The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,68

French soldiers during the early part of the invasion. But guarding prisoners was a drain on German manpower and feeding them practically impossible. So while French prisoners in the north had spent the past month penned into fields, dying from disease and starvation, soldiers captured now were simply stripped of weapons and equipment and ordered to march south.

The ones who remained were injured or sick and had no option but to suffer in the sun without even water, while their enemy calmly waited to be resupplied before pushing onwards. Marc had seen plenty of suffering during his journey from Beauvais to Paris, but the sight of young soldiers dying of thirst and hunger seemed especially chilling. Beyond this human wreckage, another field was piled high with orderly stacks. Tin helmets, rifles, ammunition, grenades.

Henderson managed a smile. ‘When I was a boy, I had a collection of lead soldiers,’ he said. ‘Before I went to bed, my mother would make me tidy them all up into piles, just like that – only smaller.’

The thoughts of childhood made Marc realise that he knew nothing about Charles Henderson. ‘Do you have a wife or children, sir?’

‘I had a daughter, but she died of tuberculosis when she was a baby. My wife took the loss very badly.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Marc said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and wishing he hadn’t asked.

‘She broke down completely at one point,’ Henderson admitted. ‘We’d like another child, but my spending so much time abroad makes that difficult.’

After passing through a village crowded with German troops, they came to a fork and Henderson picked a dirt road that obviously wasn’t the main highway. The lane twisted and trees overhung from either side, creating a dappled shade.

‘I think we’re past the last of the Germans,’ Henderson said, driving as quickly as he dared.

Marc dived off his seat when they came to a clearing from which an artillery piece aimed straight at them. Henderson realised that they were French.

‘Marc, get up and hold the wheel,’ he shouted frantically, remembering that he was still wearing a German tunic and pulling it down his arms.

As Marc steered, the French soldiers began to shout and Henderson slowed down. It was fortunate that they’d taken one of the commandeered French trucks, because a German army vehicle would have caused outright hostility rather than suspicion.

‘Lean out of the window so they can see you’re a child,’ Henderson ordered.

Marc did as he was told and shouted, ‘We’re not Boche! We’re not Boche!’ over and over.

Three French soldiers came out of hedges alongside, their rifles pointing at Marc and Henderson. Henderson slowed the truck to a halt, but kept the engine running and a foot on the accelerator in case things got rough.

‘What’s in the back?’ a bearded French sergeant demanded, as he pushed the butt of his rifle through the window beside Marc’s head.

‘Fresh bread sir,’ Marc said.

At the rear, another soldier had ripped open the canvas awning and found himself under bombardment from hundreds of loaves, bouncing into the dirt before rolling off down the hill.

‘Where is this bread from?’ the sergeant aiming the gun demanded.

‘They commandeered my truck and forced us to drive from Paris,’ Henderson lied. ‘We killed the German who was sent with us and decided to try finding our way through the lines.’

There seemed to be six troops in total and they were running into the road and tearing hungrily into the fresh loaves. This irritated the sergeant who was questioning Henderson.

‘Where’s your discipline?’ the sergeant shouted at the soldiers. ‘Get back under cover.’

‘There’s more than a hundred German tanks just a couple of kilometres from here,’ Henderson said. ‘They’re gearing up ready for another push. If we clear some of the bread out of the back, you could all ride with us.’

‘No thanks,’ the sergeant sneered. ‘The rest of our regiment surrendered this morning. Us six decided to stand and fight. But we’ll take some bread if that’s OK.’

Henderson was almost too stunned to speak as the sergeant stepped off the running board of the truck and lowered his rifle. ‘Panzer tanks have got twice the range of that artillery piece,’ he explained. ‘They’ll take one look through their binoculars and blast you out of the road.’

The sergeant looked down at his boots like a little boy in a lot of trouble. ‘Germans bombed my house,’ he explained. ‘Wife, mother and two daughters, all dead. Most of us have some experience like that. I’d sooner get blasted than look any Boche in