Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day (15 page)

The cowshed was large enough for eight animals, but the better stock had either been sold off before the owners left or pilfered afterwards. Of the pair that remained one was a calf with a deformed back leg that Marc guessed was six to eight months old. Its mother appeared in reasonable health, except for a tick infection that left raw patches on her coat.

Marc crouched down to inspect the older beast’s udder and saw that she was still producing milk for her calf. He found a pot inside the cowshed, washed it out in a trough overflowing with the previous day’s rainwater, then nervously approached, patting the cow’s side to gauge whether she was comfortable with his presence before going down on one knee and inspecting the udders for any sign of infection.

As the cow hadn’t been milked for some time there was a chance of a violent reaction, but Marc moved his hand gently down the teat and a blast of warm, creamy milk hit the bottom of the pan.

‘Good girl,’ Marc said soothingly, stroking the cow’s side as she mooed.

⁸
Kübelwagens – open-topped German cars, similar to American Jeeps or British Land Rovers.

After six days on the farm the fake family had established a routine. Henderson complained to Vivien and Luc Boyle about the state of the farm, which pressured the couple into action. They arranged for a local handyman to do some repairs on the cottage, donated a goat, some chickens and a third cow.

The land was still a mess, but the cottage was now sealed from the rain, while warm weather and fanatical ventilation were gradually clearing the stench of damp and mildew. The previous tenants had sown a vegetable patch and two fields of potatoes in the spring and, while the crops had been neglected, there were still enough vegetables for a family to get by on.

The chickens gave eggs and Marc had cleaned out the cowshed and got the two adult cows into a regular milking schedule. He felt proud because they were the first things he’d ever been entirely responsible for.

On weekdays Henderson left at seven and rode into Calais, where he worked as a translator at German headquarters. Maxine and the kids did small jobs around the farm each morning, though their lack of expertise meant that they concentrated on tidying up rather than any serious attempt to clear the overgrown land and bring the farm back to full-scale production.

The local schools had closed before the invasion and because there were few pupils and even fewer teachers they showed no signs of reopening. So after making lunch Maxine would set the kids free. Paul liked to wander off on his own, with a large pad and a tin of coloured pencils and pastels that Henderson had bought from a Calais pawnbroker.

Paul had lived in Paris all his life and he was fascinated by the coast. There was a stretch of pebble beach a few minutes’ walk from the farm and a craggy expanse of white stone behind it. He liked to sit alone and draw, but he liked it more when the Germans arrived.

They came in convoys of open trucks, formed lines and did light physical training exercises before stripping to their shorts and heading down to the sea. Paul buried himself behind rocks, and sketched the men.

He’d always thought of the German Army as a mighty force packed with muscle-bound brutes, but stripped of boots and guns they reminded him of a school gym lesson. Confident bodies threw themselves at the waves, while big men with flabby arms looked embarrassed and skinny ones who didn’t like walking on the pebbles hobbled.

Paul drew men quickly, in a few rapid strokes, trying to capture expressions and postures of the sea-front drama. A non-swimmer was dragged out yelling and screaming as his mates on the shore jeered. They yelled phrases that Paul didn’t understand; their bullying tone matched that of boys who’d pushed him around at school in Paris.

Paul found it depressing to think that when he finally escaped from education, he was sure to be conscripted into the military and would have to put up with the same bullying crap all over again. As Paul wallowed in this train of thought he failed to hear the German officer clambering over the white rocks in the blind spot on his left.

The first he knew was when a boot crunched a few metres from his face, sending chalkstone clattering down the shallow cliff-face. The officer was a good-looking man, with a square jaw and spindly fingers.

Fearing a slap or kick, Paul dropped his pad and covered his head.

‘Don’t be scared.’ The officer smiled, speaking in decent French, ‘I see you have the sling off your arm today.’

Paul was shocked. He thought he’d been invisible, but the German had clearly seen him before.

‘Max— Er, my mother took the splints off last night,’ Paul explained warily, as he held out a lower arm with a distinct kink in it. ‘It hasn’t set straight, but luckily I draw with my left hand.’

‘Like me,’ the German said, still smiling. ‘I’m left-handed, but every time I took the pen with my left at school the teacher would rap me on the knuckles.’

