Scoundrels

by Victor Cornwall

  As I spoke I noticed a subtle change in Hansclapp’s demeanour. His shoulders relaxed, and he leaned forward. To a layman, these would have been insignificant movements, but to a body language expert, like myself, they were as good as a smile and a handshake. In the space of a sentence Hansclapp’s view of me had utterly changed.

  But it was Schäfer who spoke. “It must be a great comfort to know London will toast your friend’s death. Perhaps we’ll give them reason to open a second bottle.” He aimed the Luger at me once more. “The wing is still on fire and we have one more extinguisher. Get up.”

  I was about to stand up when Hansclapp spoke. “Are you a Scoundrel also, Cornwall?”

  “I am.”

  “And how did you become a Scoundrel?” He weighted this enquiry perfectly, almost. On the face of it a harmless question to satisfy his curious mind, but I was too long in the tooth to fall for such an inelegant play for my bra-strap. I saw what he intended a mile away, and suddenly I knew I had some currency: Hansclapp wanted to join the club. He wanted to be a Scoundrel. Who didn’t?

  The only question was how much time did I have to exploit it.

  I had a quick look out of the window at the flames on the wing. I reckoned we had another forty minutes before the plane would come down. Time enough.

  I made a show of making myself comfortable in my seat. All thoughts of Trevelyan had now dissipated and I got on with the task of completing the mission. That was why I was such a bloody good operative. I was always able to focus on the important stuff: my survival and a mission completed successfully. “Are you asking me how I became a Scoundrel? Or are you asking me how one becomes a Scoundrel? They’re not the same thing.”

  Schafer told me to stand up again, but Hansclapp cut across him. “I mean how does one become a Scoundrel?” His glacial eyes were fixed upon me.

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Do you have any more of those cigarettes Captain, they’re rather good?” I needed to drag this out for as long as I could. The last thing I wanted was to go the way of Trevelyan and fall off the wing.

  Schäfer was behind the pace of conversation, but evidently had just enough faith in Lieutenant Hansclapp to let this play out. He threw me the packet of slim-line Goose Steppen Zigaretten No.5. I lit one. They were strong.

  “Getting membership to the most exclusive gentleman’s club in the world is actually very easy.” I said, exhaling. “You simply have to be nominated by an existing member.” I allowed my eyes to fall on Hansclapp so he could read my intent.

  “The thing is, Scoundrels isn’t interested in where you come from. Race, religion, sexuality – none of this matters a hoot. It’s all about character. Does this man have the character to become a Scoundrel? That really is the only question of any import. And always best determined by those already part of the Club.”

  Hansclapp was impassive, but I knew my words were landing with the weight and precision of Dempsey jabs. He was a master of disguising his intentions, but I was a master at interpreting them. I knew he was hanging on my every word. Membership was a badge of honour like no other. It gave members access to a world that few could dream of, and the guarantee of a charmed life full of excitement and luxury, way beyond the reach of the law or even the taxman. I sensed an odd desperation within him. He was an outsider who wanted in. I had the keys to the toy cupboard and I was offering to unlock it.

  “Of course,” I continued, “there are ways to prove one’s character. An act of heroism for example. Putting one’s self in harm’s way for a fellow Scoundrel. That type of thing…” I was actually beginning to enjoy myself as I rattled on about how fantastic it was to be a member. I talked about King Charles’ Deal, and Alexander the Great’s skull. I talked about Skit Nights and the Book of Honoured Debts. The only question was if it would make any damn difference. Schäfer, increasingly anxious about the wing, was getting impatient. “Enough of this trivial talk!” he said angrily. He aimed the pistol at my head again. “Pick up the fire extinguisher now and get out on that wing.”

  I looked at Hansclapp for any sign of a connection. Had I done enough? Would he help me?

  He didn’t move. If I’d had a moment longer I may have persuaded him, but he did nothing.

  I stood up, wearily accepting my fate. Then without warning the plane banked hard left and we all had to grab the fuselage webbing until we levelled out. We’d changed direction again. Schäfer looked confused. What the hell was going on?

