Departures

“Where is my Oberfunkmeister?   Ah, there you are.   Get a message to the whaling station, right away.   I want the Pinguin readied for sea by the time we arrive, and they’re to get steam up on the trawler too.   Matrosenfeldwebel, get everyone into the tubes.   Don’t forget the frauleins in the canteen, and make sure you bring my radio officer with you when he’s done.   Oh, and find the ship’s cat.”   Otto von Luckner turned to Harold, “If you would come with me gentlemen, please.”

            The Kapitänleutnant led the trawler officers across the ravished concourse towards a set of check-in desks labeled Walfang-Hafen, gathering trawlermen as they went.   Kriegsmariners were already lining up neatly, and slightly less tidy groups of New Swabians in lab coats or boiler suits were gathering near the sliding doors to the pneumatic tubes.   The Kronstadt shore detail, led by Dark Flo, appeared from behind a pile of rubble, they laughing and joking, she sporting a puffy, almost closed eye.   She was limping and the left sleeve of her shinobi shozoko was torn away to reveal an angry graze on her elbow and purple bruising to the shoulder.

            “Thanks to one of your overzealous fishermen.   Took a swing at me from behind, with a barstool.   Can’t tell a ninja from a submariner.”

            Bamse, as was his wont, had rounded up the last of the stragglers.   With the company assembled the tube doors opened and embarkation began.  

            “Once you reach the whaling station get your people aboard your trawler and be ready for the off.”   Von Luckner was cradling Fotzenkatze, the lithe tabby mascot of the now crippled submarine Seeadler.   “I will be along soon as I know everyone is safe.”

The bow and ruptured freshwater tank of the Ancaster had been repaired in their absence, the boiler was nearly up to pressure and springs taken in so that only shortened bow and stern lines held her to the quay.   The crew stood, alert, at their stations.   Harold stood by the bridge window, his hand placed lightly on the highly polished new telegraph, its dials disconcertingly labeled in German.   Billy Tate held the spokes of the enormous ship’s wheel, awaiting instructions.   An Aldis lamp on the wing of the Pinguin’s bridge began to flash morse at high speed.   Easter Smurthwait and the Ancaster’s sparks eyed the twinkling light, then each other, and shrugged.   Yes, the trawler did have a radio officer.   Sparky, a lad hailing from the Midlands, had spent the entire adventure locked in his radio room trying unsuccessfully to contact Wick Radio, blissfully unaware and, as usual, totally forgotten.

            “’Spect he’s telling us to get going,” said Easter to his skipper.

            “OK.   Cast off fore and aft.”   He rang ‘Halbe Kraft Voraus’ on the engine room telegraph, “I hope that means what I think it does,” and Ancaster’s single screw began to churn the water into a fury beneath her stern.   She moved slowly away from the quay, picked up speed, was steered deftly around the breakwater by the third hand, and belching black smoke from her Woodbine funnel, the trawler proceeded out to sea.

            On the bridge of the Pinguin Otto von Luckner turned to his Signalsmaat, “Are you certain you sent Follow us… in English?   Ficken!”   He rang down to the engine room and the mighty diesels thumped into action.   He sprinted to the wing of the bridge and shouted, “Abwerfen der Liegeplatz-Seile.   Cast off fore and aft.”   Back in the wheelhouse he addressed his helmsman, “Follow that boat.”

With her thundering pistons producing nearly eight thousand horse power and her twin screws rapidly accelerating her up to seventeen knots it did not take the Pinguin long to outstrip Ancaster.   Von Luckner was on the VHF radio to Harold.

            “Follow us, captain.   Best speed.   We want as much open water as possible between us and Antarctica when whatever it is happens.”

            Easter had been looking astern, “I think it’s happening now, skipper.   You’ll want to see this.”

            Even at the distance of two miles they could see the ice plateau on the continent behind them begin to dome.   The hump rose slowly at first and then burst in an explosion of rock and ice fragments.   There was an incandescent flash.   When vision returned a hemisphere of boiling atmosphere was visible, expanding at an incredible rate.   A rumble grew to a roar and to a screaming shriek that paralysed the onlookers.   The pressure wave tore fittings from the deck and cracked window glass.   The accompanying tsunami, however, passed them unnoticed.   In the open sea, travelling at 500 miles per hour it barely raised the fleeing vessels a foot or two.   As it approached the shoaling seabed around the southern tip of America it would pile up into a destructive wall of vindictive ocean, but out here it was benign.   Back on the Antarctic mainland snow clouds gathered above ground zero and lightening bolts flashed across the sky.   The trawlermen watched as powdered snow billowed and swirled; and out of the turmoil rose a vast, polished metal cylinder, its mirror surface reflecting the chaos that surrounded it.   The Andromeda Machine climbed serenely through the storm into the quiet sky above, performed a leisurely pirouette and accelerated away.   Within moments all was calm.  

            “Well, that was different,” said Easter to no one in particular.

