to finish the loading operation, or to complete the planned demonstration by backing a few hundred metres out to sea before landing the troops and weapons in a natural harbour on the opposite side of the pier.
As everyone concentrated on watching each other the sound overhead grew. Paul had drawn hundreds of aircraft and although it was the first example he’d seen in the flesh, Paul instantly recognised the four engines and square tailplane of a British Halifax bomber. A Hurricane fighter hovered off either side.
As the son of a British man Paul felt a certain pride, but he’d seen enough German bombs fall to know that explosions didn’t take sides. He sprang up from between the rocks and began running towards the road. By the time he’d made five steps the Germans had also recognised the threat and four hundred men, from teenaged grenadiers to the Reichsmarschall himself, were running for cover.
At over three hundred miles an hour, the Hurricane’s transition from a silhouette to a beast strafing the beach with machine-gun fire took less than twenty seconds. Paul had made it across the road and dived for cover in the trees beside his tin of jam. He looked up and saw the second Hurricane making its attack run.
From less than thirty metres, he could see the pilot’s moustache and read the side markings as it flew level with the reed tips on the clifftop. A few Germans fired handguns while others ran into the road or yelled for medics.
Paul thought about running deeper into the trees, but fear glued him down as the British bomber approached. He’d seen plenty of bombers on his route south, but the Germans had nothing even half the size of the four-engined Halifax.
Time crawled as he glanced up between the trees. His body felt like it was floating as the plane cruised forwards. Its height was less than a hundred metres and its bombing doors were open. A soldier rushed past, his trousers soaked in seawater and his huge boot barely missing Paul’s ankle.
The bomber dropped its load and Paul imagined death. He saw his parents’ faces as he shut his eyes – but there was no explosion, just German shouts and a rustling on the sea breeze. He looked up and discovered thousands of folded brochures catching sunlight. They pelted the cliffs and the road like a rainstorm. A few made it as far as the trees and Paul snatched one that jostled the branches above him.
The blue and red cover bore a cartoon drawing of a huge bulldog. It wore a Union-Jack waistcoat and carried Hitler in its mouth like a bone. The title was in German, but Paul flipped through and realised that it was a spoof guide, giving the Germans tips on how to invade Britain.
* * *
10SS, or Schutzstaffel – the elite military division of the Nazi party. SS personnel were selected on grounds of racial purity and fanatical devotion to Hitler.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Paul got on OK with PT and Marc, but Dumont had a big mouth and liked throwing his weight around so Paul tried to avoid him. Today was an exception, because he wanted Marc to tell him what the leaflet said. He found the three older lads easily enough, just a few hundred metres from the house, checking rabbit traps they’d set the day before.
The leaflet had been prepared by the British Propaganda Ministry with the aim of demoralising German troops and was entitled: A Guide to the Invasion of Britain. The first section was an English phrasebook containing handy phrases such as ‘Help me, I’m drowning,’ and ‘Please don’t bayonet me again, I wish to surrender.’
There was also a section of jokes and Marc sat in the grass and read one aloud, pausing occasionally to translate the words.
‘Hitler recently set up a meeting with the Chief Rabbi of Berlin. He was desperate to cross the English Channel and threatened to demolish every synagogue in the city unless the rabbi told him the secret of how Moses parted the Red Sea. The rabbi replied that Moses’ magic wand was currently on display at the British Museum.’
Paul and PT laughed, but Dumont looked baffled. ‘I don’t get it.’
Marc tutted. ‘Hitler wants the wand,’ he explained. ‘But it’s in the British Museum, in London, where he can’t get it.’
Dumont scratched his head. ‘But if the British have this wand, why don’t use it?’they
‘For god’s sake,’ PT said, as he thumped on the grass in distress. ‘Dumont, it’s a