Andromeda Geräte

 “All crew to their stations.   Prepare to surface.”   The distorted voice of Otto von Luckner crackled over the ship’s Tannoy system.

“Kapitän Entwhistle, if you would like to join me at the periscope.”

            Minutes later Harold appeared on the Command Deck accompanied by his Chief Engineer, Albert Fleck, short and skeletal in a boiler suit that had once been white, hob-nail boots, a dish-rag round his neck and a woollen tea-cosy on his head.

            “Ah Kapitän, and you have brought your stoker.   Would you like to take a look at our destination?”   Von Luckner ushered the trawlermen to the periscope and Harold peered into the eyepiece.   He could see ice and snow – pretty much like all the ice and snow they had been surrounded by since coming south.   Dead ahead was a low black rectangle sheltered beneath an overhang in the cliff.

            “Can I see too?” asked Albert.   As he surveyed the desolate scene a lonely wandering albatross waddled over to the funny stick protruding through a hole in the lightly frozen ocean and blocked out the view.   Distorted goggle eyes peered in at the startled artificer.

            “What the f… …is that?

            “The entrance to our U-Boat pens,” the Kapitänleutnant turned to his ensign, “Take her up.”

            “Bow planes ten degrees, rudder amidships, blow all tanks.”

            The Seeadler surfaced, breaking through the thin layer of barely formed ice and startling the inquisitive seabird into panicked flight.

            A queue of ship’s officers formed at the bottom of the conning tower ladder whilst the Oberfähnrich climbed up to open the hatch.   Von Luckner took two paces back and, with a hand pressed against Harold’s chest, indicated that the trawlermen should do the same.   Seawater showered through the hatchway onto the up-turned faces below.

            “This happens every time.   They never learn.”

The submersible’s deck officers were clustered outside on top of the conning tower when Harold and Albert joined them and the Seeadler was gliding silently towards the cavernous entrance.   As they entered the submarine pens the crew lined the deck to take a salute from stevedores gathered on the nearest floating quay; a small brass band with a glockenspiel played ‘Edelweiss’.   While Seeadler navigated alongside and was made fast Bert Fleck observed a Cuban, Foxtrot Class submarine and a Type VIIC/41 Flak U-Boat on neighbouring pontoons.   The sleek Cuban vessel appeared to be making ready to sail.

            “Stop engines.   Prepare to disembark.”   Once the trawlermen had been rounded up Easter joined Harry and Albert with von Luckner, Billy Tate remained with the crew who were quickly escorted ashore.

            “Your men will be treated well, Kapitän.   You may check on their wellbeing in a little while.   But I wish to be with you when you first set eyes on our establishment here.”   The Kapitänleutnant indicated the gangway.   They proceeded along the pontoon to a short ramp and then ascended a long escalator.   Globe lamps on patinated bronze mounts lit their way, the architecture was modernist with a severely Teutonic twist.

            They emerged into a spacious concourse.   Half-moon skylights, pierced through the sea-green ceiling high above, cast shafts of daylight into the scene below, the polished Carrera floor shone like water, the walls glowed with warm beige marble cladding.   A mahogany cased clock dominated the far end of the hall and dwarfed figures scurried purposefully wherever the Yorkshiremen looked.   Just ahead a sulky line of king penguins shuffled past, heads down and shoulders hunched.   Intermittently each in turn would squawk a mumbled complaint.   Nearby stood a group of self absorbed men in tall orange hats, with faces of wrinkled, walnut leather; their saffron robes all but hidden by too large, wrap around yak-skin coats, secured at the waist by string.

            “Lizard men?” enquired Harold Entwhistle of his host.

            “None of us will ever meet the Merovingian Lizard Kings, my friend.   That is not their way.   These men of the Himalayas are envoys.

“Let me show you to your quarters, and on the way I will point out the officers’ mess.   I will meet you back there in…   Shall we say one hour?”

The officers’ mess was done out with a great deal of chrome and had the feel of an outsized American diner.   Harold, Easter and Albert were sat at a cramped Formica table and had given a food order to a well-rounded fraulein in a short blue gingham dress and dinky, matching forage cap by the time they were joined by Kapitänleutnant Otto Graf von Luckner.   Albert removed his tea cosy, stuffed it in a pocket and ran his fingers through his greasy hair.   The waitress appeared with three All Day Breakfasts.

