Secret Army (15 page)

Troy looked down at his muddy clothes and boots. ‘I’ve
got
to have a shower, madame. Look at the state of me!’

‘Take your shoes and socks off and don’t sit on anything in the house,’ McAfferty said, sounding quite stressed. ‘The spiders have to be fed on time and I don’t want Mrs Henderson over here again shouting and hollering. I’ve already had her over once this morning, complaining about the noise from the artillery range. I mean what does the crazy woman expect me to do, walk over there and ask the army to wrap their shells in cotton wool?’

Troy was exhausted, but he liked McAfferty and managed to smile. ‘I’ll go straight over. Though goodness knows why Mrs Henderson can’t do it herself. What else does she do all day?’

‘Good lad,’ McAfferty smiled. ‘And be quick or you’ll miss your lunch.’

Troy was ticked off as he walked back outside towards the farmhouse. His arms and legs hurt and he kept reimagining the punches and the moment when he’d climbed off Sam and come within a second of delivering a brutal kick.

Troy wondered if the military-style training was turning him into a thug. Or did the fact he worried about stuff like this while other lads boasted about how they’d splattered someone’s nose in combat class mean that he lacked the ruthless instincts that he’d need to work well undercover?

The conservatory where the spiders lived was always tranquil and thirty-degree heat sent the blood back into chilled fingers and toes. The creatures fascinated Troy, but the main reason he’d volunteered to feed the spiders while Paul was up in Scotland was that it gave him twenty minutes away from everyone else.

After leaving his boots inside the conservatory’s glass door, Troy padded to the kitchen and washed his hands. If he got muddy finger marks on Joan Henderson’s feeding log his life wouldn’t be worth living.

As Troy washed up under the cold tap he heard Joan rushing down the stairs. The thumping feet didn’t belong to someone in a good mood and this was confirmed when she screamed out from the landing.

‘You’re a cheating, lying scumbag and I hate you!’

Charles Henderson came down more cautiously. ‘Darling, stop being so dramatic. All I’m saying is that in your present state, you might like to go and stay somewhere quieter for a few weeks.’

‘Dramatic!’ Joan screamed. ‘You think that’s dramatic?’

‘Sweetheart, put that down.’

‘
This
is dramatic, you son of a bitch!’

Troy shuddered as he heard a vase smashing against the wall.

Grey skies had descended over Braco Lodge parachute training school and drizzle swirled on gusts of wind. The tethered balloon rolled from side to side as a truck filled with compressed helium transformed it from a sheet of silver cloth stretched across the runway into a thirty-metre finned rugby ball.

Everyone on the base from the WAAFs to the Wellington pilots took part as the seven-man cage was wheeled up and hooked beneath the partially inflated blimp. This chaotic inflation process involved a dozen slipped ropes, broken clasps, one sprained wrist and many curses as the trainees squatted nervously on their parachutes. By the time the balloon was ready their nerves had been jangling for more than an hour.

The final stage of the operation was to hook the bottom of the cage to a hydraulic winch buried alongside the runway. It was nearly two by the time the balloon was ready, and Sergeant Parris and the base commander held a conference. The wind was growing stronger and thunder rumbled in the distance.

The thought of an overnight delay made the trainees miserable and there was a round of applause when the senior instructors gave the go-ahead. The five Norwegian women – or the Birds, as the instructors had nicknamed them – were invited into the metal cage.

The cage’s gate was bolted from the inside by Sergeant Parris and a ground-based officer holding a megaphone gave the order for the winch operator to release the cables. There was a clang as the rising balloon picked the cage off the ground and then nothing but the sound of pelting rain as the huge balloon rose into the air.

At two hundred metres, the balloon still cast a huge shadow as the winch operator clamped on the brakes. The six guide ropes holding the balloon looked perilously fragile and the wind made the metal cage swing from side to side.

All non-essential personnel had cleared the drop zone and the officer gave the all-clear signal through his megaphone. Takada and the kids in Group A looked to the sky as the first of the Norwegian women plunged out of the cage.

Her parachute was attached to a static line and there was more applause as her chute opened. The wind knocked the chute forwards at a surprisingly sharp angle, but gravity did its bit and from the ground the descent looked serene.