  Then the cockpit door burst open, and with a primeval roar the figure of Trevelyan charged down the fuselage towards us, screaming as he came. Hansclapp, I noticed, coolly stepped back a pace, putting distance between Schäfer and himself.

  Schäfer turned, a momentary lapse in concentration, which was all I needed. I kicked the pistol from his hand, sending it skidding across the floor. He looked back at me, his hateful face snarling with rage. He opened his mouth to shout something but was tackled around the midriff and sent flying.

  Hansclapp stooped to pick up the pistol.

  On the floor of the plane Trevelyan was knocking ten bells out of the Nazi Captain. I stood and watched as all of his fury spilled forth. He was going berserk, and no wonder. Somehow he was alive but he’d lost all of his hair. His face and bald head were dark purple. It was most unsettling.

  After a full minute he stopped hitting Schäfer and staggered to his feet. Hansclapp had the pistol loosely pointed at Trevelyan, but more out of self-preservation than intent. Trevelyan was gulping great draughts of air, his barrel chest heaving in and out. He turned to the prone Nazi again, and kicked him in the guts a couple more times. He was a wild beast. I wasn’t even sure he recognised me. I’d only ever seen him like this twice before. Once at school when Butterworth dobbed him in for his Victorian porn collection, and another time at Heavy Betsy’s where the no-touching rule was tearing him apart.

  On both occasions I’d been the only person who could talk him down. I knew that if I didn’t mollify him we were all dead. “You alright there old chap?” I said tentatively, “You with us again?” Trevelyan wheeled towards me, mad-eyed and bewildered.

  “Easy big man,” I said soothingly. I moved slowly, deliberately so he could see exactly what I was doing. Like a horse whisperer I reached out and gently placed the palm of my hand on his chest. He looked down at it uncomprehendingly. “Friend,” I said softly.

  “Friend?” Trevelyan’s voice was strained.

  “Big guy’s gunna be okay,” I whispered. Trevelyan said nothing but stared at me, lost in the far reaches of his monkey brain. I held onto his gaze, careful not to bare my teeth, willing him to come back to me. Gradually his posture softened and his anger subsided. When I was sure he was back in the room I said, “Bravo Trevelyan! That was some entry, how’d you get back in?”

  “Wasn’t easy,” he said. “My hair caught fire and I fell off the wing. Luckily my rope got snagged in the landing gear. I managed to climb back in through the undercarriage. I killed the two bastards in the cockpit.” He held up two meaty fists covered in blood.

  “Good show!” I was impressed. Then I turned my attention to Hansclapp. He’d taken a couple of paces back but still had the pistol. Had he wished, he could have shot us there and then. But he didn’t and I knew why. “Gruber and I have been talking. He’s shown an interest in becoming a Scoundrel, and of course I’ve told him it requires recommendations from existing members.”

  Thankfully, Trevelyan caught on right away. “I see. I suppose it would be possible. But for a Nazi?”

  “An ex-Nazi, I assume, Gruber?”

  Hansclapp nodded slowly. I kept talking. “Scoundrels are open-minded about these things. We don’t judge a man by his past. After all, we’ve all done things we’re not proud of, right Trevelyan?”

  “Right.”

  “And anyway, we’ve known Gruber since school. You hav
en’t always been a Nazi, have you?”

  I felt we were getting somewhere but he still had the pistol pointing at us. Then he spoke with chilling clarity. “I am a winner. That is all. I win. Others lose. That is life. I choose my allies based on that and that alone. I have no allegiance to Germany.” It was a revealing insight.

  “Why don’t you lower the pistol Gruber?” Trevelyan suggested, “to show a bit of willing.”

  Gruber didn’t move. He was still weighing up his options. Just then Schäfer made a groaning sound. He was still alive. If Schäfer recovered, it might change everything. Hansclapp was still the only one with a gun. “So what do you think Gruber?” I said. “Are you going to be a Scoundrel or not?”

  “Can you guarantee me entry?”

  I held his gaze. “One hundred percent.”

