disappointment, Maxine moved towards the worm but only tapped it disinterestedly before retreating back to the other side of the cage.

  ‘We’re worried about her,’ Paul explained. ‘Mrs Henderson says the fireleg is a desert spider. The humidity in here is too high for her.’

  ‘Will she die?’ Troy asked.

  ‘We’re trying to set up another room that’s hot and dry, maybe in one of the empty cottages,’ Paul explained. ‘The trouble is, the rooms have to be kept warm all the time so you need a fireplace, but you also need sunshine, and Mr Henderson is cross about having one room with spiders in, let alone setting up another one.’

  But Troy and Mason had lost interest. They’d caught the smell of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen and McAfferty was calling out for someone to come and butter some bread.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Marc retired to the top bunk after his wash, but he found it hard to relax. He was worried about Henderson, and the blood seeping from his wounded mouth into the back of his throat meant he had to sit up and spit every couple of minutes. After ruling out sleep, Marc squatted by the small window with the light out, peeking behind the blackout curtain.

  German bombs were hitting the City of London and the docks several miles to the east, but his window looked north, so although he could hear explosions all he could see were the occasional fire engines rattling through St James’s Square and the vague silhouettes of two elderly men stationed as lookouts on the roof of an office building across the square.

  A knock on the door startled Marc and he stubbed his toe painfully on the bedside chest as he crossed the small room in darkness. A slim girl stood at the doorway. No older than seventeen, she wore a black dress with a frilled apron and held a wooden tray on which were placed a steaming bowl of tomato soup and a side plate with slices of cheese and bread with the crusts removed.

  ‘Commander Henderson thought you might be hungry,’ the girl explained, as Marc flicked the light switch by the door. ‘Shall I put it on the bunk for you?’

  Marc hadn’t given food much thought, but his stomach growled when his nose caught the steam rising off the soup.

  ‘On the bed, yes,’ he said, feeling awkward as he became conscious that he was wearing only socks and underpants. ‘Did you speak with Mr Henderson? I mean, did he seem OK?’

  The girl smiled. ‘Your father gave me some money and told me to bring you something decent that was easy to eat.’

  ‘He’s not actually my dad,’ Marc said. ‘I’m an orphan and he sort of looks after me.’

  ‘Ahh,’ the girl smiled. ‘That’s sweet. He seemed like a nice man, though I got the impression that he’s had rather a lot to drink.’

  ‘He’s had a rough day,’ Marc said, as he sampled the soup. ‘Hot!’ he yelped, as he sucked the first mouthful off the spoon. ‘But it tastes nice.’

  ‘Good,’ the girl said. ‘Leave your tray outside the room when you’ve finished and I’ll come back and pick it up. And I hope your mouth feels better tomorrow.’

  ‘My mouth will feel better than Mr Henderson’s head, I bet,’ Marc said, and the girl laughed as she closed the door.

  The soup was tasty and as Marc sat on the lower bunk he broke off tiny pieces of bread and cheese, chewing them slowly and avoiding the front of his mouth.

  He’d been suffering with the fragment of broken tooth for four months and it was a relief to have the painful operation to remove it behind him. The combination of the warm room and piping soup gave him some comfort and he made a long warbling yawn before raising the bowl and extending his tongue to lick it clean.

  As Marc did this he heard a roar of, ‘Call it in,’ coming from the rooftop lookout post across the square. Marc flicked off the light and rushed towards the window. He couldn’t see anything, but there were aircraft near enough to cause gentle vibrations in the glass.

  Moments later came a thud, louder and sharper than any he’d heard before. The floor trembled, the wooden bunks flexed and the copper pipe that ran up behind the sink shuddered. Down in the square a warden began turning a handle, working a hand-cranked air-raid siren into a wavering drone.

  Out in the hallway guests emerged from their rooms and began making their way downstairs while the doorman shouted up from the ground floor. ‘Make for the shelter,’ he ordered, as he rang a large hand bell.

  Marc hurriedly pulled on his trousers. He’d taken his vest, shirt and jumper off in one go and after untangling the arms managed to pull them back on in the same fashion. As Marc’s head popped through the neck hole of his pullover the building shook from two explosions. The third explosion was so loud that he feared the next bomb would come crashing through the roof over his head.

  This explosion never came, but the lights flickered on and off before going out for good. Marc found his battered pigskin bag in the darkness, before heading into a blackened hallway where he walked straight into the path of the half-deaf army officer who’d berated him over the towel.

  ‘Careful, son,’ he said, his voice much warmer than before. ‘Why are you still up here? You’d better get down to the shelter.’

  ‘Had to get dressed,’ Marc explained, as he felt his way along the dark corridor towards the top of the stairs.

