Grey Wolves (27 page)

Henderson didn’t pay much attention because he’d rushed to the window to see which way the trio walked as they left the house. He turned back to Edith once they were out of sight.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she sniffled.

Henderson pulled Edith close and tried to ignore her distinctive aroma as he rubbed her back and spoke soothingly. ‘Did you mention anyone’s name apart from mine?’

Edith shook her head. ‘I did like you said when you taught us security: just say it was one person that you hardly knew. I probably should have made a person up, but I was really frightened.’

‘I’m not upset with you,’ Henderson said soothingly. ‘But this shows why we’ve always got to be so careful. Every time we bring someone into the network, there’s a risk that other people will find out, and it only takes one bad egg for the Gestapo to sink their teeth into the whole lot of us.’

‘I know the girl,’ Edith said. ‘Not her name, but she used to work at the laundry, so I can probably find out.’

‘You do that as soon as you can,’ Henderson said. ‘Did they take you anywhere?’

Edith nodded. ‘But they had me blindfolded. It wasn’t far from here, two or three streets at most.’

‘Probably even nearer than that,’ Henderson said. ‘Unless they’re stupid enough to walk around town with a gun in a bag.’

‘So if we find them, will you have them killed?’ Edith asked.

‘Not unless we have to,’ Henderson said. ‘Their idea of attacking the U-boat crews in the bunker is actually pretty sound, provided you could find a way to prevent revenge attacks. Joel actually mentioned that four U-boats are sailing on a joint operation at the end of next week.’

‘So you actually think the communists might be useful to us?’ Edith asked.

‘Maybe,’ Henderson said. ‘But they can’t run the show. Our first job is to track them down and show them who’s boss.’

Joel started work at eight on Monday morning. With five U-boats in Keroman dock, the workshop floor was covered in giant batteries mounted on wheeled platforms. His lumbering colleague André had already started work, replacing one of the rubber shock absorbers designed to prevent batteries getting damaged in heavy seas. There was no sign of his boss, Canard, but that was no surprise.

‘Coffee?’ Joel shouted.

André raised his head and gave a thumbs-up. ‘Cream and five sugars.’

Joel laughed. The only coffee they had was vile-tasting muck which was actually made from acorns, not coffee beans. There was no fresh milk and sugar was hard to get hold of, even on the black market.

‘You wish, mate,’ Joel said. ‘Has Canard dragged his lazy arse in?’

‘On a Monday?’ André said. ‘Be lucky to see him before nine.’

Joel picked up a clipboard with the order of work on it. After six weeks in the job he could drain, strip, clean and repair batteries as well as anyone. It was boring and the ten-hour shifts were a grind, but he never had to work particularly hard and he was happier working with his hands and earning money than he’d ever been sitting in a classroom learning something useless.

According to the clipboard, the batteries for U-17 and U-23 were being given top priority because both would sail within the next three days. Two other boats were part of the four-boat flotilla that would sail next week, while U-93 had suffered severe damage on its last voyage. She was being used as a floating spare parts bin and her crew had been sent to Germany to work up a new boat.

After taking André’s coffee across, Joel opened his toolbox and dropped a handful of the platinum-infused washers into a compartment. He moved to his workbench and donned a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves before dipping his hands into a milky alkaline bath and lifting out a thin lead plate. This heavy lump was a battery electrode. It had soaked overnight to loosen the chemical deposits that built up when the battery was charged and discharged, seriously impeding its performance.

With a mask over his mouth and eyes slightly stinging from the fumes, Joel held the electrode over a metal tray and used a wooden scraper to peel off chalky deposits. After five minutes’ scraping and brushing, he was sweating from the effort, but the plate was clean.

The empty cell casing was half a metre square and one metre long – designed to be lowered through a type VII U-boat’s main hatch with millimetres to spare. The battery was well past its best. The outer casing had been dented and hammered flat, and the inside had chemical scars where seawater had leaked inside and reacted violently with battery acid.

The plate was the first of 120 that slotted into ridges in the cell casing. It would take Joel the whole of today’s shift and most of tomorrow’s to scrub and insert all the plates. When this job was complete the cell would be taken aboard the U-boat and its crew would flood the cell with sulphuric acid and seal it shut.

