The Raid

A hearty group of Kriegsmariners had come into the concourse from the Unterseeboot Pens and was indulging in manly horseplay when the glass in one of the skylights shattered.   If they could have made out more than a vague mauve blur they would have seen Dark Flow running down the marble wall, paying out rope with one hand and frantically casting throwing stars with the other.   They scattered, rallied and returned fire with their Schmiesser MP-40s.   Bamse was abseiling, noticeably more slowly and cautiously than Flo, towards the distant floor, and the bullets chipping off chunks of stonework all around him were not making for a happy St Bernard.   To his amazement he was still whole when he reached the ground.   His survival was probably due in part to the distracting effect of an indistinct pink whirlwind that pirouetted through the ranks of mariners.   Sailors doubled over with an “Oooff!” or flew backwards, crashing into disintegrating furniture.   The disgruntled emperor penguins who had, until this moment, still been waddling around the vaulted hall, turned, gave out a communal squawk of disapproval and trudged towards the double doors of the main exit.   Bamse headed off to locate and liberate the crew of the Lord Ancaster.

            An alarm siren wailed, almost immediately Neuschwabian reinforcements burst onto the scene and the machine gun fire intensified.   Dark Flo became pinned down behind a Coca Cola dispenser.   The situation was looking decidedly desperate when there came the sound of two small explosions from the Submarine Pens and the Kronstadt sailors arrived.  They reached the top of the escalator already firing and immediately fanned out.   The battle was intense, and destructive.   As more and more lights were shattered by ricochets and an increasing gloom descended on the vast hall Dark Flo began to suffer the Purkinje effect.   In low light simian eyes become more sensitive to the blue end of the colour spectrum, this is Purkinje shift, or dark adaptation, her Plymouth Pink Ninja outfit was no longer working efficiently.   She was becoming visible.

Meanwhile Bamse was having difficulty rescuing the trawler crew.   They did not want to be rescued.   The third hand, Billy Tate teamed up with the St Bernard and they ushered the crew into an elegant, Art Deco wardroom.   Plans to organise a second front disintegrated.   The trawlermen were divided into two, almost equal factions.   One group wanted to sit it out in the wardroom, perhaps get a cup of coffee, and wait to see which side won.   The others had enjoyed their stay so much that were all for joining the fray on the side of the Neuschwabenlandians.   Billy was weeping with frustration.

            “T’ skipper seems pally enough wi’ that Kapitänleutnant chappy.   Thy squabble’s nowt te do wi’ us.”

            “Look,” barked Bamse, “Flo and I have gone to a lot of trouble to get you ingrates out of this mess.   Don’t you want to see your Yorkshire homeland again?”   He paused for dramatic effect, “The stigma of mutiny could get you all exiled to Grimsby.”

            “…”

            “Ay, and ‘tis starving cold here.”

            “Bleaker ‘n a February afto’ on Top Withens.”

            “C’mon lads, lets stick it to the Hun.”

            Bamse took a nifty step back to let them pass, but the unsuspecting young Tate was knocked to the ground and trampled in the rush.

Von Luckner and Harold emerged from the subway tunnel as the firefight was reaching its peak.   The hall echoed to a cacophony of swearing (in German and Russian), cries of anguish and anger, the percussion of small arms fire; and it was filling with clouds of smoke and dust.  Glass shattered and bullets zipped through the air like gnats.   The duo instantly drew fire from both sides and dove behind the check-in counter, where they were joined, cowering, by the first mate and chief who were crawling on their hands and knees.

The Ancaster’s crew burst into the foyer, roaring out a battle cry:

            “Tigers, Tigers, burning bright!” all bravado and slightly squeaky apprehension.

            The Kapitänleutnant glanced disbelievingly towards his companions.

            “It’s a Hull City supporter’s chant,” replied Easter Smurthwait, “…Football…   I’ll explain later, when things quieten down a bit.”

            Albert Fleck leaped to his feet, “Go the three-day millionaires!" and then ducked down again as the round from a Schmeiser plucked at his tea-cosy hat.

            The trawlermen fell upon the Neuschwabenlander troops with fist flailing.

            “This’ll ney tek long.   ‘Sney rougher’n a Satdi-night scrap in Rayner's on t’Hessle Road.”

