Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,51

look dodgy?’

‘They’re river barges. We’ve been assured that they’re seaworthy,’ the officer said. ‘Not that I’d fancy crossing the channel in one on a stormy night.’

Paul handed the binoculars back to the officer and picked his pad up off the rocks. ‘I did your drawing, sir.’

The officer was delighted when he saw it. Paul had drawn portraits before and knew that people were happiest when the image flattered them. He’d made a notebook-sized pencil drawing with thousands of neat strokes. The daughter and wife were both recognisable, but somehow more beautiful than in the original photograph.

‘I hope you like it,’ Paul said. ‘It’s from a photograph, so I had to guess all the colours.’

‘It’s fabulous,’ the officer said, beaming. He clearly missed his family and seemed genuinely touched. ‘I was going to send it to my wife, but you know what? I think I might keep it in my quarters.’

‘I can see there’s a lot going on today,’ Paul said. ‘I can get the jam another day if you’re busy.’

‘No,’ the officer said. ‘I want to put this drawing back in my car before it gets crushed. You can walk with me.’

The officer’s car was parked at the kerb of the coast road, half a kilometre away. The exercise had brought a huge amount of traffic into the area and the parked trucks and cars were causing horn blasts and frayed tempers.

As they walked, three huge Panzer tanks blasted along the pebble beach. Their tracks spun, throwing stones and grit in a huge plume as the engines revved and diesel smoke billowed through the exhaust towers at the rear.

‘Have you ever driven a tank?’ Paul asked.

‘No, thank god,’ the officer said. ‘I’ve ridden in one a few times and they’re merciless: hot, smelly and you wake up the next morning with a backache and twenty bruises.’

The officer’s car was a Renault with French number plates that had presumably been commandeered from one of the locals. After laying Paul’s drawing flat in the glovebox, the German opened the boot and pulled out an aluminium can with a small brown label.

‘It’s more like a paint can,’ Paul smiled, as the weight dragged on his arm. ‘It’s really lucky because all I’ve got left is a tiny blob in the bottom of the jar and my mum can’t find any more in the village shop.’

‘My pleasure,’ the officer said. ‘Go straight home with it. It’s best not to get seen running around with a big tin of German jam with all these SS officers around.’

Paul looked disappointed. ‘But I wanted to watch the barges.’

‘Run it home and come back,’ the German suggested. ‘And when you do, stay at this end of the beach. I wouldn’t stray too close to the VIPs and their bodyguards if I were you.’

There were so few civilians in the area that Paul decided it would be safe to cross the coast road and hide his jam behind a tree on the path back to the house. Once this was done, he retreated to his usual spot amongst the rocks as the empty barges headed towards the beach.

*

While Oberst Ohlsen stood on the pier behind Hermann Goering and a line of SS guards, his staff back in Calais were enjoying his absence. As well as working as Oberst Ohlsen’s personal translator, Henderson had been tasked with giving six senior officers a basic grounding in French.

The classroom at the Calais headquarters had formerly been the executive dining room of a French shipping line. The walls were hung with pictures of steamships, although the one over the fireplace had been taken down and replaced with a swastika.

Henderson had never taught languages before, but rather than bore a roomful of busy officers with written exercises he made them take turns enacting scenes such as ordering drinks from a bar, or speaking to a telephone operator.

When the class grew bored, he’d liven things up with blue jokes or more risqué scenarios, such as what to say to a Frenchman who aims a shotgun at you when he catches you in bed with his daughter.

This teaching technique worked well, but Henderson’s style was all part of his real intention, which was to get friendly with as many senior German officers as possible.

‘Now our beloved Oberst is at the beach in his little pink trunks,’ Henderson said in German, as he looked at his watch and saw that it was a quarter to one. Then he switched to French, ‘So I suggest that we all