  Captain Schäfer staggered to his feet. His face was covered in blood and was horribly marked with wounds made by Trevelyan’s signet ring. “Well done Lieutenant,” he said through broken teeth. “Well done.” Then he turned his attention to Trevelyan. “I don’t know how you survived the fall, but you won’t survive this. Shoot them Lieutenant Hansclapp. Shoot them both.”

  We were at a considerable disadvantage and unable to move. I looked at Hansclapp for a connection again. Did he want Scoundrels membership or not? His inscrutable face gave nothing away.

  Hansclapp raised the pistol and lined up the Luger’s iron sight to Trevelyan’s head. Schäfer smiled though his bloodstained teeth. Then Hansclapp smoothly swung his arm to the side and, without even looking, shot Schäfer through the temple. He collapsed onto the floor, dead.

  I sighed with relief. “Welcome to Scoundrels, Gruber,” I announced wearily. “Now let’s get this crate home.”

  __________

  We were over the English Channel but our situation was deteriorating. It was a miracle that we were still in the air. The fire had spread onto the fuselage, which was now filling with thick black smoke. I’ll say this for the Germans, they know how to build an aircraft.

  We’d grabbed hats and coats from the dead Nazis and hunkered down in the cockpit with the door closed behind us. It was freezing but at least we could breathe. I estimated that it would be another twenty minutes before we reached the British Coast, coming in over Kent. With the wheels damaged we would have to perform a crash landing, and as the plane was already on fire, we would almost certainly explode on impact.

  We descended to an altitude of two thousand feet and I grabbed the radio handset, tuning it to the last Allied emergency frequency I could remember. I’d need to let the boys at the airfield know we were coming so we wouldn’t be shot down, and so they could scramble the fire engines.

  “Heathcliff to Cathy. Come in Cathy.” I said, using the codewords I’d been given before the mission.

  There was a brief silence followed by static. “Heathcliff to Cathy. Come in Cathy.” I repeated.

  There was more static. “Heathcliff to Cathy. Come in Cathy!”

  This time an English voice crackled over through the speaker.

  “This is Cathy! Is that you Heathcliff?”

  In the context of an R.A.F. briefing room this had felt like a jolly jape but here and now, with our deaths imminent, it was a little embarrassing. “It is, my love,” I cringed. “Are you wearing any knickers?”

  “The red ones you bought me, but I’ve taken them off,” came the reply.

  “Good,” I cringed again, “because you won’t be needing them when I come home.”

  Trrevelyan shook his head and sighed. I made an apologetic face to Hansclapp, but he seemed unmoved.

  The static continued for a while, my confirmation codes remained unanswered, then: “Cornwall! You made it, you old bugger!”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, and explained our situation.

  __________

  We were, literally, meteoric. A burning fireball, hurtling over the green fields of England. The tower had explained there was no way we could land on an airstrip. Instead they’d advised us to ditch in a nearby reservoir for a landing that might douse the flames. Also, we wouldn’t risk killing anyone other than ourselves.

  But with only a few miles left to go we came to the realisation that there was no way we could land the plane, even on water. Both wings, and the entire rear of the aircraft were now engulfed in flames.

  “We could jump,” suggested Trevelyan, “fly low to the reservoir and leap for the water?” It seemed like a reasonable plan but to give it any chance of success we’d have to exit from the back. The Junkers Ju 252 was equipped with a hydraulically powered rear-loading ramp, a Trapoklappe, but we’d be burnt alive as we approached it.

  Then Hansclapp spoke. “I have an idea. Wait here.” He took a series of deep breaths, opened the cockpit door and disappeared. Thick black smoke filled the cockpit and we slammed the door shut behind him.

  “What the bloody hell is he doing?” I said.

  Trevelyan shrugged. The cockpit was open to the elements so the smoke cleared quickly. The door opened again. Hansclapp came back in dragging an empty munitions container. It was the size and shape of a large water butt.

  “There are two more of these just behind this door. They are made with a high strength composite plastic. They won’t catch fire easily and will insulate us from the heat. My plan is simple.” Trevelyan and I were listening.