  Marc jumped as a cluster of small metallic objects hit the roof, smashing some of the slates before clattering down the tiles towards the gutters. One of these objects hit a window ledge on the landing between the third and fourth floors. It burned with a brilliant white light that pierced through the blackout curtain and cast long shadows up the wall.

  ‘Damned incendiaries,’ the officer yelled as he used the light to hurry into the bathroom and grab a shaggy-headed mop. ‘You get out of here, boy. I’ll take a stab at them.’

  German bombing raids had become more sophisticated as the Blitz progressed. The latest tactic was to equip the firs
t nightly sorties with incendiary bombs. Each incendiary released dozens of fist-sized bomblets which burst into flames as they hit the ground. The resulting fires were not just destructive, but made enough light for later sorties carrying high-explosive bombs to identify targets more easily.

  Marc had seen a warning film about incendiaries at the cinema, which had explained that the best way to deal with them was to flick them away into a road or garden before things caught light and then to smother them with sand from a sandbag or fire bucket.

  As Marc vaulted past the first landing, the officer flung open the adjacent window and used the end of the mop to flick the incendiary off the window ledge. He then slammed the window shut and started running up the stairs to try and gain access to the roof.

  Marc had almost reached the second floor when he saw a brilliant orange flash at the top of the staircase and heard the officer yell out. He looked around, hoping that there was an adult who could go up and investigate, but he’d been one of the slowest to evacuate and the only signs of life were the noises of people going out the main entrance two floors down.

  Marc shouted up anxiously. ‘Are you OK up there?’

  There was no reply. He looked down, then up as dense smoke formed at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Hello?’ Marc yelled again.

  Again there was no answer. Marc pulled his sweater up over his mouth and nose and raced two steps at a time to the third floor. Bursts of flame penetrated the smoke, creating an eerie orange light, but the smoke also stung Marc’s eyes and the heat made it tough going.

  When he reached the next landing the smoke became unbearable. The skin on his forehead felt so hot that he thought it was about to crack. The elderly officer couldn’t be far away, but there was no way he could go any higher.

  Marc was turning around when he heard a rasping sound in the smoke by his feet. He plunged blindly on to all fours and crawled up two steps before touching the dome of the officer’s bald head. The smoke was engulfing Marc from all sides and he hadn’t breathed for more than twenty seconds, but with a superhuman effort he grabbed the officer’s jacket and tugged with all his strength.

  Marc got the man down to the third floor, but he needed air. He let go and lost his footing as he hurried down to the second floor where the smoke was much thinner. He took four quick breaths and rubbed his stinging eyes before plunging back into the thick smoke.

  It took several anxious moments to locate the officer again, but Marc got a good grip. The officer’s body thumped on every step, but Marc became aware that he was still conscious and doing what he could to help by pushing against the steps with his arms.

  Marc again grew desperate for clear air, but it was now unbearable on the second floor, where he’d been able to take clear breaths barely a minute earlier. The skin on Marc’s face was starting to blister and the lack of oxygen made it hard for his brain to focus.

  ‘You right boy?’ a heavily muffled voice asked from behind.

  Marc collapsed backwards into the thick arms of a fireman, then gestured frantically to make it clear that he was dragging someone.

  ‘It’s General Hammer,’ another man shouted.

  Marc was close to unconsciousness as the fireman threw him over his shoulder and carried him down to the ground floor and out of a back entrance. Once outdoors, the fireman carried Marc between two fire engines and threw him down on the grass in St James’ Square.

  ‘Stay there, my son,’ the fireman said. ‘Someone will be over to fix you up.’

  Marc lay on his back, looking at treetops and black sky overhead. There were small fires on the roofs of several buildings and a pair of incendiaries trapped in the forks of trees, illuminating the ground. Smoke billowed from the roof of the Empire and India club as a nurse rushed towards Marc and squeezed out a watery sponge over his head.

  ‘Bit of peeled skin but you’re not too bad,’ the nurse said. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘My throat,’ Marc croaked. ‘It’s hard to breathe.’

  ‘Drink some water,’ she urged, as she handed over a metal canteen. ‘I expect you’ve inhaled a lot of smoke.’

  Marc coughed violently as he tipped up the canteen. He was shocked to see blistered skin on the back of his hands. It didn’t hurt, but only because he was in shock.

  Out in the street a fire crew got their hose running and began aiming water through the second-floor windows. Marc spotted the elderly officer he’d dragged down the stairs going towards an ambulance. He was weak but he stepped into the ambulance with only minimal assistance from the firemen standing on either side of him.

  The nurse stood up quickly when she sighted an ambulance crew. ‘This lad’s got small burns and smoke inhalation,’ she explained, as the ground throbbed from a bomb going off in the distance. ‘Get him on a stretcher and take him to hospital.’

