Grey Wolves (12 page)

‘Where’s Boo?’ Rosie asked. ‘She seemed shaken up by it all.’

Marc hadn’t realised Boo had been dragged out of bed with the kids, though she was less experienced at undercover work than he was, so it made sense.

‘I think she withstood the unpleasantness as well as can be expected,’ Henderson said. ‘But she’s mortified that the ice bath ruined her hairdo.’

‘Of course, some of us didn’t let ourselves get captured in the first place,’ Paul said.

‘You’re
so
smug,’ Rosie howled. ‘You only got out because your bed was right next to the window.’

‘And nobody except a skinny beanpole like you could have got through that gap,’ Joel added.

Henderson spoke gravely. ‘Actually, Paul, you’ve got to report to barn C after breakfast for a twenty-minute interrogation session with the Canadians.’

Paul looked aghast and dropped the egg off his teaspoon. A weak, ‘Oh …’ was all he could manage.

‘Gotcha!’ Henderson said.

Paul gasped with relief as the others cracked up laughing.

‘Paul, you looked like you were gonna lay a brick in your pants,’ Marc said.

‘In complete seriousness, I’d steer clear of the chap you kicked in the mouth,’ Henderson said. ‘He got driven off to see an emergency dentist in Falmouth, so I don’t think he’s your biggest fan.’

Rosie leaned across and gave Paul a peck on the cheek. ‘My baby brother,’ she said proudly. ‘I never knew he had it in him.’

‘Morning,’ Brigadier Ouellet said brightly, as he came in from the hallway. Boo was directly behind, and everyone looked shocked because her hair was combed flat, she was bare-legged and she wore a short summer dress instead of her smart Wren’s uniform.

‘I’m drooling,’ Joel whispered to PT, who nodded in agreement once he was sure that Rosie wasn’t looking his way.

‘Your lot put up a jolly good fight last night,’ the Brigadier told Henderson, before glancing at his watch. ‘Remember to keep in character at all times. Our tailors are getting ready down in the garden, you need to be ready in the lounge with everything you’re planning to take over to France.’

Marc and Troy left the house by the back door and walked the length of the garden with their suitcases. They were heading to a Nissen hut in a field several hundred metres from the house, but were struck by their own bare footprints in the mud leading towards the barns.

‘I’m really sorry about last night,’ Troy said. ‘I should have stuck it out with the hose. I want you to even the score.’

Marc looked curious. ‘How exactly?’

Troy put his case on the grass and stood still with his arms behind his back. ‘Take a free shot at me.’

Marc shrugged. ‘Just forget it.’

‘I feel really bad,’ Troy said.

Marc shook his head and grinned. ‘You really want me to thump you?’

Troy pushed out his stomach. Marc was pissed off that he’d suffered so badly from the hose, but he liked Troy and didn’t blame him. Nobody is really in control of themselves when faced with that level of fear.

‘I’m stronger than you,’ Marc said, as he bunched his fist. ‘You’d better not run back to the house bawling.’

‘I won’t,’ Troy said. ‘Hit me.’

Marc threw his first, but as Troy flinched Marc pulled his punch and went for Troy’s nipple, giving it an almighty twist. This was painful, but there was no risk of causing an injury serious enough to jeopardise the mission.

‘Bugger me!’ Troy howled, as he stumbled backwards clutching his chest.

Marc tripped Troy up, but grabbed his arm so that he didn’t hit the ground hard. Then he gave him a two-fingered jab in the ribs.

‘You half killed me, you little bastard,’ Troy said, in pain but laughing too.

‘Good,’ Marc said, as he picked his case back up. ‘Now we’re even.’

As Troy and Marc headed towards the hut in good spirits, PT and Paul started walking the other way with their luggage.

‘Everything OK?’ Troy asked.

‘It’s so bad,’ Paul said gravely.

‘Yeah,’ PT said. ‘Especially the bit where you have to bend over and they shove a red-hot poker up your bum.’

Marc tutted. ‘Yeah, I’m really falling for that. Are you gonna tell us or what?’

‘
What
,’ Paul said, as PT made a whiplash sound followed by a scream.

All Nissen huts were made from curved metal sections, but this one comprised twelve sections, making it twice as long as the one they’d slept in. Just inside the door were two large tables, designed for cutting fabric, with a pedal-powered sewing machine at the end of each one. Beyond this area was storage: rails of old clothes and shoes, shelves stacked with suitcases and boxes of personal items such as toothpaste, cigarettes and shaving foam. All were French brands in French packaging.