As the first woman landed and gathered her chute to clear the drop zone, the second made her jump. Corporal Tweed stood alongside Takada and the kids, giving advice on dealing with the strong wind and commenting on each drop. The last landing went badly when a strong gust caught the parachute an instant before touchdown and sent the Norwegian crashing hard on to her back.

‘Next up the Poles,’ an officer shouted, as the winch pulled the balloon back down to earth. ‘Well, the
Pole
anyway.’

There was some tense laughter. The trainees had been given a short written test covering everything they’d learned so far. The Norwegians and the kids had passed, but three of the four Poles and three of the seven French soldiers had failed. They’d been backtracked, which meant they had to do more ground training, resit the exam and would jump in darkness that evening if they passed. If they failed a second time, they were off the course.

‘Let’s have four of the kids as well,’ the officer continued.

Corporal Tweed tapped Paul, Marc, Rosie and Luc on the back. With the weather looking suspect, the five trainees jumped into the cage as soon as the gate opened and they were on their way up before Sergeant Parris had even secured the bolt.

It was a bumpy ride and it felt more precarious than the previous day’s trip in the Wellington. The wind howled through the wire cage around them. The deck was made from wooden planks, with gaps between them big enough to see the ground. Paul leaned over the side as a blast of thunder lit up the sky in the distance.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said quietly, as he turned to Rosie. They were tense, but they both smiled.

The cage shuddered as the ascent stopped and there was quiet and a sudden realisation for all the trainees that this was for real. Two hundred metres up, with a strong wind and no safety wire.

‘Remember your training and you’ll have nothing to worry about,’ Sergeant Parris said, as he opened the door of the cage. ‘Lieutenant Tomaszewski, you’re number one. Hook up. Then I want Rosie, Luc, Marc and Paul lined up behind.’

In parachute drops you line up the best jumpers first. That way if something goes wrong with one of the least confident trainees it doesn’t affect everyone else. Paul was offended because he’d done as well as anyone in the ground training and Luc had only passed the exam by one mark. He reckoned he was only at the back because he was small and skinny.

The lanky Polish officer hooked his parachute to a rail above his head. When he jumped, the cord would snag and release the parachute. A shout of
all-clear
came from the ground.

‘Good luck, Lieutenant,’ Parris said. ‘On my mark … and mark.’

Tomaszewski threw himself forwards off the platform. Four seconds later the cage rocked as the rope snagged and the chute opened.

‘Rosie, hook up,’ Parris ordered.

At the same moment an alarmed shout came up from the megaphone-wielding officer on the ground. ‘Take it right, take it right! Use lift webs now.’

Rosie was hooked up and trapped behind Parris, but Paul, Marc and Luc looked over the side and saw the Polish officer drifting towards the edge of the airfield.

The higher you are, the greater the effect a gust of wind can have on your final landing position and it seemed that Tomaszewski had been hit by a blast of wind as soon as his chute opened. To make matters worse, instead of correcting by opening both lift webs to steepen the angle of descent, he’d pulled on just one cord. This meant he was heading away from the trimmed grass and concrete of the airfield and into the rocky scrubland beyond the perimeter fence.

‘What’s he doing?’ Rosie asked anxiously, as the boys watched three of the training instructors racing towards the fence and yelling instructions that couldn’t be heard over the rain and wind.

Less than fifty metres from the ground, the Pole realised he was in trouble and opened the flaps on his chute. This steepened his descent, but also increased its speed. He hit the ground hard, but at least he was on the shaggy grass a few metres inside the perimeter fence.

‘Shit!’ Sergeant Parris shouted.

Rosie was in agony as she waited on the edge of the platform. Two minutes passed before Tomaszewski hobbled away with his arms around an instructor and the all-clear signal came from the ground.

‘Rosie, are you good to go?’ Parris asked.

‘As I’ll ever be sir,’ she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

‘Remember, if that wind hits hard like it did with Tomaszewski, correct straight away. He’s lucky he didn’t break his legs correcting that close to the ground. Now, jump on my mark … mark.’

Paul clutched his chest as his sister flung herself off the platform, then inhaled with relief as the cage juddered and Rosie’s chute opened.