            Taking advantage of the added confusion, Dark Flo ducked out from the cover of the soft drinks dispenser and tucked in behind the wave of fishermen.   She skipped lightly up the back of the nearest deckie, tripped across the heads of three successive Kriegsmariners, became airborne and tossed a Happo egg into a light machine-gun nest as she passed overhead.   Her 3 Inch diameter, hollowed out black egg contained a disabling mixture of itching powder and concentrated Naga Ghost Chilli sauce.   Flo adopted the ‘Flailing Squid’ pose as she hung briefly in the air then plummeted, feather duster in hand, into the midst of the battle.

“THIS WILL END… NOW!”   A voice like an intervention from the patriarch of all thunder gods reverberated above the crouching combatants.   The hunched and wizened oriental master had materialized in the open no-man’s land that separated the warring factions.   He drew himself up to his full height of four feet two and a half inches, shoulders back and ramrod straight.   His eyes glistened and his tall orange hat quivered as he glared about the room.   The shooting slowly petered out until only the intermittent crack of a sniper’s round broke the silence.   Otto von Luckner broke cover and approached his men.

            “Nicht mehr!   Aufhören zu schießen!”

            The Himalayan envoy waited patiently for a bleakly expectant peace to descend across the scene.

            “This is intolerable… and futile.   A machine that is secret, a truth that is hidden, are now known to all.   The Andromeda Gerät will depart.   We will depart.   And it would be wise for you to be not here when we leave.   I recommend you utilize the high-speed pneumatic tubes to your whaling station and there take ship.   You do not have long.”   He stalked over to his colleagues who turned and followed him back into the subway.

Ambush!

Flo passed her 8x30 field glasses to Bamse, “Do you see the Kronstad sailors approaching in open order?”   

            He did.

            “And the New Swabian ski patrol, half way between them and us, hunkered down for an ambush?”  

            Yes, Bamse saw them too; hidden behind wind carved pinnacles of ice either side of the path that the ever-nearing sailors would take.   The Neuschwabenlander Hauptmann, pointing a 9mm parabellum pistol skyward in his right hand, was waiting for the precise moment to signal his troops to open fire.

            “We must warn them… but they’re well out of ear shot.   If only I’d brought the flare gun.”

            “I could try barking very loudly, or a wolf like howl,” suggested Bamse.  

            He had just coughed to clear his throat and was taking a deep breath in preparation for his record-breaking yowl, when Flo shouted, “What’s that?”

            The Hauptmann dropped abruptly to the snow and almost instantaneously an Oberjäger collapsed nearby.   Gone, without so much as a 'Kiss me, Hardy.'   Moments later two loud reports echoed across the landscape.

            “That sounded like SVT 40 Tokarev rifles,” said Flo, “The Kronstadt troops have snipers out.   Cunning little buggers.”

            There was a puff of snow close to one of the ski troopers’ ear and he slowly raised his hands as the delayed crack of the rifle shot rang out.   Cautiously his comrades stood up and followed suit.   Soon the Kronstadt Unit had them disarmed and kettled into a submissive huddle, the snipers were trudging in from their hiding places and Flo and Bamse were walking in towards the group whilst waving white hankies.

            “Comrades?” enquired the doubly puzzled Starshina; puzzled at the unexpected appearance of a Saint Bernard with a flag of truce and equally bemused by the accompanying, vague, pink shape that he could not quite make out.

            “Long story,” said Flo, removing her headgear so that her face suddenly popped into view; not a reassuring sight as it floated in space with a black grease-paint slash across the eyes and Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Pur Couture #101 Violet Singulier defining her lips,  “Your support ship and crew is taken.   Bamse, you know from the voyage down.   He’s been sort of spying, I’m a spy too, a proper one, with a code name and everything, but today I’m a one-woman International Rescue, and you’re going to join in and help.   I have authorization from Larry and from here on in I am in charge.   I should think one of your prisoners would be willing to tell us where we have to go, if you ask nicely.   What happened to your transport, by the way?   Bamse said you had snowmobiles.”

            “They were rubbish,” said the Comrade-Starshina, “One never made it off the sea ice; threw a con rod.   Mine was so noisy the whole continent must have heard us coming.   So we detached the machine gun and ditched the aerosled.”

Bereft of their officer and sergeant, it took only a little persuasion for the Ski Troop grunts to co-operate with their captors and provided a detailed description of the location and layout of the Submarine Base.   Relieving them of their weapons and skis the Kronstadt shore detail left the New Swabians to make their own way back, their slow progress hampered by the deep snow.   Bamse had made a sketch map from their description of the terrain and was prepared to lead the way to their target.   The sailors checked their equipment, oiled their weapons and hung bandoliers of ammunition across their chests.   A brisk march soon brought them within sight of the sprawling base.

