‘Lorient is the largest of six U-boat bases along France’s Atlantic coast. Your mission briefings contain maps of the town, details of the U-boat dock and bunkers under construction at Keroman along with aerial surveillance photographs. We’ve successfully established contact with a small and informally organised resistance group run by a restaurant and brothel owner named Brigitte Mercier.’
‘She’s one scary lady,’ Marc added.
‘So far their activities have been restricted to smuggling refugees and RAF pilots out of the country. Last week, a radio operator who has been working in France for some time arrived in the area and re-established contact with Mercier’s group. We’ve now established daily radio contact so the locals know we’re coming and are making arrangements for our arrival.
‘Working with an established group like this speeds things up and has huge benefits, because nothing beats local knowledge. Madame Mercier herself is one of the best-connected people in Lorient. However, there is also a significant risk, because the group have had no proper espionage training and up to now their security has been slack.’
Paul raised his hand. ‘But security should be pretty good if they all know each other, shouldn’t it?’
‘Security is only ever as good as your weakest link,’ Henderson explained. ‘Even the most outstanding person can be compromised if their loyalties are divided. For instance, Paul, if the Gestapo captured you and told you that they’d mercilessly torture Rosie unless you set up a meeting where the rest of your group would be captured and arrested, would your loyalty be to us, or to her?’
Paul looked awkwardly at Rosie. ‘I’d probably let them torture her, because the Gestapo would kill us both eventually anyway.’
Rosie, along with the four boys, laughed. ‘Cheers, mate!’ she said.
‘And what if they tortured you?’ Henderson asked.
‘Oh that’s completely different,’ Paul said. ‘I’d sell the lot of you down the river like a shot.’
Everyone laughed it off, though in the back of their minds they all knew capture and torture was a real possibility.
‘There’s an old saying,’ Henderson said. ‘Three can keep a secret if two are dead. And the point I’m trying to make is that security is everything. One slip-up could get us all killed.
‘To minimise risks, we’ll be divided into three teams, spread over several kilometres. Marc and I will be based in Lorient, working in a bar owned by Madame Mercier and frequented by high-ranking German officers. We both speak German, so hopefully we’ll be able to pick up some information when they’ve been on the sauce.
‘PT, Joel and Troy will be based at Kerneval with Alois Clement.’
‘Isn’t he the one who wanted to throw you in the harbour?’
‘Yes,’ Henderson said. ‘And as much as I didn’t like his suspicious attitude when his friend was pointing a gun at my head, his cautious nature is really no bad thing.
‘All plans are subject to change, but hopefully Troy will work in the port, alongside Alois, his brother Nicolas and his two great-nephews. Joel and PT are old enough to get apprentice jobs with OT, working on the bunker construction sites, or in the docks themselves. Their roles will be to learn as much as they can about U-boat operations and bunker construction, and try to spot sabotage opportunities.
‘The third and final unit will be our communications team, comprising Paul, Rosie and Boo. You three will be running the radio link to Britain. You’ll have to scout a suitable location when you arrive, but the aim is to find you a base a few kilometres from Lorient.
‘Since we first operated in France last year, the Germans have developed an excellent radio detection service that has uncovered a large number of British radio operators. They have monitoring stations throughout France that can detect undercover transmissions to within a kilometre or two. Once the approximate location is pinpointed by the network, specially trained teams of Gestapo agents go out in the field to find the exact source of transmission. This means that the radio operators must switch locations on a regular basis.
‘Our three groups will travel to France together aboard Madeline II, but once we arrive communication will be kept to the absolute minimum. If members of one group are captured, the other two groups should be able to continue operating independently.’
Marc raised his hand. ‘Sir, this may sound like a stupid question, but now we know where the submarines are, why doesn’t the RAF send over a couple of hundred bombers and blow the whole place to hell?’
‘It’s not a stupid question, in fact many people think that’s exactly what we should do, Henderson said. ‘But there are two reasons why we won’t. First, at present the Royal Air Force has a policy not to bomb targets in heavily populated areas of France, because it’s believed large-scale civilian casualties could turn the French population against us. Secondly, there are rarely more than three or four U-boats docked at Lorient at any one time. They’re small targets and the port is heavily defended.’