‘Same with me.’ Paul nodded, feeling more comfortable now it was clear that he wasn’t in trouble. ‘It’s really stupid. What difference does it make if you write with your left hand?’

‘Beats me.’ The officer shrugged. ‘So what do you think of today’s swimmers?’

Paul sat up on the rocks as he answered. ‘They’re not as good as the ones you had here last week.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ the officer laughed. ‘They’re a mountain battalion. Half of them can’t swim and most have never seen the sea before.’

Paul couldn’t think what to say in reply and there was a brief silence before the officer bent over and took Paul’s pad. He burst into laughter as he saw the sketches of men struggling in the water and doing their exercises.

‘These are really good,’ the officer said. ‘You really capture their … I don’t know the French word. The in their body.’
sense

Paul enjoyed the compliment. ‘Their emotions,’ he smiled.

‘Yes,’ the officer said, nodding as he began flicking through the pad. ‘Emotions. It’s clever how you convey so much with just a few lines. And I see that you work well in other styles too.’
very

Paul cringed as the German turned the spiral-bound pages. He hated people looking at his drawings because he sometimes liked to draw really dark stuff like dead bodies or people being eaten by giant bugs. But the German held the pad open at a pastel drawing of Rosie, depicted with a hammer in her hand as she helped PT to repair the cottage roof.

‘Is that your girlfriend?’ the officer asked teasingly.

Paul shook his head. ‘My sister.’

‘You draw beautifully,’ the officer said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bar of chocolate. ‘Here. I have plenty.’

Paul had a sweet tooth and was a huge fan of chocolate. This was the first he’d seen since leaving Paris a month earlier, so he snatched it keenly. ‘Thank you much, sir.’
so

‘I’ve seen you up here several times,’ the officer said, as he passed back the pad and took his wallet from inside his coat, ‘but I had no idea that I was in the presence of such a talent. Have you ever tried drawing from a photograph?’

Paul nodded. ‘It’s not as good as real life, but I used to do it all the time. When I was little I used to draw cars and aeroplanes from pictures in magazines, but I mostly draw people and animals now. They’re more interesting for some reason.’

The German took a photograph from his wallet. ‘My wife, daughter and I. If I gave you this could you make a small drawing of it?’

Paul liked being free to draw whatever he fancied, but he was intimidated by the tall officer and grateful for the chocolate.

‘You don’t look sure,’ the officer said. ‘But you do like chocolate, yes?’

‘The only thing better than chocolate is bread and jam.’

‘OK,’ the officer said, laughing. ‘In our storeroom we have boxes of good Belgian chocolate. Twenty-four bars in each box. If I gave you one of those would you draw my family from this photograph?’

‘We’re almost out of jam,’ Paul said. ‘Do you have jars of jam?’

The officer held his hands about thirty centimetres apart. ‘The army gets it in cans about this size. Mixed berry or apricot.’

‘I’ll draw your picture for a can of mixed berry,’ Paul said, smiling.

‘Deal,’ the German said, as he passed over the photograph. ‘It’s my only picture of them, so be sure you don’t lose it.’

*

Henderson was in decent shape but the Germans seldom let him off work much before seven and the thirteen-kilometre ride home along the coast road was no fun when he was tired. Waves crashed and occasional gusts sent his bike wavering dangerously close to military vehicles. The German drivers ignored speed limits and knew they’d face little more than a rebuke if they squished a French cyclist.

Halfway between Calais and home, the Germans had set up a snap checkpoint. These cropped up at random locations throughout the region and comprised two cars or two trucks parked on opposite sides of the road and anywhere between three and six soldiers.

This was the third checkpoint Henderson had encountered in the six days since they’d arrived in the north. French traffic queued, while Germans were waved through. The wait varied, depending upon the level of traffic and how methodical the soldiers were, but even a ten-minute delay was irritating at the end of a ten-hour shift.

The Germans had forbidden the sale of petrol to Frenchmen, effectively banning private vehicles in the process. The queue comprised a single farm tractor, eight bicycles and a similar number on foot. The soldier inspecting documents spoke less than a dozen words of French, but took great pains over each piece of paper and held it up to the sun, presumably to check for some mysterious sign that it was a forgery.