            “Good, you have ordered.   I will have an Americano, two shots of expresso, not too much water… and a small piece of your excellent schwarzwälder kirschtorte, if I may, my dear.”

            Easter scowled at his surroundings, “All seems very clean - for a secret Nazi UFO base.   Where’s the Storm Troopers.”

            Otto sighed, “To business then.   First I must explain to you our situation, we will postpone the small talk, pleasant as that would be, till later.  

“There were never many Nazis here; our original expedition was, after all, a scientific survey.   Those first comers were not intending to become colonists.   There were not many women on the original expedition either but somehow, three generations later, we are still here.   Our ancestors established a small base on this spot, claimed the land for the Greater Germany, began surveying the area and then made a discovery that changed everything.   You had better come with me and I will show you…   The secret you have come to uncover…   The reason you can never leave.”  

            “Never…   What?”   Albert shot to his feet, banging his knees on the table, which was, fortunately, securely bolted to the floor.

            Easter joined in with, “Now look here, captain...”

            “Please.   Just come with me.   We can discuss your future circumstances later.”

The Yorkshire trio were still protesting vehemently as they crossed the concourse to one of a number of departure gates.   Four of the mysterious, saffron clad orientals formed up silently behind them.   A discoloured sign in a Gebrochene Schrift black letter typeface indicated AG Gate23 and below it an attendant, inspecting von Luckner’s pass, nodded them through.   They entered a tube-like chamber lined with benches and settled down together whilst the mute envoys sat nearby, yet pointedly apart from the sailors.   The doors slid shut with a whoosh, there was a sharp Plop, a hiss and a sensation of rapid acceleration.

            “We are travelling in a pneumatic tube subway.   First proposed, I believe, by your excellent Herr Brunel, though it has taken German vorsprung durch technik to make it work.”

            “Not Isambard, for once, George Medhurst, a Kentishman,” muttered Bert Fleck, “but I bet he half inched the idea off a Yorkshireman.”

            The travelers were contemplating the engineer’s observation as their transport stopped with an uncomfortable suddenness and the doors slid open.   Otto stood back to let the Himalayan envoy disembark first, then he and the trawlermen followed along a gently sloping ice tunnel.   At its end the oldest and shortest emissary, with the tallest hat, approached a small glowing tablet, placed his right palm upon it and a door swung open.   The four monk-like beings entered first, followed reluctantly by Easter and Albert Fleck.   Harold and the Kapitänleutnant brought up the rear.   They found themselves inside a bare reception area.   The curved outer walls were comprised of an alloy that Harold could not identify.   There was no corrosion or decay, though there were signs of wear and an impression of great age.   The inner bulkheads and floors were transparent and, disconcertingly, they could see down through several floors beneath their feet.   In the room below were parked two foo fighters under plastic sheeting.     

            “Schoonfryder,” whispered von Luckner, “but there are many different types of what you would call UFO in neighbouring bays.”

            “Great,” said Albert, who was pressed against the only wall that looked solid and was very deliberately not looking down.

            The diminutive monk turned to address the company, “Discovering this the great grandfather of young Otto was.   Lying here undisturbed for many millennia it had been.   Under the ice.   A secret it was, and must remain.   The Andromeda Machine.   Within a UFO mother ship you are.”

Aqaba

Beryl was naked under her voluminous indigo thobe, reclining on rugs and cushions within a traditional Bedouin black tent.   An embroidered and tasselled wool camel bag nearby was playing As Time Goes By.   She concentrated, hard.   Phone.   That’s my iPhone.   I’m…   I’ve got a phone call!   Beryl dived for the bag, rummaged about in it and found the phone just as it stopped ringing.   She was cursing fluently in Arabic, English and Swahili when it rang again.   This time she answered.

            “Agent 160?   Can we talk freely?”

            “We can,” she replied, “The boy is with his sheep.”