‘What about the bunkers?’ Marc asked.
Boo answered this question. ‘The photographs you took of the bunkers were assessed by structural engineers and bombing experts. Attacking such heavily fortified bunkers is unlikely to do much more than delay their completion by a few weeks.’
‘So this is going to be a long and hard mission,’ Henderson said. ‘We’ve got to get stuck right in, use all our training to find out what the Germans are up to, pick out their weaknesses and exploit them mercilessly. If you’re captured, the dangers of a slow and painful death are all too real. So if you think it’s all going to be too much for you, raise your hand now and nobody will think any worse of you for not volunteering.’
The kids glanced at one another and there was a gasp as Troy’s hand shot up.
Henderson looked disappointed and aimed a hand towards the door. ‘Well, I’d rather you faced up to it now than develop a bout of nerves later.’
‘I’m fine about the mission, sir,’ Troy said, breaking into a smile. ‘But I’m absolutely busting for a wee.’
Everyone laughed until Henderson tapped his pointer on the blackboard to bring them to attention.
‘All right, Troy, very funny,’ Henderson said. ‘But on a serious note, we’ve got lots to do and not much time to get through it. Madeline II sails from Porth Navas on Thursday, we aim to land near Lorient some time on Saturday.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tuesday 20 May 1941
The team were roused at five. Pippa made porridge and everyone got up to say goodbye, except Luc, who stayed in the boys’ dorm sulking.
‘Don’t get yourself killed,’ Mason told Troy, as the brothers hugged and tried not to cry.
McAfferty sobbed when she hugged Henderson, who gave in to emotion when he kissed his infant son and realised that he’d look different the next time he saw him. Soon there was a big show of hugs and sniffles, and Rufus had to hurry everyone to the canvas-sided truck because there was a train to catch.
The journey took up most of the day. Three hours to London St Pancras, Underground to Paddington, a six-and-a-half-hour ride to Falmouth and then a Royal Navy truck to Porth Navas Creek on the Helford River.
Madeline II was twice the size of any other boat in the espionage flotilla and the six young agents were excited to see her. The captured German E-boat looked utterly out of place amongst the flotilla’s mainstay of French fishing boats and cabin cruisers.
‘Captain on deck,’ someone shouted, as Henderson led his team up the gangplank.
‘Might actually be able to get some sleep aboard this thing,’ Marc told Troy as a navy officer came up through the rear hatch.
He was average height, but stocky and wore thick glasses. He buttoned his jacket before saluting Henderson.
‘Welcome aboard, Captain! I’m Lieutenant Commander Finch and honoured to serve with you.’
‘At ease,’ Henderson said, before shaking the lieutenant’s hand and introducing Finch to Rufus, Boo and the six kids. ‘How
’s the rest of our crew coming together?’
‘Working up well, Captain,’ Finch said. ‘We’ve got twelve men, all volunteers from regular duties. One of the German engineers you captured has been very cooperative in terms of technical information on the boat. We had our Kriegsmarine uniforms delivered yesterday. The lads had a laugh trying them on.’
Henderson smiled. ‘And the first sea trial?’
‘Excellent, sir,’ Finch said, as he led the party into the bridge. ‘Had her up to thirty knots on the open sea before things got choppy. The boat is seven months old, which is about perfect in my opinion: long enough for the Krauts have ironed out the glitches you always get with a new vessel, but not enough time for anything major to wear out.’
‘Quite a few changes,’ Henderson noted, as he looked around the bridge. ‘Mind you, it was a bloodbath the last time I was in here.’
‘Our only problem with the sea trial was we got picked up by a Spitfire from coastal command. Damned thing shot at us, until I sent a couple of men out on deck to wave a great Union Jack around.’
Henderson smiled. ‘Getting shot up by our own people is going to be a problem. We can inform major ships operating in the same area as us, but there’s no way to alert the whole fleet and air command without the Germans getting wind of our operations.’
