Henderson's Boys: The Escape by Robert Muchamore

heavy undergrowth. Marc was trembling and gasping for breath, but seemed free of serious injury. He thought it unlikely that the driver would be in any state to drive on but he wasn’t prepared to take chances and, as the dogs scrambled back to their feet, he grabbed his bag and jumped out the back.
    He landed in a tangle of earth and roots torn up by the truck. Thirty metres away the road was lined with the bedraggled column of open-backed troop carriers and horse-drawn artillery that the driver had swerved to avoid.
    An officer with his pistol drawn was jogging towards Marc with three of his men a few paces behind. A second group was cutting through the trees towards the front of the truck.
    ‘Hands up,’ the officer shouted to Marc. ‘What the devil is this?’
    Marc didn’t like having a gun pointed at him. ‘I was just riding in the back,’ he explained nervously. ‘They went crazy.’
    As the team at the front of the truck grabbed the doors and pulled out the driver and his companion, one of the bewildered Alsatians scrambled over the back flap and yelped pitifully.
    ‘Big branch straight through the windscreen, sir,’ one of the soldiers at the front shouted. ‘Driver’s dead for sure and the other bloke’s in a right mess.’
    The officer turned away and shook his head. ‘Drunks,’ he sneered. ‘Deserters, most likely, and I’m not wasting any more time on them. Let’s move out.’
    ‘Are you heading to Paris?’ Marc asked. ‘Can I get a ride?’
    The officer looked as though his head was going to explode. ‘Piss off, boy . This is the French Army, not a bloody taxi service.’
    But one of the soldiers was more sympathetic. ‘You’re only a few kilometres out and our horses are tired. You’ll do just as well to walk.’
    ‘What about the dogs, sir? Shall we bring them along?’ his colleague asked.
    ‘What the bloody hell do I want with a couple of filthy dogs?’ the officer shouted. ‘Shoot them. Might as well put the other bugger out of his misery too if you don’t think he’s going to make it.’
    The soldier alongside the officer pulled up his rifle and shot the Alsatian clean through the head. It was harder to see the second dog inside the truck and the first shot hit it in the gut. It squealed desperately for several seconds before a second blast put it out of its misery.
    Marc waited to hear a fourth shot as he staggered back towards the road, shaking with fear. But despite the officer’s suggestion to put the man out of his misery, the bullet never came.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
    Paul backed up to the side of an apartment block and wrapped his arms over his head as masonry crashed around him. The giant slab of bricks hit the opposite wall of the narrow alleyway and took on a spin before crashing down less than two metres from where he cowered. Pebble-sized chunks pelted his body as the mortar shattered.
    ‘Dad?’ Paul shouted.
    He opened his eyes a fraction, only for them to be forced shut by the dust swirling through the air. The worst of the collapse had passed, but single bricks still chinked down and a woman screamed horribly. At least it wasn’t Rosie.
    A second later, Paul felt a tug on his arm. Half blind and his mouth filled with dust, Mr Clarke dragged his son towards the early sunlight piercing the end of the alleyway.
    ‘Did you see Rosie?’ Mr Clarke asked.
    Paul was coughing violently and couldn’t answer.
    ‘Rosie?’ Mr Clarke bellowed.
    She’d sprinted ahead and stood at the end of the alleyway, in better shape than her male relatives. The German planes continued to drone as Paul forced himself to open his eyes and blink out the grit. They’d emerged into a busy square filled with dust, flames and panic. When Paul got some focus he saw the wreckage of market stalls. Every building had shattered windows and a horse thrashed helplessly on its side. Its hind quarters were badly burned and it was pinned down by the charred remains of a cart harnessed to its