The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,67

three trucks stood in line – one German and two requisitioned from local businesses. A procession of soldiers and exhausted-looking bakery workers ran between the rear entrance and the back of the leading truck. Each person carried a basket of hot loaves, which were unceremoniously thrown into the back of the leading truck until it was piled high. All the while an overweight German logistics officer bawled at everyone to work faster.

When the truck was filled, the canvas awning over the back was tied in place to stop the bread toppling out. A German infantryman with his shirt drenched in sweat climbed up to the cab and slammed the door. He wanted to mop the beads of sweat running off his bald head, but as he reached towards the tunic thrown across the passenger seat he noticed the boy crammed into the footwell with a pistol aiming right at him.

‘Act normal,’ Marc whispered, in his broken German. ‘Start the engine and drive or I’ll shoot you in the head.’

The perspiring German gave a wary nod as he reached around and slotted a key into the steering column.

‘Good man,’ Marc said, as the engine growled to life and the cab filled with the pungent aroma of the German’s sweat.

Either nervous, incompetent, or both, the German made a hash of lifting the clutch, making the truck shudder as it moved away. This was followed by grinding cogs as he struggled to find second gear.

‘I need you to collect a friend,’ Marc said, squeezing out of the cramped footwell as they turned left, away from the bakery and out of sight of the other Germans. ‘Take the second street on the right and stop by the bridge over the railway line.’

Marc kept the pistol pointing at the German all the while as he pulled himself up on to the passenger seat.

‘Turn here,’ Marc said, but the German knew and was already slowing down.

Marc looked along the pavement and was pleased to see no signs of life. It was Saturday and the government offices on either side of the street were closed. As the truck rode over the hump of the bridge, Henderson popped out of a hiding place on the embankment that led down to a pair of railway lines. He jogged into the road behind the truck and pulled the driver’s door open as it came to a halt.

‘Out,’ Henderson shouted, waving a German pistol in the soldier’s face. ‘Don’t mess us about. You’ll be OK if you stay calm.’

The German stepped from the cab with his hands raised and Henderson told him to walk towards the railing. As soon as he stepped on to the pavement, Henderson put the muzzle of his silenced pistol against the back of the German’s head. The shot knocked the soldier forwards and he slumped dead over the railing, exactly as Henderson had hoped.

After pocketing his pistol, Henderson grabbed the German around his thighs and lifted him up. The dead body flopped over the side of the bridge and crashed through a canopy of leaves before landing on the embankment beside the railway with a snap of twigs and the rustle of dead leaves.

‘Pass his tunic out,’ Henderson said hurriedly, as he rushed back to the truck. ‘I’ll need that and his helmet to get through the checkpoint.’

*

The fuel gauge showed full and the road leading south towards the German lines was clear. The only traffic they encountered beyond the checkpoint was a column of factory-fresh tanks, heading for their first taste of battle. The bare-chested crews leaned out of the hatches to escape the stifling heat.

Twenty kilometres south of Paris the truck was waved through another checkpoint – with Marc sliding into the footwell – and they finally saw the first proper sign of German presence, in the form of a tented command post with a field hospital behind it. Another couple of kilometres brought them to a line of smouldering farm buildings. Destruction seemed pointless when everyone knew that the Germans were going to win and Marc wondered if the buildings might have caught fire by accident.

Things became more hectic when they reached the edge of German territory. A single-file column of armour almost a kilometre long stood along the road awaiting orders to advance. The tanks were wide and Henderson had to pass slowly, often with a set of wheels running in the grass verge.

The fields beside the tanks were dotted with exhausted French troops. The Germans had captured more than a million