Scoundrels

by Victor Cornwall

  “Now what was he doing?

  I twisted backwards to look at him again to discover, with horror, that he was unconscious. His todger was mangled in the strapping of the tackle chappie which had somehow cut off his blood supply.

  At the time I suspected a design flaw, but I discovered later that he would sometimes do it on purpose to make his cock go numb, in order to simulate the act of masturbating somebody else.

  You may shake your head Tikki Takka but all of this is true. Sad I know.

  Now the other leg please, thank you.

  I unbuckled and reached back. With some difficulty, and disgust, I loosened the filthy contraption, and the horrid purpleness began to fade. I slapped Trevelyan several times across the face, and out of frustration gave him a few extra, but he still wouldn’t regain consciousness. We began losing altitude. I grabbed the controls and then eased the Spitfire into a half turn, so at least we’d be aiming in the right direction. With the plane stable Trevelyan began to stir. He was groggy and apologised profusely.

  “Sorry about that, my chappie’s gone wrong.”

  I didn’t reply.

  We had a mission to complete, so there was little I could do other than try to forget about it and press on. Only later did I discover that it wasn’t the first time it had happened. The Widow Maker, as it became known, was a good idea in principle but it had a fatal design flaw, accounting for more Allied pilot deaths than the Luftwaffe.

  What’s that?

  Ah yes.

  Baxter, make sure you get this. For your information Trevelyan, my masseuse is now doing the wanker hand signal.

  Yes I know Tikki Takka, he’s a perfect example of one.

  Oh! I see.

  You’re asking if I want to be… ahh.

  All in good time my dear. I’m just dictating the rest of this story to Baxter and we’ll see where we are in a few minutes.

  Please, continue with my feet.

  I could see the village nestled in the trees. It was show time.

  I ripped open the brown paper parcel containing my Nazi uniform and prosthetic mask, but as I did a mild panic overcame me. I tore away more paper frantically until there was nothing left. What remained in my hands was not the uniform or mask, but a French Maid’s outfit instead.

  I took a couple of deep breaths. The plan had just become considerably more difficult, but there was no way I could turn back now. I quickly pieced together how this could have happened.

  While planning this mission, I’d been at full gallop atop a wonderful little filly from the Pimlico office typing pool. She’d been wearing a French Maid’s outfit to add a bit of a frisson to proceedings. After hurriedly getting dressed when her husband came home, I hadn’t noticed that she’d picked up my parcel and left me with hers, containing the French Maid’s outfit. Bugger.

  This turn of events wrecked my cover story. I was to have posed as Kapitan Lieberschmitt of the Brandenberg Battalion. The real one was dead in a Potsdam storm drain and all for naught. But this costume mix-up had rendered my invitation to Hitler’s party obsolete. I’d have to assume a new identity in situ. What’s more, as I obviously could not wear my British uniform in occupied territory, I was going to have to start this mission in tights and a bra.

  Tikki Takka, would you mind having another go at my pectorals please.

  By now we were above the drop zone – east of the village of Schmugelhorn. Over the headset I explained to Trevelyan that I wanted him to fly in a holding pattern. After some confusion on his part I explained this meant a big circle.

  I squeezed into the maid’s outfit, which was comically small. Then I levered myself up and out, preparing to jump. “This is where you turn around and go home,” I said, “I’ll see you in hell, or at the Club.”

  Before he could even reply I had dropped into space. Wind rushed through my hair. Nine-thousand eight-thousand, check canopy. With just a couple of thousand feet to go, the ‘chute opened and the straps jerked reassuringly at my bare shoulders. Silent and unseen, I drifted down. The lights of the German village grew nearer. It looked so peaceful in the gathering dusk.

  I used this calm and silent time to focus my mind on the job in hand and give myself a pep talk. How could I use this to my advantage? I was no longer Kapitan Lieberschmitt but a muscular man in a French Maid’s outfit. In my favour, I had perfect German and bollocks made of galvanised steel. Surely that would be enough to get the show back on the road.

