when they reached countryside north-west of Beauvais, which some lads nicknamed the Badlands. The main threat here wasn’t from Germans or Milice, but from a thirty-strong band of Maquis bad boys, many of whom either didn’t like obeying Jean’s rules or had been kicked out for breaking them.
With no resistance contacts and no access to Allied supply drops, these young rebels were forced to steal and frequently made violent raids on farms, or held up shops. Many locals found it impossible to distinguish between different Maquis groups, and feared the gangs of young men living close by.
Luckily the quartet’s only problem was that they had to abandon the handcart when they left the road. Daniel moaned like hell when his pleas for a piggyback got turned down and he had to walk the last couple of kilometres.
News of Rosie’s death had spread through the young men stationed in the woods when PT had gone round picking his team to defend the orphanage. But if anyone acted strangely around Paul, he was too exhausted to notice.
By the time Henderson caught up, Paul had stripped off his boots and trousers and taken shelter from the sun under a canopy of woven branches. He now lay fast asleep on top of a sleeping bag, bony ribcage rising and falling with each breath.
Luc was officially in charge of the tunnel mission. He admired Henderson, but they rubbed each other up the wrong way and Luc spoke formally. ‘Would you like a briefing, sir?’
Henderson waved his hand dismissively. ‘You blew the train up and blocked the tunnel. Word from our sources in Beauvais is that the line will be out of action for two weeks. Perhaps more, if the fire buckled the iron trusses holding up the tunnel.’
‘Shame about the passenger train,’ Luc said coldly.
‘It’s a busy line,’ Henderson said. ‘There was always that risk. You did an excellent job. Now try catching some sleep and make sure Paul speaks to me as soon as he wakes up.’
Luc saw the hurt on Henderson’s face and could only think of one reason. ‘Is Rosie OK?’
Henderson almost said it, but it seemed wrong that Luc should find out first and he sounded annoyed. ‘Just do as I say for once.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Maquis might spend a few hours a day hunting, fishing, patrolling or collecting firewood. A couple of times per week there might be some extra excitement, like moving camp, a trip into town with a fake ration card or being picked for one of Henderson’s sabotage operations. But that still left a typical Maquis with a lot of free time.
Cards, dice and boxing were common, but the number one pastime was spreading and discussing rumours. Only the participants and a couple of Henderson’s agents knew about the tunnel raid, but everyone knew about the raid on the admin building, and the carnage at the orphanage was a full-blown sensation.
Henderson had asked the Maquis to stay in the forest to minimise the chances of further trouble, but for hard-core rumour mongers this only spurred a widespread belief that the Milice were now out to get them. By the end of a hot afternoon, the main debate was whether the Milice would stage a revenge attack on the orphanage, or come charging into the forest itself, backed up by German tanks and artillery.
Henderson sat under a woven branch canopy as Gilles asked for his opinion.
‘Every day someone tells me we’re doomed,’ Henderson said. ‘If the Germans had the will and resources to flush us out of the woods, why wait until now?’
‘Other Maquis groups have been smashed,’ Gilles pointed out.
‘Mainly in the south and usually when they stopped being mobile,’ Henderson said. ‘Anything is possible, but don’t tie yourself in knots over rumours.’
‘What about the orphanage?’
Henderson was less comfortable on this subject. ‘They’re vulnerable because they can’t vanish into the woods like we do. In our favour, people aren’t exactly queuing out the doors of Milice recruitment offices.’
Gilles nodded. ‘Especially since the communist resistance began killing family members of Milice officers.’
‘There’re many fewer men in Milice uniforms than the Germans would like us to think, that’s for sure,’ Henderson said.
Gilles was about to ask another question when Paul stepped into the shelter, dressed in a vest and ragged undershorts.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Gilles said. His mouth gaped and he put a clumsy foot in Henderson’s mess tin as he backed out.
‘My sister’s dead, isn’t she?’ Paul said.
‘Did Luc tell you?’ Henderson asked irritably. ‘I specifically asked—’
Paul interrupted