‘We’ve made a few adaptations,’ Finch said. ‘British navigational gear and a radar set.’
Henderson looked surprised. ‘You got hold of a radar set?’
Finch nodded proudly. ‘All ocean-going navy ships are being fitted, regardless of size, but we’ve lost so many boats in the Atlantic and Mediterranean the navy has more radar sets than ships to put them in. The radar antenna makes us look different from a standard E-boat on the outside, but you’ve got to look hard and the benefits outweigh the risks.’
Finch looked concerned as Troy hovered over the controls and newly installed navigational equipment.
‘Don’t worry about him, Lieutenant Commander,’ Henderson said. ‘Troy piloted this boat back from France and even picked up my mistake when I plotted the wrong course. We nearly gave a couple of Cornish fishermen heart attacks when they saw a German torpedo boat cruising up river behind them!’
‘Armaments will be our biggest problem,’ Finch explained. ‘There’s a limited supply of German torpedoes, but without proper maintenance and crew training we’re as likely to blow ourselves up if we dare to fire them. We’re trying to source British replacements for the main deck guns, but that won’t happen in time for this voyage, so we’ll be setting off with limited supplies of German ammunition.’
Henderson nodded gravely. ‘Let’s try and stay clear of any shoot-outs then.’ Then he turned towards Troy. ‘You know the boat well enough. I’ve got a lot to discuss with the Lieutenant Commander, so why don’t you take the others on a tour below deck, then we’ll head off and try to find our quarters.’
*
Porterbrook was a mile’s walk from the creek. The two-storey Georgian house was headquarters for the Helford Flotilla. Only agents and espionage officers stayed here, while the navy men who crewed many of the boats bunked at Falmouth naval base a few kilometres east.
The downstairs had been knocked together to make a large dining room and lounge. Upstairs was the bathroom and bedrooms for officers, while lower ranks and civilians had to make do with a pair of prefabricated Nissen huts in the back garden.
The house was deserted, apart from an elderly Canadian Brigadier named Ouellet and two local women who cooked and cleaned. There was a lamb hotpot waiting on arrival, which went down well after the long journey, followed by a steamed jam pudding with clotted cream.
After eating, the kids listened to the BBC Forces Programme while taking turns at a snooker table. Troy, Marc, Paul, Rosie and Joel had all grown up in France where tables were rare, and had fun competing over who was the most hopeless. PT had played a few games in bars when he’d worked aboard a steam ship, but he was annihilated by Boo, who’d grown up with a table in the family castle. She regularly rattled off breaks of fifty or sixty, while complaining that the game wasn’t much of a challenge on a half-sized table.
Henderson sat in an armchair facing the Brigadier, drinking whisky and admiring Boo when she bent over the table. There was a ten o’clock curfew on campus, and the kids kept expecting him to send them to bed, but they kept on playing until eleven thirty when the BBC shut down and everyone stood for the national anthem.
The room seemed eerily quiet when the anthem ended, and Brigadier Ouellet’s boots tapped the parquet floor as he stepped across to turn off the set.
‘Have you all been revising your identities for the mission?’ the Brigadier asked.
The kids were intimidated by his formal tone, medals and epaulettes, so their nods and yeses came stiff and uncomfortable.
The Brigadier pointed at a clock on the mantelpiece. ‘In a few moments, you will retire to bed. When it turns midnight, you will take on the identities you have been given for your mission. You will speak only in French. You will address one another by the names given in your French identity documents. You could be tested on your back story at any time and if you make a slip-up there will be consequences. Goodnight, and sleep well.’
Boo, Rufus and Henderson stayed in the house, while the six youngsters went out the back door and found their way across the lawn. They kept quiet until they were all under the curved metal roof of the Nissen hut, sitting on their narrow bunks pulling off shoes and unbuttoning shirts. Rosie was the only girl, but after more than six months of living together on campus, nobody thought about modesty.
‘Brigadier whatsisname seems weird,’ Marc said, as he burrowed through his suitcase looking for pyjama bottoms.
