Grey Wolves (31 page)

Any communities harbouring spies or other anti-German activity will face identical measures.

BY ORDER

The Gestapo

Warning poster put up around Lorient, July 1941

Monday 21 July 1941

A month after the invasion of Russia, Lorient’s small German army garrison had seen its youngest and fittest men sent to fight on the eastern front. Security was now in the hands of gendarmes and middle-aged German soldiers.

The French police were recruiting and Madame Mercier had worked with Henderson to ensure that some of these hastily trained new officers would be loyal to their burgeoning resistance group rather than the occupiers.

The shortage of German manpower meant that soldiers worked long shifts and only got one day off per fortnight. Checkpoints had become erratic. At some, bored and tired Germans did little more than glance at paperwork; others took the opposite course and vented their frustrations on the locals.

Joel encountered one of the vengeful ones as he headed to work that Monday. It was seven a.m., with a breeze coming off the nearby sea and the U-boat maintenance sheds where he worked in plain view beyond the checkpoint. He was fifth in line and had already been waiting more than twenty minutes.

At the queue’s head, a fat German guard and a cocky French police officer were hassling a young woman, on the grounds that the signature on her identity card was smeared. The policeman groped her breasts as he searched her and then made her lift her dress up to her waist in front of twenty queuing workmen. Joel thought her legs were sexy, but felt guilty about his lustful thoughts as she grabbed her basket and hurried off in tears.

‘Was it as good for you as it was for me?’ the Frenchman shouted after her, as he grinned at his German workmate seeking approval. ‘Next.’

Joel had been in France for two months now. The checkpoints, queues and petty rules wound him up, but he’d also come to realise that they were the key to the long-term success of their resistance operations.

Ordinary workers didn’t much care if their leader was elected French, German fascist or Russian communist, but they cared a great deal if their loved one was in a labour camp, that the schools were still closed and that you had to queue for three hours to buy a small ration of cheese.

Joel eventually got to work twenty minutes late and the chief mechanic was straight on his back. He usually kept his boss sweet, but this would be his last day on the job so he snapped back.

‘It’s not my fault if it suddenly takes an hour to get through a German checkpoint that usually takes ten minutes, is it?’

‘You should always leave extra time for unforeseen circumstances,’ the mechanic said.

Joel cast his arm out at the almost empty workshop. ‘We got everything finished a day early anyway. This place never worked at this pace when Canard was in charge.’

The chief grunted. ‘You worked hard over the weekend and the new boy is doing well, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re indispensable. Canard was also under that illusion, and look where he ended up.’

With that, the chief stormed out. Joel gave André a good morning wave before finding the seventeen-year-old communist sympathiser tienne pretending to work at the far end of the room.

‘How’s your brother this morning?’ Joel asked.

‘Antoine packed his bag last night,’ tienne said. ‘Had to hide it up in the loft so that our mum doesn’t find it. She’ll cry her eyes out this evening when she finds out he’s left home.’

‘What time does he finish work at the bakery?’ Joel asked.

‘Early. Threeish or something like that,’ tienne said.

‘And you’re OK with everything here?’ Joel said.

Étienne nodded. ‘I’m not trying to be big-headed or anything, but our dad ran a garage before he died. I grew up fixing cars. A battery isn’t tricky compared to a car engine.’

‘You’ve done well,’ Joel said. ‘You’ve got enough of the platinum pill washers to last for a while, but don’t put them in every battery you do or they’ll trace the problem back to this workshop. I’m told we’re trying to infiltrate some of the other U-boat bases along the coast, but I expect Hortefeux’s replacement will tell you all about that.’

‘Has the new boss arrived yet?’ Étienne asked.

‘Not that I know of,’ Joel said. ‘And no offence, but with this stuff the less you know the better. Mr Hortefeux’s replacement will be in touch within a few days.’

*

After
Madeline II
’s previous stormy trip, Commander Finch was pleased to pull her alongside
Istanbul
on a perfect glinting sea. The deck of the wooden fishing boat was overpopulated, and Troy had to fight his way around to say emotional goodbyes to Nicolas, Olivier and Michel, who he’d lived and worked with for more than two months.