            “Get down to Aqaba as quickly as you can,” it was Larry’s factotum, Barrymore, on the other end of the phone, “There will be a Loening Air Yacht down at the waterfront and Dark Flo will be joining you.   She has all the details for your mission.”

            “OK…” Beryl paused as if to say more.

            “That’s not a problem is it?”

            “Not a problem.   I’ll be there sometime this afternoon.”

            Beryl felt a weight lifted from her mind – action at last, and an excuse to move on.  She really had enjoyed her time with Abdulla, but his affair with the blond English woman was doing much too much for his confidence after a short lifetime with nothing but his goats and camels.   Before long he would have become a pain.   It was better this way.   Quickly changing into her flying kit and throwing a few necessaries into a threadbare carpetbag she wrote a hasty note of thanks and regret and left it on the brass tray under a coffee pot.   It was but a short stroll to her Dragon Rapide.   Beryl checked the fuel gauge, waved goodbye to the cluster of Bedouin children that had gathered around and, buckling her flying-helmet under her chin, taxied to the makeshift landing strip.   She was airborne when she noticed Abdulla’s Toyota kicking up dust as it sped towards the camp.   She banked the Rapide, flew low over his pick-up truck and dipped the wings in salute before heading south.

Beryl found the seaplane swinging gently at its buoy as the tide turned.   She selected a café on the Aqaba Corniche, sat at an outside table, ordered a strong Turkish coffee and the fill of a shisha pipe.   She would wait for Dark Flo to contact her, and pulling a well-thumbed Penguin paperback copy of Freya Stark’s Valleys of the Assassins from her canvas knapsack, she settled back in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

            She had reread a chapter and a half and was beginning to drift when the winsome figure of Dark Flo appeared in front of her.   The thick black hair was plaited into a single pigtail down her back and a thin, sleeveless frock exposed bare brown arms and legs glistening damp in the heat of the early afternoon.   Flo sat, took a long drag on the mouthpiece of Beryl’s hookah and waved to a waiter.

            “A glass of mint tea, if you would be so kind.”

            “So…” Beryl beamed and leaned in close to her willowy companion, “What have you got us into this time?”

            “We’re going to Antarctica.   Well I am.   You’re to overfly New Swabia and I will bail out over some whaling station or other.   Larry’s heard from Bamse at last and it appears they’ve made a right hash of things.   So good old Ninja Flo gets to don a wingsuit and do her Wonder Woman act.

“Larry reckons it’ll be easier to find places on the way to set down and refuel with the amphibian than your Dominie.   So he’s lumbered us with that crate over there.”

            “Great.”   The pair giggled together.

They took a room in a family run, backstreet hotel for the night.   Throughout the nocturnal hours there was no let up in the clamour from the street and the fragrant air hung hot and humid.   They did not sleep much.   Next morning they had a breakfast of croissants and grilled halloumi cheese before setting off for the waterfront.   After some hard bargaining Beryl secured the services of a local felucca skipper and they were ferried out to the air yacht.   Flo produced the keys to the Loening and balanced on the felucca’s thwart as she reached for the door.   Beryl passed up their luggage and they clambered, without much dignity, into the seaplane.   Giving them an appreciative leer, the boat skipper sheeted in the large lateen sail on his skiff and veered away.

            Within the fuselage most of passenger seats had been ripped out to make room for additional fuel tanks.   An Elsan ‘Bristol’ chemical toilet and pipe cots had also been installed so that the duo would not have to go in search of accommodation every time they stopped for the night.

            “How far is Antarctica?   This is going to be real fun, I don’t think,” muttered Dark Flo as Beryl climbed to the open cockpit to begin flight checks.

            “Don’t know.   Check the charts.   And can you make sure they cover the entire journey?   I don’t want to be trying to track down a copy of ‘Admiralty 4075’ in some one horse South American back water.”

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.

Aunty Stella’s House

Ferdinand Desai was having tea with Strawberry.   It was a long time since he had been home and they were out in the garden, even though it was turning a little chilly.   In the kitchen they could still hear Aunty Stella preparing cream scones.   She seemed to have been at it for hours despite the best efforts of Mouse to lend assistance.   The tubby little cat had been mixing the ingredients with a relatively clean paw and her tabby coat was hidden under a fine covering of greyish flour.