Although the Germans were on the lookout for spies, their everyday targets were French soldiers who’d escaped from the weakly guarded prisons. As a result, men got a harder time than women and men of military age such as Henderson could expect a thorough grilling.

After a fifteen-minute wait, during which less than half the queue in front of Henderson disappeared, a Mercedes limousine with a Nazi flag at the end of its long bonnet drew up alongside. Henderson got the horrible feeling that he was being called back to translate at some ghastly late-night meeting, but instead the back door was thrown open revealing Oberst
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Ohlsen, the Deputy Commander of the Pas-de-Calais region.

‘Mr Boyle,’ the Oberst said warmly. ‘Perhaps I can offer you a short cut?’

Henderson nodded as he recognised the balding Oberst. He’d met him the previous Friday whilst translating at a meeting with a director of the French railways.

The Oberst thumped on the glass panel that separated the passenger compartment and ordered his driver to strap Henderson’s bike to the rear of the car. Henderson walked around to help the driver, but the Oberst ordered him brusquely inside the car.

The vehicle’s interior was panelled in walnut, with two comfortable chairs at the back and two pull-down seats facing the other way. Henderson settled in next to the Oberst, separated by a leather arm rest which flipped open to reveal two crystal decanters and a row of tumblers.

‘Drink?’ the Oberst asked.

Henderson was thirsty after a six-kilometre bike ride and needed cold water more than whisky or wine, but an opportunity to socialise with such a senior officer was a rarity so Henderson accepted a glass of red.

‘Heading home, Mr Boyle?’ the Oberst asked.

Henderson nodded. ‘A long day,’ he said. ‘At least my wife will have a meal ready.’

The driver pulled away and the engine of the huge limousine was so remote from the back seats that they could hear the click of German heels as the soldiers on the checkpoint saluted their deputy commander.

‘I envy you home cooking,’ the Oberst said. ‘It’s four months since I saw my wife.’

This comment made Henderson feel guilty. It had been more than four months since he’d seen his real wife back in England, and Maxine wasn’t the first woman he’d slept with during the interlude.

‘This beats the bike.’ Henderson smiled, spreading himself over the padded leather as the German raised his glass and made a toast.

‘Cooperation,’ the German said, and Henderson copied him.

‘It is actually a pleasant surprise to bump into you, Mr Boyle,’ the Oberst said. ‘Your translation at the meeting on Friday was immaculate and I’ve found that a good translator can make my life a lot easier.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Henderson said.

‘I’ve received orders from General Rufus today. He’s put me in charge of the overall planning for Operation Sea-lion.’

Henderson had nosed around and picked up details from documents he shouldn’t have seen, but he pretended to be mystified. ‘Sea-lion, Herr Oberst?’

‘The operation to invade England,’ Ohlsen explained. ‘The logistics are fearsome: eleven battalions, twenty thousand horses, eighteen thousand tanks, artillery pieces and god knows how many vehicles have to be transported across the English Channel on barges. The battle between the Luftwaffe and the Royal Air Force is going in our favour and Berlin demands that we’re ready to invade as soon as we control the skies.’

‘A task you can really sink your teeth into,’ Henderson said, as he wondered whether to ask a bold question. ‘Is there a target date set for the invasion?’

The Oberst smiled. ‘There’s no firm date, but once the destruction of the Royal Air Force is complete, the die will be cast.’

‘Before winter, I assume,’ Henderson said.

‘Of course.’ The Oberst nodded. ‘You need daylight and good weather for this kind of operation. It has to be before the end of September. Otherwise we’ll have to wait until next spring and who knows what fortifications the British will have built by then?’

‘Absolutely,’ Henderson agreed, as he drained the last of his wine.

‘Another?’ the German asked, but Henderson shook his head and the Oberst continued. ‘Anyhow, Mr Boyle, getting back to your excellent translation services. I actually dictated a memo to the translation department earlier today, requesting that you be permanently assigned to my office. Operation Sea-lion has absolute priority, which means that I’ll need a highly capable translator, rather than whatever incompetent the translation department decides to assign me.’