Joel took a nut, a bolt and one of the platinum pill washers. He’d got used to working in the thick gloves and handled the small pieces deftly as he leaned inside the battery and bolted the plate into position. If the boffins in London were right, the platinum in this single washer would react with the sulphuric acid and destroy the battery.

‘Joel, André,’ a German shouted fiercely. ‘Get over here.’

The uniformed chief mechanic couldn’t have timed his arrival more perfectly in terms of making Joel paranoid about getting caught.

‘Quickly,’ the German barked, as the two overalled workers stopped walking in front of him. ‘Canard will not be joining you today.’

‘Is he sick again?’ André asked in his distinctive slurred voice.

‘I’ve grown tired of his attitude,’ the mechanic said, smiling. ‘I’ve long suspected that he has communist sympathies. His home was searched, illegal materials discovered and we’ve found him a
delightful
new assignment at a labour camp in Poland. I’m trying to get more skilled mechanics brought back from Brest, but in the meantime you two must take up the slack.’

Joel was slightly flustered. ‘Canard knew more than us. Me and André can do the basics, but if something goes awry, Canard’s the man to sort it out.’

‘A three-legged dog would be more bloody use around here than Canard,’ the engineer said dismissively. ‘Canard only knows what I and other German mechanics have taught him. If you need help, report the problem to me. I’m also bringing in new rules. From now on, you must get my approval before you take a break or leave at the end of your shift. If your work isn’t on schedule, you will stay here until it is.’

With that, the chief mechanic turned sharply and headed for the door.

Joel was torn. On a human level Canard had made a good boss, but he only cared about getting through the day with as little effort as possible and his absence created an opportunity.

‘Sir,’ Joel shouted, making the engineer turn back. ‘I have a mate who might be interested in working here. Even if he just learns to scrape electrodes and clean out the cells when they first come in it’ll still be a big help.’

The German pushed his lips into a circle as if he was thinking about this. ‘Yes, another boy would be good. Tell this friend to come and meet me for an interview.’

*

Luc didn’t like Henderson and Henderson didn’t like Luc, but they were both making a rather strained effort to get along as they walked up Lorient’s main shopping street.

‘You did well in the bar the last two nights,’ Henderson told Luc.

‘Thanks,’ Luc said. ‘That bloody cigarette tray kills your neck though.’

‘Madame Mercier believes they’ll be opening the bars and restaurants up to French people again soon,’ Henderson said. ‘That should earn you some extra tips. One chap used to give Marc two francs every time he lit his cigar.’

‘Nice,’ Luc said, but his attention was caught by a small shop:
Enzo Maillard Watch Repair
. ‘Is that the one you were talking about?’

Henderson nodded. ‘I just couldn’t remember the exact name. You can use the telephones at the train station. Just be careful who’s standing nearby.’

‘I know,’ Luc said irritably. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘The library. I’ve got a little research project.’

Luc had to pass through a security checkpoint to enter Lorient station, then had to queue fifteen minutes for the phone box, slamming the sliding doors for privacy.

‘Operator. What number please?’

‘Gestapo headquarters.’

‘One moment … Please insert one franc to connect your call.’

After a few crackling sounds and three sharp rings, a German-accented receptionist answered the phone.

‘Good morning,’ Luc began politely. ‘I’d like to speak with Oberst Karl Bauer if that’s possible.’

‘I’m afraid the Oberst is out at the moment, can I take a message?’

Luc was relieved. His plan relied on Bauer being out, but Henderson only had a rough idea of his working hours.

‘It’s a personal matter,’ Luc began. ‘I work at Maillard Watch Repair. Oberst Bauer left a pocket watch with us for a service. He was most insistent that I deliver it back to his apartment this afternoon, but we’ve lost the docket with his address and we’re most anxious not to cause him any upset.’

The receptionist laughed. ‘Upsetting Oberst Bauer is never a good idea, but I’m sure I’ll be able to find the address of his quarters. Could you wait for one moment?’

‘Of course,’ Luc said, smiling to himself. ‘Thank you so much.’