            The rest was doing Ferdy good – sure, he still had that distracting tick below his left eye, and his stubby wing shook when he tried to handle the large stoneware teapot, but he was a lot better than when he first arrived.   For three days all the pent up tension that he had kept suppressed, nurtured to enhance his combat awareness, came out and all but paralysed him.   The days had been hell and the nights far worse.  

            Now he was on the mend.   He had been recounting some of his reasonably exciting, yet not too lurid Coleywar adventures and was getting some funny looks from his old friend.

            “…and now Larry seems to think we’re going to sort out this mess in Antarctica.   Do you know how far it is to Antarctica?”

            They agreed that they did not.

            “Well it’s a long way.”

Ginsbergbear joined them on the patio.   He was wearing a loose fitting and stylishly shabby corduroy suit and was lighting a compact vulcanised meerschaum Peterson pipe.   Aunty Stella and mouse followed him carrying trays with the first batch of warm scones.

            “Are they going to join us?”   Aunty Stella nodded towards the slumped figures of Boz and Phoebles, stretched out on recliners by the pool.   “Tea’s up, you two.”

            There was a stampede for the food and Phoebles had cream all over his nose before the others could get the top off the jam pot.

            “Save some for me.”   A tall figure slunk from the shadows by the wheelie-bins, the mole-grey fedora shadowing a face hidden behind a Lone Ranger mask and the wide striped zoot-suit instantly recognisable to the assembled company.   The yellow MacDuck tartan pashmina scarf was new.

            Ginsbergbear was the first to address him.   “Slasher McGoogs as I live and breathe, and what brings you to leafy Surrey?”

            “You do, your gang and Larry and this whole bloody mess you’ve got yourselves into.   Stir things up a bit I says, and you start a war.  

“I’ve been up north of the wall, amongst the Reivers, gathering intel.   And nothing I’ve heard so far is good.

“Boz, you’re going to have to get hold of Larry and dissuade him from all that Antarctic rubbish.   We need to defuse this powder keg in the Autonomous Northern Territories before there’s the biggest bang since Krakatau.   And we may have to curb the Kittens of Chaos.   They appear to have directed their undoubted if random enthusiasm towards some freelance offensive of their own devising.”

            “Me?   Why don’t you go and see him?” Boz was not in the mood to be taking orders, “I have to admit though, Blackpool does sound more attractive than some snow swept continent in the middle of the Southern Ocean.”

            “Larry and I don’t meet.   You can’t exactly be the shadowy antihero one minute and lunch with the Acting Prime Minister the next.   And it’s not exactly going to be Blackpool, old pal.   I want to introduce you to the Gilnockie of Gilnockie.   See if we can’t get the Reivers back to cattle thieving, rape and vendetta amongst themselves, on their own patch – and something similar for the Corsairs.   There’s a time factor though – rumour has it Les Chats Souterrains are moving a Vril-1 Jäger Class Foo Fighter up there and if any one gang gets their hands on that there’ll be all hell let loose.”

            “No pressure then?   As usual.” chipped in Ferdy, who was developing a disturbing glint to his eyes.   "And the Kittens are raising Cain up there too.   Walk in the park.”

            “The Kittens,” said McGoogs ominously, “are laying siege to Berwick-upon-Tweed.”

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.”

Beryl

A diversion for those breathless readers who are finding the relentless action somewhat exhausting.   Cats may wish to skip this chapter.

Beryl Clutterbuck had taxied her Dragon Rapide almost to the gates of the little Arab Legion fort.   She was taking coffee with a gathering of Desert Patrol soldiers beneath an awning outside the walls.   Their camels grumbled nearby and they chatted irrepressibly, switching without effort into English when Beryl’s Arabic proved inadequate.  Shining black Bedouin curls peeped from under their scarlet keffiyahs, rakishly held in place by the cords of the agal.   Their flamboyant uniform robes tumbled about them, long white sleeves turned back from the wrists.

