Wolves in the Wood (Elstead Writers' Blog)

Follow more of my adventures on Tuesdays on Elstead Writers' Blog:
http://elsteadwritersgroup.wordpress.com/2014/04/15/meanwhile/

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.