‘Drunk as a skunk,’ Joel said. ‘Him and Henderson practically emptied that bottle between them.’
‘Did you see Henderson eyeing up Boo?’ Rosie said. ‘He’s got such a dirty mind.’
Troy cocked his leg and cracked a huge fart.
‘Better than a dirty arse,’ Marc said, as he gave Troy a dead arm.
‘Henderson just has appetites, like all men do,’ PT said. ‘Most of you are too young to understand.’
‘I know how to fertilise a girl,’ Paul said, always anxious not to be seen as the baby of the group.
‘A man either gets what he wants, or goes somewhere else for it,’ PT said. ‘That’s the way of the world.’
‘Not if you’re a married man it isn’t,’ Rosie said furiously.
Joel laughed. ‘Well, well: the two lovebirds are speaking to each other again.’
‘Believe me,’ PT said. ‘I spent over a year crewing boats around the Mediterranean and when men go ashore, the ones who are married act no different to the ones who ain’t.’
‘Lots of men behave decently,’ Rosie said. ‘They’re not all animals like you.’
‘Can you two bicker tomorrow?’ Joel asked. ‘I’ve been up since half four, I’m getting the light. Is everyone ready?’
Everyone was either under the covers or ready to get in, so he popped the light off. Troy did another noisy fart as Joel walked back to his bed.
‘Aww you stink,’ Paul complained, as Troy laughed under his sheets.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marc’s eyes shot open as a hand clamped across his mouth. He thought it was Troy getting revenge for the dead arm, but Troy wasn’t strong enough to pull him off his bunk and throw him over his shoulder. It was pitch black, but he could hear men dragging the others out of bed. Ironically, out of the six it was Paul – the smallest – who gave the most trouble by jumping up, swinging from a roof beam and giving his assailant a two-footed kick in the teeth.
‘Name and age?’ the man screamed in English.
Marc remembered what the Brigadier had told them before bedtime. ‘Marc Hortefeux, thirteen years old.’
‘So you speak English?’ the man said, as he pinched Marc’s cheek.
The pinch hurt, but the realisation that
he’d fallen for a simple interrogator’s trick by answering a question in the language it was asked hurt more. The light in the room came on, and he glimpsed Paul wriggling through a window as PT was dragged outside with his hands cuffed behind his back.
Marc had a canvas bag thrust over his head. It smelled like mildew and its drawstring handle was pulled around his neck, not strangling him but enough to make breathing hard.
‘Walkies!’ the man said. His accent sounded slightly American, so Marc guessed that he was Canadian, like the Brigadier.
Marc couldn’t see, but he felt mud under his soles as two men frogmarched him across a field at jogging pace. His breath and the dank smell made it stifling inside the mask. After a minute his feet moved on to tarmac. He heard a large door open, like a barn door. His feet were swept off the ground and suddenly he was plunged into a freezing bath filled with slabs of ice.
He kicked and slapped his arms in the water as his head was held under for a minute. Shivering uncontrollably, he was forced to kneel with his forehead resting against something hard, then his hood was ripped off. Marc saw that he was knelt against the front of a car and a second later the headlamps were switched on, shining directly into his eyes.
‘Welcome to Gestapo headquarters,’ one of the Canadians said.
Marc heard a groan to his right, and saw that Troy was in an identical position, knelt against the other headlight.
‘Don’t think we’re going easy because you’re kids,’ another Canadian said.
Marc couldn’t tell if there were three or four of them.
‘How can kids go undercover? You’ll break in two seconds flat.’
‘Go screw your mothers,’ Troy shouted.
Marc heard Troy get slapped.
‘Now I know which one to electrocute first,’ someone said.
‘You can call me God,’ the biggest man said. ‘I’m setting an alarm clock to go off in twenty minutes. Every time you make an admission, the other boy gets an electric shock. If either of you wants to quit before the twenty minutes are up, you can beg for mercy. But if you can’t stand this for twenty minutes, you’re not gonna be tough enough to face the real Gestapo, are you?’
Henderson's Boys: Grey Wolves Page 8