            Beryl spun round at the sudden sound of giggling, to see four youngsters running gaily by.   In the lead were two barefooted lads, their grubby thawbs flapping around their shins.   A girl in a cotton frock, with a tiny flower print, and a worn thin cardigan lagged closely behind and was overtaken by a skittering lamb that bleated in time with their laughter.   The self-absorbed coterie rounded the corner of the fort and was lost to view.

            The Desert Patrol sergeant took Beryl’s tiny cup and refilled it from a traditional brass coffee pot with an unnecessarily prominent beak like spout.   The hot liquid was thick, dark and bitter.

            “The lad, Abdulla, will be along in a moment.   He will take you there.”

Beryl nodded her thanks.

She had barely started to sip the latest serving of coffee when a battered, white Toyota pick-up drew to a halt with a short skid, scattering loose stones.   A young, cream coloured camel sat placidly in the back.   The wiry youth who clambered down from the cab was unusually dark, with a mass of unkempt black hair and dazzling white teeth.   His blue-grey shirt was buttoned at the wrists and up to the neck and tucked into baggy cargo pants.   Dusty toes protruded from leather sandals.   The sergeant approached him and they spoke for a while, glancing occasionally towards Beryl.   When they came over the lad was grinning, his face in shadow and only those teeth and the whites of his eyes distinguishable against the ebony skin.

            “Madam, I will gladly take you to that place.   If we might go straight away you will have plenty of time before it gets dark.”

The Toyota sped across the wide, flat wadi floor, twitching off half buried rocks and trailing a long cloud of dust.   The blistering heat was sticking Beryl’s sweat drenched bush shirt to her back as she braced herself in the seat next to Abdulla, his expert hands dominating the jerking steering wheel, as he concentrated on keeping to the rough contours of their track.   Ahead towered a lonely outcrop of rock, never seemingly any closer for all their speed.

            In time, however, they were at the foot of the rock cliff and parked in its shade.

            “First I must attend to Zenobia.”   Abdulla dropped the tailgate of the truck and set his camel free, but hobbled, to graze on the sparse, coarse vegetation.   Then, signalling Beryl to follow, he led her into a deep cleft in the rock.   The chasm was barely wider than her shoulders and irregular under foot.   In places she could see scratches or drawings on the vertical walls, but they were too weathered to make out.   It was cooler now, deep within the outcrop.   After what must have been fifty yards or more the narrow gorge opened out into a grotto enclosing a still, deep pool.   On the walls were pictographs – abstract circles, dots and triangles by the entrance, but deeper inside lively oryx, ibex and flocks of wild birds populated the rock and reflected in the water.  

            “I will go and prepare tea,” said Abdulla, “Be free, and enjoy yourself.”

            Alone in a magic space, Beryl untied her laces, put the desert boots to one side and removed a very sweaty pair of socks.   She discarded her bush shirt, dropped her knee-length khaki shorts and, unhooking a plain white cotton bra, she dipped a slender foot into the pool.   The water was satisfyingly cool.   Casting off a delicately lacy pair of Brazilian knickers she sank, naked, into the cistern.   The silky water caressed her tanned, dry skin.   Floating on her back, weightless, golden hair fanning out around her head, gentle ripples tantalising those intimate areas that had been imprisoned within too much perspiration soaked clothing for too many days, was exquisite.   Without moving she studied the wall paintings.   Among the desert animals there were cattle too, and a giraffe.   When was there ever giraffe in this region?   There were also stylised human figures in red-brown ochre.   They were depicted floating horizontally in space, matchstick men with exaggerated erect penises.   Anonymous and faceless they had extended arms and flexed knees as if they were swimming.

            Beryl closed her eyes and allowed her long-tense muscles to relax, stress fleeing from her body as the calming stillness penetrated her being, visualising the brown bodied swimmers silently drifting around her.

She could have lain like this for several hours, or it may have been only minutes; she could not guess.   But when she opened her eyes the boy was watching her from the pool’s edge.

            He was motionless except for the subtle rise and fall of his breast – statuesque, remote.   He studied her with a detached curiosity, his eyes betraying no hint of lust.   Yet, under his gaze Beryl felt her nipples respond.   There was a stirring across the surface of the pool.

           “You must come in,” she spoke in his native tongue, “the water is wonderful.”