There were two Jewish Frenchwomen inside. One was elderly with shrunken mole-like eyes; she took Troy’s case while a younger lady with witchlike tangles of black hair and a tape measure around her neck grabbed Marc.

‘My name is Lael,’ she began. ‘Are you Hortefeux or Jarre?’

‘Hortefeux,’ Marc said.

‘You’re a handsome boy,’ Lael said, then shouted across to her colleague. ‘Yetta, look at this beautiful thing.’

Yetta laughed as she put Troy’s suitcase on her tabletop. ‘I think
mine
is more handsome,’ she laughed.

‘Now I need you to strip,’ Lael said, as she opened Marc’s case and threw everything out. ‘Have you got everything here that you’re taking to France? Not a pyjama top still in your bedroom, or a picture of your mother on your bedside table?’

Marc shook his head as he unbuttoned his shirt.

‘No point being modest,’ Lael said, as Marc slowly unbuttoned his shirt. ‘I’ve got to check every single piece of clothing, and this suitcase is no good for a start, it’s got
Made in Derby
printed inside the lid.’

Lael and Yetta were mirror images, taking the boys’ clothes and belongings and carefully inspecting the seams and labels. Very few passed muster.

‘What are you looking for?’ Marc asked.

Lael seemed happy to answer as she held up one of Marc’s shirts. ‘This came from France. You can tell by the soft collar and the feel of the fabric. But this one is different. The collar is stiffer, the cuffs are square rather than rounded and it’s a fine Indian cotton that you wouldn’t often see in mainland Europe. Even though it has no label, I can tell that it was made in Britain. And if I can tell that almost all of your clothes are British, the Gestapo can tell too.’

Marc was impressed as Lael accurately selected the few items in his wardrobe that came from France, and rejected the much greater number that he’d picked up after arriving in Britain. She let him keep his British army boots after he explained where he’d got them.

‘Give me your undershorts,’ she said finally. ‘Unless you want me to stick your hand down the back and inspect them in situ.’

Marc reluctantly stepped out of his boxers, then to his horror saw that the back was completely brown.

‘They made me walk through the field barefoot last night,’ Marc explained, as Lael inspected them with a look of complete disgust. ‘Then they made me kneel and the mud on my heels must have soaked into the back.’

Troy laughed. ‘Don’t believe him, miss, he’s shat himself.’

‘Such language,’ Yetta said, reaching across her tabletop and giving Troy a hard slap across the face.

‘Jesus,’ Troy moaned, as Marc laughed at his expense.

Lael looked disgusted as she pinched Marc’s shorts between thumb and forefinger, lifted the lid on a metal dustbin and shuddered as she dropped them in. ‘Right, let’s sort you out,’ she said.

Marc and Troy glanced at each other as the two women disappeared into the storage area. They’d emerge periodically with armfuls of clothes to try on. An all-new wardrobe would be suspicious, so most were either second-hand garments sourced from refugees or new items made in the French style and then bashed about to look worn.

Items that fitted were packed in genuine French suitcases. Others were marked up with chalk for alterations. Toothbrushes and toothpaste were added, along with French comic books, a few basic first aid items such as iodine and gauze, and French-made alarm clocks. To finish off each boy also got a few packets of cigarettes and chocolate bars.

‘Save the treats for bribes and winning favour,’ Lael said. ‘Don’t scoff them.’

‘You took my soap,’ Troy said. ‘Do I get a French one to replace it?’

‘Our agents report that there is no soap available in France,’ Yetta replied. ‘If you’re caught with soap, it’s highly suspicious.’

Lael scowled at Marc, ‘Not that you’ll miss it much, will you?’

‘I just had a shower three days ago,’ Marc said. ‘It’s not our fault we got dragged across a muddy field in the middle of the night.’

‘Special items,’ Lael explained, as she reached into a shelf under her table and took out a long velvet-lined box, divided into dozens of individual compartments.

The first thing she pulled out was a tatty-looking belt. She held the buckle up to Marc’s face. ‘It’s tarnished to look like brass, but it’s twenty-two-carat gold. If you find yourself on the run you can sell the metal, or give it to someone as a bribe. You can tell it’s genuine by the weight.’