  I landed in some deep scrub on the outskirts of the village, and immediately laddered my stockings. Damn. I hid behind a wall to catch my breath. It was late in the evening, and there was nobody in sight, but I could hear raucous celebrations coming from a nearby bierkeller. My senses were on high alert, and soon a way forward suggested itself to me. But no! Surely I couldn’t make that work? It would be insane to even try. But then again, if anyone could, it was me.

  I ducked under the window and peered in through the steamy glass. Inside the bar was a unit of German soldiers. They’d obviously been drinking heavily. Enlisted men leaned on each other, weak with beer. A Nazi Captain looked the best of them, at least partly sober. I rehearsed the new plan in my mind, running through potential lines, likely scenarios and possible outcomes.

  It would be a serious gamble, but that was the story of my life.

  Baxter, pass me a little of whatever’s in that decanter please.

  Thank you.

  I opened the door of the bar and every pair of eyes widened at the sight of me. It was too late to turn back now. I steeled myself for what lay ahead and then, as sexily as I could, I strode in, head held high. The oompah band in the corner stopped playing. The German soldiers stared agog. They had never seen anything like me before: a great big muscly chap in silk and lace. The tension built until it was unbearable. The room was a powder keg. What the hell was this? A joke? Several Nazi soldiers placed their hands on their pistols, itching to be given the order to shoot me between the eyes.

  Make no mistake, I was shitting myself, but I couldn’t show it. I continued deeper into the bar, heading towards the Nazi Captain’s table. I was swinging my hips to gather as much attention as I could from the room. The fact that I was not a twenty-two year old fraulein with an arse like a ripe peach meant my performance needed to be note perfect: theatrical enough to get through to the thick heads of these drunken men, yet subtle enough to be alluring and appeal to the officers.

  I grabbed a lit cigarette from some Private’s mouth, and stopped in the middle of the room. Still nobody moved. I cocked a hip and stared around, meeting as many incredulous eyes as I could. Then I blew a plume of bluish smoke into the Private’s face and walked on, straight up to the Nazi Captain.

  I stopped before him, and curtsied.

  “Was zum Teufel ist das?” (What the devil is this?) he said staring at me in disbelief.

  “Mein Kapitan,” I replied in a sexy, low tone. “Ist es nicht dein Geburtstag?”

  “No”, he replied,“it is not my birthday, fraulein!” This drew a few nervous titters from the men. “And if it were, it is of no consequence. There is only one birthday around here worth mentioning.”

  “What a shame,” I pursed my lips and took another slow drag of the cigarette. “I was sure it would be somebody’s birthday tonight. I feel like celebrating.”

  I twirled suddenly to give the assembled bar a dazzling smile. There were some isolated laughs, but I had not won this crowd over quite yet. “Well, my Captain,” I said, staring deep into his eyes. “Do you mind if I practise on you?”

  I jumped onto the rough wooden table, as bawdy as a fishwife. Some of the drunker soldiers reflexively looked at my legs.

  “Happy Biiirrrthdayyy to you!

  Happppy Biiirrthhday, to you!

  Happy Birthday Meine Kaaapiiitaaan,

  Haaapppyyy Birrrrthda
aay, Toooo Yoooouuuuu.”

  I ended up sliding from the table onto his lap and finished by giving him a big wet kiss on the cheek.

  There was a brief, tense pause, and then the whole bar roared with laughter, the tension snapping like an overstressed frenulum. I thanked my lucky stars. If there is one nation on Earth that loves a birthday drag act, it’s the Germans. Everyone turned back to what they were doing and began drinking again. The Nazi Captain was jubilant at the reaction, and sat back louchely, as if he’d been in on this wheeze all along. He pulled out a chair at his table for me to sit down.

  I accepted his offer of a huge tankard of lager on the Captain’s slate, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. My plan had worked, so far. I’d got through the most difficult stage unscathed.