‘Be safe, guys,’ Troy said, as he ran across the gangplank.

Henderson had already crossed over to
Madeline II
and stood in the radio room below the bridge with Commander Finch and Captain Warburton, a New Zealander who captained a small torpedo boat named HMS
Gulliver
. The three senior naval officers leaned over a coastal chart as they quickly discussed that evening’s operation to destroy the U-boat crew bunker at Keroman.

Up on deck Finch’s crew formed a human chain, loading guns, explosives, uniforms and other weapons into
Istanbul
’s fishy deck hold.

Henderson shook Warburton’s hand when it was time to leave. ‘Hope to see your crewmates on time this evening.’

‘They’ll be there, Captain Henderson,’ Warburton said confidently, as he glanced at his watch. ‘Eleven hours, fifteen minutes and counting.’

Henderson said a quick goodbye to Troy before crossing the gangplank back on to
Istanbul
.

‘All clear,’ one of the navy men shouted.

Madeline II
was already blasting away as Henderson lowered himself into the deck hold. As well as the boxed supplies, he found himself squeezed in with Lavender – a twenty-two-year-old who would replace Boo as their group’s chief radio operator – along with a muscular nineteen-year-old called Eugene.

Eugene was a former German prisoner who’d escaped the country with Henderson the previous summer. After reaching Britain he’d enlisted in the Free French Army and undergone espionage training. Now he was returning to France to take over from Henderson in charge of the burgeoning Lorient resistance circuit.

Henderson shook both their hands as the wire mesh was fitted over their head, followed by a layer of freshly caught fish.

‘I feel like I have big shoes to fill, Captain Henderson,’ Eugene said.

Henderson was concerned about Eugene taking over the operation he’d built up so carefully. He was young and had no field experience, but Britain was rapidly expanding its espionage network in France. Experienced agents like Henderson were being used to establish new intelligence circuits, rather than run existing ones.

‘I think you’ll do absolutely fine,’ Henderson said. ‘Provided you can survive three hours trapped down here.’

*

Time was tight, so rather than the usual procedure of keeping the new arrivals in
Istanbul
’s hold until dark, Edith, Rosie and Alois kept watch as the equipment was unloaded, while Lavender, Eugene and Henderson dashed across the dockside to hose down and put on fresh clothes in the warehouse.

As Rosie walked Lavender and a radio set to a prearranged safe house close to Kerneval, the new radio operator confirmed that Boo and Paul had successfully made it to Vichy in the unoccupied southern portion of France. A sympathetic official at the American embassy there had sorted out their exit visas and they were now in Lisbon waiting for seats on a passenger plane bound for London.

Henderson, Alois and Eugene walked into Lorient and had a long lunch with Madame Mercier in a private room at Mamba Noir.

It was risky bringing the most senior figures in the circuit together in one place, but Henderson was going home after the operation that evening and it was vital that Eugene met everyone and understood what was going on.

Over lobster, steak and English trifle – made because it was Henderson’s favourite – they discussed the challenges that lay ahead. On the positive side, the Germans’ brutal retaliation at La Trinité, along with increasingly strict curfews and regulations, meant that the average French civilian was much more hostile towards the Germans than they’d been a few months earlier. But the extra security regulations also made operations more difficult.

The group was growing, with tentacles spreading into the police and tentative links with local communists.
Madeline II
was regularly delivering supplies and agents, as well as smuggling out the occasional refugee or downed airman. But more operatives meant more chance of being caught and more equipment meant more chance of the Germans finding it.

‘At some point things will go horribly wrong,’ Henderson warned. ‘But the key to the group’s survival is security, because nobody can tell the Gestapo what they don’t know.’

Eugene felt overawed as he began to grasp the complexities of his new job.

‘I feel like you’ve built me a tower of cards,’ Eugene told Henderson. ‘And my job is to stop them from getting blown away.’

The four diners laughed, as they finished their meal with bitter chocolate and small cups of espresso coffee.