Next she pulled out a large button. ‘This pops apart like so, and you can hide a standard L tablet inside. I’ll sew one on to all your trousers.’

‘Which one’s the L tablet?’ Troy asked.

‘A is air-sickness,’ Marc said. ‘B Benzedrine to keep you awake, E knocks you out for thirty minutes if you need to buy time, K is the sleeping draught, though enough of it will kill you, L is the suicide pill.’

Troy shook his head. ‘I’m not taking a suicide pill with me. Those things are creepy.’

‘Finally there’s a pencil for each of you,’ Lael said, as she pulled out two stubby, chewed-up pencils. ‘Twist and pull.’

Lael separated the pencil around a near-invisible line where the colour of the paint changed, revealing a sharpened silver spike in the hole where the lead would usually run.

‘Agents in the field report excellent results with these. The blade is toughened steel, so put a little oil on it once in a while to stop it from rusting. Whatever you do, don’t sharpen the pencil.’

Marc tapped the point against the tip of his finger. ‘Sharp,’ he said.

Troy laughed. ‘Who would have thought that, genius?’

As the boys spoke, Lael and Yetta scooped their English clothes into canvas sacks and passed them over.

‘Don’t even think about taking any of them,’ Lael warned. ‘I’ll bring your cases up to your hut later when we’ve done all the alterations. Now you two need to go back to the house for the Brigadier to sort out your money and identity documents.’

‘Oooh money,’ Marc said, as he headed out in one of his new shirts. ‘I wonder how much we’re getting.’

‘Good luck,’ Yetta shouted after them. ‘And tell the next pair to get down here.’

Madeline II
cruised out of Porth Navas Creek at ten the next morning, with Lieutenant Commander Finch at the helm. It was a fine day, but Henderson ordered the kids to stay below in the rear crew compartment. The locals had got used to seeing the German boat on test runs, but a bunch of kids standing on deck would be sure to set tongues wagging in the villages along the shore.

The boat was designed for sixteen, so the crew of eleven had been crammed into the nine bunks in the bow, Henderson and the boys had the six bunks in the rear compartment, while Rosie and Boo shared the captain’s quarters, thanks to the addition of an upper bunk.

The boys squatted on beds in the cramped compartment, playing cards with the morning sun shining through the rear deck hatch above their heads. The boat’s three prop shafts ran beneath their feet and the third engine was only separated from them by a couple of metres and a wooden bulkhead.

It was calm as they cruised out of the creek and down the Helford River, with Finch keeping their speed low to avoid upsetting the oyster boats fishing in shallows over the mudflats. But once they reached the ocean, Finch opened the triple throttle and put
Madeline II
up to twenty-two knots. The vibration from the prop shaft rattled the metal bed frames as the speeding boat bounced violently off the waves.

It was funny for about five minutes – laughing as the cards jiggled in their hands and their mattress springs squealed – but the voyage would last fifty hours and they’d be stuck in here for most of that time.

PT said he wasn’t putting up with it and went up on deck. The Royal Navy ensign fluttered on the rear flagpole as he stood with his hands on the deck rail watching the three water jets thrown up by the propellers.

Behind the small bridge the deck was dominated by six fuel tanks which had been custom-built to fit in the bays where the Germans stored their torpedoes. The extra diesel would enable them to cruise at high speed for lengthy periods, but the trade-off was the danger of an explosion if they were shot at.

To minimise
Madeline II
’s chances of being attacked by friendly fire, she would travel south with a Flower Class corvette, HMS
Columbine
. She was twice the length of
Madeline II
, with a crew of eighty and six deck guns to
Madeeline II
’s two. Although
Columbine
offered protection, her class had been designed for escorting slow merchant ships and she couldn’t steam above twelve knots over long periods.

Only the light through the deck hatch gave the boys any clue about the passage of time, but this was closed when the water got choppy. Even when conditions were good they had to stay below deck because Henderson didn’t want the crew of
Columbine
asking awkward questions about a boatload of kids.

Meals came and went in rectangular metal trays. The only escape was when they walked the length of the boat to use the toilet in the bow, stopping off to say hello to Boo and Rosie. Joel and Paul threw up a couple of times and everyone got headaches from the diesel fumes. They invented games to eat up time: who can balance a playing card on their nose for longest, who can hook their foot behind their neck, who would dare to eat all the greasy pink bits everyone had picked out of their lunch?