*

The skies were dark grey as Paul pedalled home, carrying the messages Henderson had deposited in the mailbox less than an hour earlier. The hammerhead clouds looked ominously like a thunderstorm heading in, but the single track pathway was heavily pitted so he couldn’t ride any faster.

Their latest home was the third in under two months, because bitter experience had shown that undercover radio teams couldn’t stay in one location for long periods. German military intelligence had monitoring stations all over France. These picked up radio transmissions made by undercover agents and could calculate a two-by-two-kilometre area from which the transmission was sent. This location was relayed to specially trained Gestapo squads that used radio detection equipment to track down and arrest radio operators.

The shabby cottage was on a dead-end road, at the edge of a lively village seven kilometres from Lorient. Paul was pleased to reach the front door as the first large raindrops pelted his cap.

‘How much have we got?’ Boo asked. ‘We’re on a tight sked.’

Rosie snatched Henderson’s papers from her brother. The sked – or schedule – gave them a transmission time each day when the monitoring stations in southern England would be listening out for their signal. Today’s sked was half past twelve. It was already gone eleven so they had a little over an hour to convert Henderson’s message into code.

‘Submarine movements from Joel,’ Rosie said, as she flipped through the four sheets of paper. ‘Information about the arrival of a U-boat supply vessel at Keroman. Continuing difficulties shunting supplies into the dockyard due to shortage of small locomotives and blah, blah, blah. It’s about a hundred and fifty words plus a short message that’s already been put into Henderson’s personal code.’

As Rosie spoke, Boo started a small fire in the kitchen range so that they could burn all their notes as soon as the transmission was over. She then tore several sheets from a pad of squared paper. Rosie’s first step was to condense all of the information on the four sheets into the smallest number of words. When she’d done this, she gave it to Paul to make sure that it made sense and had left nothing out.

A lightning bolt lit up the whitewashed wall behind them.

‘Static electricity will play havoc with our signal,’ Boo said.

Boo and Rosie halved the shortened message, and sat at a table with pencils and squared paper converting it into code. This was done using a specially prepared book of Dutch poems. On each day, they’d pick a different poem based upon a prearranged schedule. The first line of today’s poem was:

Myn Ideeën zyn de times van myn ziel
.

And the first line of the message was:

Sailing four subs Thur next week. Atlantic
.

To convert the message into code, they added the numeric values of the letters together, or took them away, depending on which day of the week it was. Monday was a subtraction day.

M from myn was the 13th letter of the alphabet, S from sailing was the 19th letter of the alphabet. So Rosie had to calculate 13 minus 19 to give –6. She would then have to transmit the 6th letter from the end of the alphabet, which is U.

This calculation was repeated for every letter in the message and would have to be reversed at the receiving end to decode what they were saying. The only way for the Germans to decipher this message would be if they got hold of the poetry book.

‘Paul,’ Boo said, as she glanced up from her squared paper. ‘Turn the radio on to warm up, then unroll the aerial and head uphill to your lookout position.’

Paul looked pretty miserable at the prospect as Rosie stuck her tongue out. ‘You’re gonna get soaked, baby face.’

‘Oh get stuffed,’ Paul moaned, as he headed out the front door.

Boo and Rosie could transmit Morse code at around thirty words per minute. Their message was less than two hundred words, but the actual transmission took much longer than the six minutes this raw speed implied.

To avoid detection, their suitcase-sized radio could only transmit a weak signal. Even in ideal conditions, Rosie or Boo would be delayed by three-letter Q code instructions sent by their receiving station in England. QTC was a request to confirm the number of letters sent. QRS meant slow down the speed of transmission. Worst of all was QSM, which was a request to repeat the last section of the message.

The thunderstorm caused interference with the radio signal and Rosie had to send some chunks of the message seven or eight times before hearing confirmation of safe receipt in her earpiece.

Paul was utterly miserable, hunched on a hillside a couple of hundred metres from the cottage. He was under a tree, but the breeze was whipping up the rain so it gave him little protection. He had his arms folded and it felt like such a long time that he was half convinced the girls were playing a joke on him.