            “Bamse and I will go in first and create a diversion.   Give us ten minutes and then you bring your men in via the submarine pens.   Disable what you can on the way through, spike the guns and booby-trap the subs.   Let’s create a bit of mayhem,” said Flo to the Comrade-Starshina.

Antarctica

The Coldwarspyship Lord Ancaster was holding position off the coast of Antarctica, surrounded by growlers and bergy-bits in a heaving swell of slush.   Icebergs as big as a house or the size of a small principality surrounded them - white, ice blue, ultramarine, thrusting pinnacles, towers and cathedral spires skywards.   Tall arches perched on tiny rafts of ice, sculpted by wind and sea, drifted by, escarpments stretched out towards the horizon.   The trawler inched up to the pack ice, pushing forward till the crunching frozen sea no longer gave way.   On deck a shore detail of Kronstadt sailors lined the rail, white parkas over their winter weight telnyashkas, AKS-74s slung, skis at the ready.   The expansive ice flow brought to mind the last days of Kronstadt One - Trotsky’s assault across the frozen sea in 1921 and the fall of the fortress to the Red Army – the day that the revolution was finally lost.   They began to hum a tune from the film Specnaz, haunting and baleful, whilst a lone tenor sang out lyrics that told of betrayal, lost hopes and exile in Finland, his mournful tones reverberating across the grumbling, crackling ice.

With grey clouds the sky is veiled


Nerves tensed like balalaika strings


Snow falling from morning to night


Frozen time seems an eternity


We are assaulted from all directions


Infantry, machine gun and artillery fire


The Reds are killing us, but some will survive


Once again, we sacrifice ourselves on waves of attack

We are few in number, but we are wearing our stripy t-shirts…

Skipper Harold Entwhistle scanned the shelf from the bridge-house.   They were enjoying a welcome break after a succession of squalls.   Spring was well on the way and the weather could only improve.   Through his 7x50 watch keeping binoculars he could make out the cliffs where ice met the land.   Beyond them was New Swabia, mystery and, without doubt, adventure - but not for him.   Generations of Entwhistles had found adventure enough on the sea, someone else - these irrepressible Russians - could battle blizzards and Nazis, and who knew what else, down here on the wrong side of the world.

            The capstan clanked and derrick groaned as two NK-26 propeller driven sledges were winched onto the frozen sea.   The Comrade-Starshina leaned out of the open bridge window and shouted down to his lads below.  

            “Over the side, boys.   Time to get cracking.”

            Drivers and Petty Officer machine gunners clambered into the aerosanis whilst the ratings knelt down to attach their skis.   The M-11G aircraft engines revved and gunners’ heads popped up behind the snowmobiles’ 7.62mm DT machine guns.   The Chief Petty Officer, standing on the aft starboard ski of his lightly armoured sledge raised an arm and waved the group forward.   As the sledges picked their way slowly and noisily across the ice, with the shore detail towed behind, it began to snow, flakes whipped into swirling tunnels by the whirling blades.   Harold Entwhistle watched the party disappear as the weather closed in.

He rang for Half Astern on the engine room telegraph and spoke to the third hand without looking his way, “We’ll break free from this ice and pull back to Stromness on South Georgia for a while, give the Ruskies time to do their thing.”

            As they slowly backed up the bergs swirled.  Some way off their stern the flows began to heave upwards and the sea churned.   Slowly a huge dark grey conning tower rose from the depths, water pouring down its sides.   Once at the surface the imposing submersible dwarfed the trawler.   It was almost three times their length and the crew of the Ancaster watched as a group of sailors ran along the after deck to man a 14 cm/40 11th Year Type naval gun and target the radio room just aft of their bridge.   Several officers appeared on top of the conning tower and their commander raised a megaphone to his mouth.   

            “Stand your men down, captain, and cut your engines.   Touch the radio and we fire.   For you, Tommy Atkins, this expedition is over.”

Several semi rigid inflatables detached from the submarine and sped across the narrow stretch of sea towards the trawler.   As they approached Harold handed a weighted oilskin package containing the ships papers to his second in command.

            “Dump this over the side where those buggers can’t see you, Smurthwait.”