  “We’ll each get in a barrel. Assuming a speed of one hundred and thirty miles per hour and an altitude of four hundred feet, we will approach the reservoir from due south. Forty seconds before the plane reaches the southernmost bank we will open the back ramp, and twelve seconds later we will fix the plane into a steep climb. I recommend a climb as close to one hundred and fifty degrees as the plane can bear. As the plane climbs, our barrels will topple over, and we will roll down through the fire in the fuselage, before rolling out of the back and into the water. Can you both swim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then this is our best chance of survival.”

  “How do you know?” Trevelyan said.

  “It is nothing more than elementary physics, trigonometry and common sense.” Hansclapp looked surprised to even be asked.

  __________

  The three empty barrels were lined up inside the cockpit, ready to go. Once the plane began to climb we could jump in and shuffle ourselves to the cockpit doorway, ready to topple over and roll out the back. We drew straws to see who would go first.

  Trevelyan was peeved about being last out of the cockpit. I pointed out our chances of survival were pretty slim anyway. I had the presence of mind to sling Hitler’s dildo into the bottom of my barrel. We’d been through too much to lose it now. Despite the cold we stripped to our pants and vests. We didn’t want to be mistaken for Nazis and shot upon arrival.

  In the distance we could see the approaching reservoir. Trevelyan dropped altitude to four hundred feet and slowed the plane down as much as he could. I pressed the button to lower the back ramp, which had the added effect of releasing some of the smoke and slowing us down even more. With a length of rope I noosed the joystick and belayed the other end through a fixed eyelet on the doorframe. We climbed inside our barrels.

  Just in time too. Both the door of the cockpit and bulkhead wall were blistering and turning black. In about two minutes the entire cockpit would be toast. The others hunkered down inside their barrels. I peeped over the edge of my barrel so I could see the reservoir bank approaching. In the blink of an eye it was upon us. I yanked hard on the rope and the plane began to climb steeply. With the rope tightening I made a lightning-quick figure of eight knot and secured the joystick’s position.

  Then I ducked down inside my barrel, rocking it over until I was lying on my side. Gravity quickly took over and in moments I was rolling down the fuselage through flame and smoke. I
held my breath and closed my eyes but the acrid vapour found its way into my lungs. I coughed and fought for breath. I thought I might choke to death…

  My stomach lurched and I was falling away, spinning though clean air. I reached down and grabbed the Klung Hammer, which was clanking around near my feet. In its burnished surface I caught a brief image of my harrowed face. I remember thinking how this was probably the last time I’d ever see or feel anything ever again.

  I hit the water hard, smashing myself near senseless against the side of the barrel. I expected it to fill with cold water and start sinking, and was ready to heave myself out, but instead I was rising again. Then my stomach turned as I reached the apex of a climb, and once again my barrel began to drop. I hit the surface, but not quite as hard as previously, and then I was on my way up once more.

  This cycle repeated three times before the barrel struck the base of the reservoir wall, finally coming to rest. It flipped over on one end and started taking on water. I held my breath and struggled free with one hand, the Klung Hammer clutched in my fist.

  As I emerged from the barrel into the cool, clear water, the sights and sounds that greeted me filled my heart with joy. Along the top of the reservoir wall ran a road, and here a small crowd had gathered, made up of local villagers and R.A.F. personnel who’d been scrambled to the scene. I saluted and held aloft the huge dildo victoriously like Excalibur. The crowd responded with cheers and applause, and some bemusement.

  Then an explosion filled the sky overhead. The Juncker’s fuel tank had finally succumbed to the fire, blowing it to smithereens.

  I turned in the shallow water to see one of the other barrels bobbing up against the wall. Hansclapp emerged, his face covered in blood from a broken nose. It was a minor injury considering the circumstances. My thoughts turned to Trevelyan. Where was he? He’d been the third one out and judging by my own fall I guessed that he must have reached quite an altitude before he exited the plane. That’s if he did exit the plane. His barrel was nowhere to be seen.