‘The Germans fight by advancing rapidly with massed armour. Tanks, motorised artillery, etcetera. The trouble with this is that their armour charges ahead, but if it goes too far too fast it outruns the supply lines and ends up stranded without food to feed the men and diesel and ammunition to feed the tanks.’

‘Is that why the advance stopped north of Paris for three weeks?’ Marc asked.

‘That’s right. So all we have to do is stop a bread truck or a fuel tanker, bash the driver over the head, put on his tunic and we should be able to get right up the German lines. They’re advancing too quickly to build fortifications, so if we find a country lane or a flat field, we might be able to keep right on going into French territory.’

‘But won’t the French troops shoot when they see us come towards them?’

Henderson nodded. ‘Without a doubt,’ he said seriously.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The bakery was one of the most modern in Paris, with a steel-framed building set behind brick walls and three aluminium chimneys venting the smell of warm bread across the neighbourhood. Germans guarded the front gate and an elderly man in a white overall was laid out in the shaded portion of the courtyard, apparently suffering from heat stroke.

At the rear, 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.