‘Luc, hook up.’

The wind was benign and Rosie made a perfect landing.

‘Excellent, excellent, excellent!’ came through the megaphone, followed by the all-clear.

Luc had a more difficult time with the wind, but made it down, albeit with an uncomfortable landing on a concrete taxiway rather than soft grass. The only damage was a shredded glove and a painful bump on the arm he’d injured the night before.

Marc was next. As he saw the top of Luc’s parachute his mind flashed back to the previous September and the sight of a decapitated parachutist hanging in a tree. He felt like he was going to vomit and shit at the same time as he clutched his arms to his chest.

Keep your nerve and think about your training
, he told himself.

‘All clear,’ Parris said. ‘Trainee, jump on my mark … mark.’

But Marc froze. The ground swayed beneath the cage as he tried telling his body to make the leap.

Parris had seen nerves before and spoke with uncharacteristic warmth. ‘Calm down, son. Just follow your training. As this is your first drop, I’m going to count to three and give you an extra chance, OK?’

Marc turned around and nodded anxiously.

‘You can do this in your sleep, mate,’ Paul said encouragingly.

‘On my mark,’ Sergeant Parris said. ‘Keep calm, one, two, three, mark.’

Paul grimaced as Marc grabbed the side of the cage and doubled over. ‘I just can’t,’ he said, gasping desperately. ‘I don’t understand … I just froze.’

‘You’ll have to stand aside,’ Parris said, as he disconnected Marc’s static line from the railing over their heads. ‘Paul, hook up.’

‘Can’t he have one more go?’ Paul begged. ‘He can do it, for sure.’

‘Hook
up
,’ Parris said firmly. ‘Marc, sit down at the back of the cage and try to compose yourself. Paul, ready on my mark … mark.’

Paul hesitated: after the drama with Marc his mind was blank. He almost didn’t want to jump because it would make Marc feel even worse, but he had to for his own sake, and before Paul knew it the wind was blasting his face. His body jerked as the static line caught and the chute began slowing him down.

Terrified and thrilled at the same time, it was the biggest rush of his life.

Joan Henderson stood by the front door, screaming in her husband’s face. ‘I know why you want me out of here, you dirty pig. I know what you’re like!’

‘Darling, I just made a suggestion because
you
complained to McAfferty about the noise from the artillery range. In your condition you need rest and Bushy Brooke will give you that. You can swim in the river, it has beautiful gardens.’

‘I can’t leave the spiders,’ Joan shouted.

As Joan said this, Troy peeked around the kitchen door. His path to the conservatory was clear and he dashed down the hallway without the Hendersons seeing him.

‘Perhaps you should put the well-being of our unborn child before a bunch of hairy bugs,’ Henderson suggested.

‘Ignorant pig!’ Joan screamed.

Troy glanced backwards as Joan lunged at Henderson and began clawing his face. ‘They’re not bugs. They’re rare and beautiful. They have their own personalities. They have souls.’

‘Paul looks after them well enough,’ Henderson said. ‘I’m sure he’d cope if you went away for a few weeks.’

‘Paul feeds them,’ Joan screamed. ‘But he doesn’t know what to do when they’re sick. He can’t adjust their conditions and he doesn’t have time to collect fresh insects for them.’

Henderson sighed. ‘Then perhaps we can rent a cottage a few miles from here. Or even buy a place. Your inheritance is sitting in the Westminster bank. You could afford a full-time servant to look after your blasted spiders if needs be.’

In the conservatory Troy grabbed the feeding diary and unscrewed the lid on a jar of beetles that Joan had collected from the surrounding fields. They’d been in the jar for a day or so and most were either dead or close to it.

‘You just want me out of here,’ Joan yelled from the hallway. ‘I know you. You want to carry on with other women and you can’t do that while I’m stuck in your teeth.’

‘Darling, you’re being
preposterous
. I’m too busy working to have an affair. I can’t even get ten minutes to put my feet up and do the crossword.’

‘I know you’ve slept with half the women in France.’

Troy felt awkward as he overheard this. Marc had told him that Henderson had an affair with a glamorous woman named Maxine in France the previous year, and it was common knowledge that Henderson was a womaniser.