            Taking the packet the mate, a rough and ready bruiser with the unlikely and exotic name of Easter Smurthwaite, scuttled out of sight behind the accommodation, tossed it into the sea and watched it sink.   He returned to the cluster of trawlermen as a large St Bernard dog padded nonchalantly across the deck to slip unobserved down the foc’sle scuttle.   Moments later a heavily armed boarding party swarmed over the rail, formally arrested the crew of the Lord Ancaster and manhandled them firmly into the rubber ducks.   A Prize Crew took charge of the trawler and it was underway towards an undeclared destination before Harold and his fellow prisoners had been ferried half way to the submarine.   As they came alongside the hard, curving hull smart darkly uniformed matrosen (seamen) efficiently caught painters, made the inflatables fast and reached down to help the hostages in clambering up the side. Others pointed "Schmeisser" MP40 Maschinenpistolen down at the little group.   Once on deck and still eyed warily by the armed sailors they were greeted politely by the vessel’s captain.   He was tall and amiable with the easy air of a European aristocrat.

            “I am Kapitänleutnant Otto Graf von Luckner and you, I believe are Kapitän Harold Entwhistle.   Welcome aboard the Seeadler.   She is, as I am sure you have observed, an ex-Japanese Sen Toku I-400-class submarine aircraft carrier.”  

            Harold had observed no such thing. At about 400 feet long with a large tube shaped aircraft hanger amidships and a fortress-like conning tower above and to port of the hanger he had never in his life seen any thing like this vessel.   She sported eighty-five feet of compressed-air catapult along the forward deck, triple one-inch anti-aircraft guns around the conning tower, the 5.5-inch naval gun aft of the superstructure and exuded menace.   Before he could register anything more about the warship Harold Entwhistle and his crew were escorted below.   Harry Tate paused for one more look around him and was jabbed in the ribs with one of the Schmeissers.   Kapitänleutnant von Luckner scowled.

            “That will do, Heinrich.”

            From the bottom of the ladder they were ushered into the main saloon and from the trawler crew there came a communal gasp.   The room was palatial.   There were leather chesterfield sofas and armchairs bolted to the floor, a full size snooker table in the middle of the room and, in one corner, a grand piano.

            “If you could find your way to giving me your parole and that of your men, Kapitän Entwhistle, we will not need to chain you all in the brig.”

            The lads all looked pleadingly at Harold.

            “Not much hope of us escaping from a submarine.   I expect a tunnel would be impractical.   While we are aboard, you have my word we will not try anything.”

            There was a joint sigh of relief and his crew having rushed the cocktail bar were soon having a sing along round the grand, where young Tate vamped Ilkley Moor Bar T’at. 

            “You and I need a chat, Kapitän.”   Kapitänleutnant von Luckner leaned in conspiratorially, “Do you drink single malt?   I have a particularly fine Talisker Storm in my cabin.”

            Von Luckner’s ‘cabin’ was a suite of rooms with a desk, daybed, coffee table and lounge chairs in the sitting room and doors leading off to a bedroom and to a shower/toilet.   The captains were facing each other across the coffee table sipping at generous tots of Scotch from heavy cut-glass whisky tumblers.   The Kapitänleutnant reluctantly opened the conversation.

            “I am afraid I must ask you what you are doing here.”

            “Just a fishing trip.”

            “And you expect me to believe that?   What exactly were you dropping off when we caught you?   What are you up to?”

            Harold thrust forwards, his nose aggressively close to von Luckner’s face.

            “Look matey, I don’t give a toss what you believe.   We’ll accept your hospitality, ‘cos we don’t have a choice.   But you took my vessel in international waters and that’s piracy in any Yorkshireman’s book.   If I say I’m fishing then fishing it is and if you don’t like it you can stick it in your bloody gesteckpfeife and smoke it.”

            “International waters?”

            “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

            Von Luckner was halfway to his feet, red faced, white knuckles clenched round the arms of his chair…

            “Blut und eisen, sie übermütig fischer…”

            …when he hesitated and, letting out a long sigh, slumped back into his chair.

            “Pax, Kapitän, I have to ask these things, it is expected.   You are too few and too far from home for any of it to matter.   Let us not spoil this fine whisky or miss the rare opportunity for stimulating conversation.   Tell me, have you strong views regarding Kirkegard?”

            Entwhistle had read little in his life other than the Racing Times and his dad’s hand written diaries entitled 'Where to Fish When, 1867-1972'.

            “Bit skittish last season, but she’s steadier now and could hold her own on the flat.”

            Von Luckner took a large swig from his glass.

            “And this song of your men, explain to me the meaning of Bar T’at.”