A tinny voice crackled from the bridge loud speaker, Kapitänleutnant Otto Graf von Luckner was back on the VHF.

            “We will be heading for the Rio de la Plata in the Pinguin, but are more than willing to escort you across the South Atlantic, captain.   It will give us chance to compare notes and discuss the recent events.   I expect you will be wanting to proceed to the Ärmelkanal, your English Channel.   We may well catch you up on our way to the Baltic.   It rather depends on how long we loiter in Montevideo.”

            A wandering albatross tucked in behind the stern of the Lord Ancaster, skimming low over the restless swell of the Southern Ocean.   Sunlight glistened off the heaving rollers and dolphins played in the bow-waves of the two vessels as they pointed their prows towards the New World.

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.

Sea Dog Bamse

As the Lord Ancaster was hailed from the submarine, Bamse the Norwegian St Bernard, had concealed himself in the foc’sle paint locker and managed to remain undetected.

            After two days at sea the Lord Ancaster arrived at a small, ice free whaling harbour in Neuschwabenland and the Acting Kommänder of the prize crew, wishing to demonstrate his seamanship and impress onlookers, steamed his charge at her top speed of ten knots towards the quay.  It had been his intention to ring Full Astern and spin the wheel at a precisely judged moment so that the Ancaster turned sharply, lost momentum and drifted alongside the jetty in a single and elegant manoeuvre.   Sadly, he was unused to the quirky character of his newfound command, and to the unreliability of the ship’s telegraph.   The command Full Astern never reached the engine room, in fact the pretty brass handle of the telegraph came away in his hand and the trawler charged full pelt into the quayside, destroying the wooden jetty, rupturing the bow water tank and scattering paint pots around Bamse’s hidey-hole.   Stevedores on the quayside were showered in drinking water, which froze instantly, and a rainbow coloured St Bernard appeared briefly on deck before bounding ashore and disappearing into the shadows.

            At the same time as Oberleutnant Wilhelm Cremer was contemplating the fickleness of fate and his suddenly diminished chance of commanding so much as a turd in a piss-pot any time soon, Bamse had slipped into the ratings’ changing rooms.   Rubbing in a liberal coating of Swarfega and following up with a hot soapy shower he had managed to remove the worst of the paint.   He emerged cautiously from the shower and walked straight into a New Swabian seaman.

            “Gott im himmel!   Einen Hund.   Was machst du hier?”

            Bamse ducked back into the shower and pulled the curtain across while the sailor screamed, “Alarm!”

            The changing room’s steel watertight door banged and a muscular figure in singlet and shorts, hard blue eyes below a severe blonde crew cut, burst in.

            “What’s all this racket?”

            “Oberbootsmann, there is a dog in the shower.”

            “Do not be ridiculous Herman, there are no dogs on the base.   There have been no dogs here since the last sled husky died in 1956.   See.”

            He threw back the curtain to reveal Bamse, with the expression of a startled owl and holding a towel in front of his body to preserve his modesty.   The petty officer ignored him.  

            “It would be impossible for a dog to be here without me knowing it.   Now report to sick bay and get this hysteria nipped in the bud.”

            “But…” Herman twitched his head towards Bamse.

            “Now, Matrosengefreiter!”

            “Aye aye, Oberbootsmann.”   And, switching off the light as they departed, the pair left a stunned Bamse to contemplate his newfound fortune in the dark.   

There were no dogs in Neuschwabenland.   Bamse was a dog.   Therefore Bamse could not be at the whaling station.   He defied logic and so he did not exist.   He was invisible to everyone on the base… well, everyone not on the verge of a nervous breakdown anyway.   He headed straight for the canteen, piled high a bowl with as many Bratwurst sausages as it would hold, made himself comfortable at an unoccupied table and tucked in.   He was not acknowledged by any of his fellow diners.   There was Ampelpudding for desert so Bamse had two generous helpings washed down with a stein of Bockbier.   

More than adequately nourished, Bamse took a turn round the harbour.   The Ancaster was tied up on the quayside, in darkness and apparently deserted.   Across the water the old sea dog recognised the auxiliary cruiser Pinguin, which must have docked while he was eating and was moored over on the mole.   Originally named the Kandelfels, she still looked like the harmless freighter that she had once been - she was converted into a commercial raider during the winter of 1939/40 in Bremen.   He knew that she had two six-cylinder diesel engines delivering 7,000 hp, half a dozen 150 mm L/45 C/13 guns taken from the obsolete battleship Schlesien and discretely concealed behind her bulwarks along with a 75 mm cannon, one twin 37 mm and four 20 mm anti-aircraft guns, and two single 53.3 cm torpedo tubes. She could also carry two Heinkel He 114A-2 seaplanes, all of which made her a lot more formidable than she appeared.   What was she doing down here?   No one had seen anything of her for decades and she had been presumed lost at sea.   No matter, Bamse left off musing and turned to locate the radio transmitting station.   Whilst the Oberfunkmeister was at supper he would have to get a message off to Larry back in London.