Henderson took a glance at his watch. ‘And now it’s goodbye,’ he said, as he went around kissing everyone’s cheeks. ‘Alois, we didn’t get off to the best of starts what with you trying to kill me and all, but you’re a good man and we’d be nowhere without you and your brother’s work at the harbour. Madame Mercier, you are a true French heroine. Finally, Eugene, there’s no need to look so bloody scared because these two will look after you.’

Madame Mercier stood up and gave Henderson a hug. ‘Promise you’ll come back and see us all after we’ve won the war.’

Henderson laughed. ‘You want me back as soon as that?’

‘Nicolas will bring the cart with your equipment to Edith at the stables,’ Alois said.

The rugged old fisherman had tears in his eyes as Henderson headed out of the private room and left Mamba Noir for the last time. He crossed the street to his apartment. He’d already packed most of his things and left them aboard
Madeline II
that morning, but he had a final soapless shave and then packed his few remaining items in a leather bag.

His last act was to check the two rooms thoroughly for anything left behind. He didn’t bother pulling out the used handkerchief down the back of his bedside table, but he was surprised to find one of Marc’s undershirts trapped between his mattress and the rusty bed frame. It smelled vaguely of sweat, and Marc’s smell triggered a thousand memories.

Henderson looked around and saw Marc washing at the sink, Marc in bed, Marc pulling the curtains. He blamed himself for Marc’s death as he slammed the apartment door and bolted off down the stairs.

The U-boat crew bunker was at the heart of the huge construction site on the Keroman peninsula. Attacking it successfully meant carrying large quantities of weapons and explosives into the most secure part of the Lorient military zone. Henderson had planned meticulously, using information gathered by PT when he worked on the construction site, Edith’s local knowledge and, most valuably, information on the design and layout of the crew bunker which came from an exiled Spanish communist who was a friend of Antoine’s.

The guards on the main bridge going west out of Lorient knew Edith well and she had no trouble bringing the open-backed cart into town. After stopping to unload milk churns and fruit at a workmen’s canteen close to the docks, Edith turned the empty cart into the depopulated streets on the western side of the main U-boat dock.

She hadn’t been this way since the day she’d brought Marc over to take photographs of the bunkers. Organisation Todt was concentrating its manpower on completing the bunkers on the opposite side of the dock, so little had changed except for the demolition of a row of terraced houses, opening up a rubble path that would enable easy access for trucks bringing cranes and other large-scale equipment to the dockside.

‘Fleabag!’ a young lad shouted from the kerb. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages. What you up to?’

Jean-Paul was eleven, the youngest member of a little gang that Edith used to mess around with but had grown out of now she was almost thirteen and busy working for Madame Mercier.

‘Just came out to look around for old times’ sake,’ Edith said, stopping the cart out of politeness but hoping Jean-Paul would go away because she’d almost reached her destination. ‘Seen many Germans around?’

‘Not unless you go near the coal yards. No kid dares now. They got rid of Fat Adolf and the new guards bash your brains out if they catch you stealing coal. They got my brother one time. Mum had to come and fetch him and he was black and blue.’

‘Well it was nice seeing you,’ Edith said, as she gave the horse a tap. ‘I’d better go.’

‘You should come down and catch rats with us,’ Jean-Paul said, as he jogged alongside the cart. ‘We catch big massive ones with catapults and sell them to the butcher on Rue du Port. He pays us three francs per sack load.’

‘I’ll be sure to avoid his sausages in future,’ Edith said.

Then, much to her alarm, Jean-Paul jumped up on the cart.

‘Hey,’ she shouted. ‘This is Madame Mercier’s cart. Get off.’

‘Make me, Fleabag,’ Jean-Paul said, poking out his tongue.

Jean-Paul was a tough little lad. Edith might have been two years older, but she was skinny and knew she couldn’t make him do anything. Her only choice was to take him along and let Henderson deal with the situation.

Her destination was only a few hundred metres down the next street. Rosie and Henderson dashed out of a boarded-up shopfront as Jean-Paul sat up on the back of the cart.

‘What are you up to here?’ the boy asked suspiciously.

Edith didn’t want Jean-Paul running off and flapping his big mouth.

‘Come inside, if you want to see what we’re up to,’ she said.