  “Are you sure you would not prefer a small white wine, sweetheart?” said the Captain.

  “Wine is for girls,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I’m a lady.”

  “So, which regiment are you with? I bet it’s Heidelberg, yah? You guys are always so fucking ballsy!”

  “Oh, Goebbels’ Office sent me,” I replied. “I’m from the Reich Culture Chamber, sent here for the birthday celebrations…” and here came my gamble, “…at the Castle.”

  “Ahh!” said the Captain. “You are very convincing. For a moment there I thought you were a dirty little slut from Munich! But if it’s the party you are here for, you’re twenty-four hours early.”

  “Wouldn’t you be early, for the Fuhrer?”

  “I certainly would.”

  Damn I was good. I couldn’t help but congratulate myself and the nerve required to walk into a bar full of Nazis dressed as a French Maid, and be accepted as one of Goebbels’ propaganda operatives. Wait till I tell this one back at Scoundrels, I thought. They’ll have to name a room after me. “Who booked you, eh? Was it that old bastard Obersturmfuhrer Gestalt? Was it, eh?” cajoled the Captain.

  “No!” I said, swiping one of the Captain’s proffered cigarettes. “It was Hans Baumann, the poet. Do you know his work?” Baumann was a barely literate toady who was in the pocket of Goebbels’ Culture Chamber, knocking out shoddy lines that celebrated National Socialism. I hoped the Captain knew nothing of his work.

  The Captain cleared his throat.

  “Denn heute da hört uns Deutschland /

  Und morgen die ganze Welt.”

  For today Germany hears us /

  Tomorrow the whole world shall.

  “That’s the stuff! Very stirring,” I said, nodding solemnly, with a misty look in my eye as if I were deeply moved. I dredged a line up from somewhere deep in my memory:

  “Es zittern die morschen Knochen.”

  Brittle bones are trembling.

  Was there anything I couldn’t do? I made this undercover spy stuff look easy.

  But life sometimes has a way of slapping you in the face, and my brio was punctured by the pretty ungentlemanly suggestion the Captain whispered into my ear while running a hand up my leg, “I’d like to tremble your brittle bones…”

  It took me a moment to catch on. Bloody hell! This Captain wanted to maketh the beast with two backs. Before I could think of something to put him off, he was grabbing my arm and pulling me up. Normally I would have put a wristlock on him and thrown him through a window, but that wouldn’t keep me alive.

  Even as he guided me through the tables, he was tearing at my clothing. The juxtaposition of the sheer black material against the white lace seemed to drive him into a sexual frenzy. In some ways I shouldn’t have been surprised. Germans love a uniform, hate the French, and are notoriously neat and tidy. I was essentially a French cleaning lady: every German’s wet dream.

  Howls of derision echoed behind us from the drunken men, as the Captain slapped my silken arse and pushed me up the bierkeller stairs. Unfortunately for him, leading us away from the protection of his men turned out to be the worst decision of his life.

  It’s all true Tikki Takka, every bloody word. Could you refill this, there’s a good girl.

  Ready Baxter?

  The fishnet tights dug deep into the Captain’s throat as I twisted the makeshift garrote tighter and tighter, choking the life out of him. He gasped for air, his red face a mixture of fear and rage.

  Once in the room, the Captain had attempted to have his wicked way with me, and it had taken me a few moments to get the upper hand. Then I had been merciless. “Speak up, Captain, don’t be shy,” I said as I twisted the tights further still, “I need an invitation to the party at Castle Klunghammer. Be a good chap and hand it over.”

  “Die Inglish pig-dog! I shall tell you nussing,” came the Captain’s defiant reply.

  “Now, now. No need to be a sour Kraut,” I quipped. “But if you don’t spit it out in the next five seconds, I shall kill you, and you’ll be fertiliser for next year’s Riesling. It’s shaping up to be a poor vintage.”

  To his credit, the Nazi Captain said nothing. I strangled him with the tights and searched his uniform.