  ‘I can walk,’ Marc said, but the nurse pushed him down as he tried to stand up. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she said firmly.

  ‘What about his parents?’ one of the ambulance women asked.

  ‘Charles Henderson,’ Marc said between coughs. ‘He must be around somewhere.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Troy had a stomach full of bacon, eggs and toast as Paul led him from the farmhouse to the adjacent school building. He liked being in a place where he wasn’t scared, and the fact that Paul and McAfferty spoke fluent French. Because his English was poor, he’d not had a conversation with anyone except Mason in four months.

  Mason dropped behind the older boys, then ran along the top of a low wall and jumped off, splashing down in a puddle that proved deeper than expected.

  ‘That’ll teach you,’ Troy laughed, before scrambling away as Mason swept his boot through the water to try and splash him.

  Before the village was commandeered by the government for use as a military training zone, the two-storey schoolhouse had served pupils aged from five to fourteen in all the surrounding villages. The entrance vestibule split three ways, with the school hall directly ahead, a headmaster’s office and staffroom down a corridor on the right and four classrooms off a longer corridor to their left.

  The furniture had been cleared out when the school closed but the building was immaculate, with freshly painted walls and air heavy with the tang of floor wax.

  ‘Mr Takada makes us keep everything down here spotless,’ Paul explained, as he led Troy and Mason up concrete steps to the first floor.

  ‘He’s the fitness instructor, right?’ Troy said.

  ‘He’s Japanese,’ Paul nodded. ‘There’s no doubt the training is making us stronger, but he’s a proper slave-driver.’

  ‘How long have you been training?’ Mason asked.

  ‘We started at a hostel north of London at the end of October. Then Superintendent McAfferty found out about this place and we moved in a few weeks later.’

  By this time the three boys had reached the top of the stairs. The top floor was warm, a wireless set played big-band music and a girl of about six was belting down the corridor, shrieking and trying to hit a boy with a pillow.

  Troy thought it looked OK: Paul said the training was tough, but this was clearly a place where kids were treated with respect and allowed to be themselves. There were four classrooms off the right side of the hallway. The first had been newly fitted with showers and toilets. The second classroom had SISTERS & JUNIORS stencilled on the door with enamel paint. Inside were bunk beds with lines of damp washing strung between them.

  ‘I expect that’s where you’ll stay, Mason,’ Paul explained. ‘Sisters and little kids are in there.’

  ‘With girls?’ Mason complained, crinkling up his nose.

  Paul pointed into a classroom filled with unused beds as they walked by. ‘That’s been assigned for training groups B and C,’ he explained. ‘Me and the five other trainees are in Group A. Troy, if you join you’ll be the third recruit for Group B. And this is my lot.

  ‘Evening all,’ Paul shouted, as he walked into the final classroom. ‘
We’ve got new arrivals.’

  The radio was turned too loud for easy conversation. There were six beds, with bodies on four of them. To create privacy the trainees had nailed sheets or old curtains to the ceiling between beds. The wall behind each semi-private den was personalised with family photos and pages torn from magazines.

  The space nearest the door belonged to thirteen-year-old Luc. He wore the same shorts and striped shirt as Paul, but all comparison ended there. Where Paul was skinny, Luc hovered on the borderline between stocky and fat and his bicep swelled impressively as he gave Troy a crunching handshake.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ Luc said, squeezing as hard as he could.

  Troy recognised the test of character and didn’t let the pain show. Mason was more easily intimidated and backed up behind his brother to avoid shaking Luc’s hand.

  ‘So, Paul,’ Luc said contemptuously. ‘How’s that poor bony little ankle of yours? How was your day playing with the spiders in the warm while we trained out guts out?’

  Paul kept quiet, avoiding a reply that might have started an argument. He stepped on past a neat space with books piled under the bed and a Picasso print on the wall.

  ‘I’m the tidy one,’ Paul explained. ‘Marc sleeps next to me but he’s gone down to London to see the dentist. That’s Joel, over the other side. Don’t get too close because his feet stink and his farts are even worse.’

  Joel threw down a comic and gave the two newcomers a wave. He was fourteen, long-limbed with a muscular torso that gave an athletic appearance. Somehow Joel had escaped the brutal haircut to which all the other boys succumbed and had scruffy blond hair sticking in all directions.

  ‘Lastly we have the love nest in the corner,’ Paul said, as he walked between dusty velvet curtains rescued from one of the abandoned cottages. ‘This is my sister Rosie and her Yankee lover boy PT.’

  At fifteen, PT was the oldest trainee. He sat on a bed with thirteen-year-old Rosie nestled beside him. Paul’s sister bore a strong facial resemblance to him, but it ended at the neck where Rosie broadened out into heavy shoulders and eye-catching breasts.