  Nothing. All he had was a copy of the guard rota for Castle Klunghammer. This Captain, Spraganzee, was due on duty while the Fuhrer was enjoying games of Übergeben Sie die Parcel and Verspeck Spiel. I knew it wouldn’t be enough to get me in. But at least now I had a uniform.

  I unpeeled my torn French Maid’s outfit and flannelled myself down. Thankfully the Captain was my size and his uniform was a perfect fit. I stood in front of the mirror looking every inch a Nazi officer. Downstairs the men were still getting more and more rowdy, and I knew that it wouldn’t be too long before they were also banging on the door for a piece of me. I needed to get out of here and find a way to infiltrate the castle. Then the party games could really begin.

  I was glad to be alive, but I knew I was still a long way from this mission having a happy ending.

  I opened the window and –

  Ohhh, Madaaaammme…

  Major, my apologies, I seem to have accidentally activated the code word and Tikki Takka has begun to Close The Show, if you take my meaning.

  I will write again soon with the next part of this dramatic tale.

  Baxter you may leave us now.

  Until next time,

  Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall

  Nimbu Towers

  Pullen-under-Lyme

  Gloucestershire

  12th October 2016

  Dear Major,

  This is getting awfully trying you know. You have misrepresented me in an appalling manner. I asked you to refrain from continuing my war story, but you have been unable to contain yourself, in both senses of the word.

  Poor Madame Tikki Takka, dealing with your unwholesome fallout for the best part of half a century. I do hope you have arranged for her a suitable pension for when one of her massages finally brings on your massive coronary.

  It is true that the tackle chappie had a few technical problems at this stage of the war. Science needs to take risks in order to progress, and this is a prime example of me putting myself on the line in order to improve the lives of others.

  Also, you rather conveniently forget that I was an accomplished fighter ace with over sixty kills to my name, rather than the bumbling, myopic transport pilot you describe. This entire enterprise is going to go off the rails very quickly if you insist on rewriting history to suit your own ends. Whoever came up with the idea that history is written by the winners only got it half-right. In this case history is being written by one winner and a senile old bastard.

  Anyway, I’m wrestling control of this story back from you, so objectivity may reign. You should take a deep breath before you begin this next part, as you really don’t come off very well.

  __________

  CHAPTER 10

  The Most Impenetrable Castle In Germany

  The Black Forest, 1943

  The crate
felt empty without Major Cornwall in it. Good, I’ll get home faster, with enough of the evening left to make some design tweaks to the chappie. I turned Rosie for Blighty, thinking of the wonderful W.A.A.F. who’d be waiting for me after supper.

  Jemima. She was the tuba player in the regimental brass band. She could conjure a jaunty tune from absolutely anything, and often did. She’d been thoughtful enough to stash a pair of her unlaundered knickers in the breast pocket of my flying jacket. I had only just fitted them over my head when I felt a pang of conscience prick the icy exterior of my warrior’s heart.

  Now that’s how you begin a chapter, Victor, with a strong image that the reader can hold in their mind’s eye.

  Major Cornwall in lingerie, I mused. Not exactly the thing to fill the Germans with fear. His mission was only going to end one way. Could I really allow that to happen to a chap I sat next to in geography class? Could I let this man end his days alone in the bleak, Nazi forest? Could I?

  Heading back to Blighty with the breeze whipping through my hair is one of my favourite memories of the war. I knew Jemima would be awaiting my return. She’d already be face down on my bunk, absolutely gagging to receive the old Glenn Miller.

  “Lucky you!” I’d shout, tunnelling into her white cliffs.

  “Rather! Double rations!” she’d cry delightedly.

  My anticipation was building nicely and I don’t mind telling you that I was fully tumescent within moments. Then, disaster! My tackle chappie had unaccountably tightened again. Perhaps a quarter of my blood was trapped in my engorged member, and there simply wasn’t enough left to keep my lion’s heart beating.