Cows in Action 5

by Steve Cole

  Pat peered into the gloom. “Hey, look, in the next street. There’s a cellar outside that pub.”

  “Well spotted, Pat!” McMoo led the stampede towards it as a sinister whistling sound started up, falling in pitch the louder it got.

  “I don’t think much of that tune,” Bo panted.

  “It’s the sound of falling bombs!” shouted McMoo. “Run for your lives!”

  The next moment, there was a deafening bang behind them, and a huge fireball lit up the crumbling street. Windows shattered and bricks flew through the air.

  “Get behind me!” Bo’s sturdy hooves were a blur of kung-fu moves as she punched and kicked lumps of wreckage away from them. But within a second, the dreadful whistling had started up again.

  “Here comes another!” Pat cried, yanking open the trap door in the pavement that led to the pub cellar.

  “Get inside, both of you!” ordered McMoo.

  Bo and Pat dived into the dark cellar and McMoo jumped in after them. Split-seconds later the sky was lit white by an enormous explosion. The ground shook as the noise of the blast boomed through the cellar . . .

  And then, suddenly, a man fell out of the sky and flopped through the cellar doors. He landed right in Bo’s arms! “Professor – are those planes dropping men as well as bombs?”

  “The explosion must have knocked him off his feet in the street and into here,” said McMoo, peering at the man, who was panting hard in the pale moonlight. “Hello, old chap! Are you all right?”

  Suddenly, a bright torch beam stabbed down from above. Pat shielded his eyes from the glare, looked up – and found a dozen soldiers pointing their guns into the cellar. They were aiming at Bo and the man in her arms – and at Pat and the professor too.

  “Hands up!” barked one of the soldiers. “I’m Captain Walker, and you’re all in big trouble. That man you’re holding is a Nazi spy we’ve been chasing for some time!”

  “What?” Bo dropped the man in surprise. “How were we to know?”

  “Obviously you were trying to help him escape.” Walker sneered at them. “Get out of there, traitors – you’re all under arrest!”

  Chapter Three

  THE SPY’S SECRET

  The soldiers marched the C.I.A. agents and the Nazi spy through the dark streets at gunpoint. In the distance, Pat could hear the clanging alarm of fire engines racing by. Flames were licking the rooftops, giving a red glow to the black night sky.

  “How are we going to get out of this one, Professor?” he whispered.

  “We aren’t, Pat, not just yet,” said McMoo quietly. “We landed in the last place the F.B.I. visited, remember? And straight away we’ve found a spy.”

  “Of course,” Pat breathed. “The spy could be working for the F.B.I.!”

  Soon the prisoners found themselves herded towards a large, grand building with white pillars outside. It looked like a fancy hotel, but armed soldiers stood at the doors. Once inside, the prisoners were marched through an empty room and down a long, winding staircase. It took them a few minutes to reach the bottom, and Pat’s legs trembled at the thought of what might happen to them down here . . . Would they be tortured to find out what they knew? Would they be kept here for ever and never see daylight again?

  Captain Walker gave a special knock on the door at the bottom of the staircase, and it opened onto a vast, busy room filled with people working at desks or talking on funny telephones.

  “A war office,” cried McMoo, gazing around in excitement. “Hidden underground, so the bombs can’t get it. Imagine that!”

  “There’s a big weapons-testing centre too,” said Walker. “This is one massive secret base, and I’m in charge.”

  “If it’s so secret, how come you’re letting us see it?” said Bo sourly.

  “Because it’s also got a prison,” said Walker with a nasty smile, herding them towards a heavy iron door in one wall. “And that’s where you’ll be staying for the rest of the war.”

  Pat gulped as the door swung open to reveal a private office. Inside, a massive old man in a crumpled three-piece suit sat behind a desk. His grave, lined face seemed part bulldog, part bullfrog, but his eyes gleamed with intelligence.

  “Oh, wow!” McMoo was pointing at the old man in astonished delight. “It’s the British prime minister! Pat, Bo, this is Winston Churchill! One of the most important leaders of the modern world, and we’re meeting him in person. Imagine that!” He laughed loudly. “I love time travel, I just love it!”

  A heavy silence followed McMoo’s outburst. Pat and Bo cringed.

  “You are accused of a most serious crime, sir,” said Churchill, his voice deep and gruff. “This is no time for playing the fool.”

  “You’re right there – but wrong about us.” McMoo reached into his pocket and pulled out the papers Yak had sent over to the Time Shed. He passed them to Churchill. “As you can see, my two friends and I are special super-secret agents working for King George himself. Far from helping this spy, we were actually catching him!”

  Bo frowned. “We were?” she said, puzzled, and Pat gave her a little kick. “I mean, yeah! Of course we were.”

  “It seems you have top-level clearance,” murmured Churchill. He looked at Captain Walker and nodded. “These papers are signed by the king himself. I’d know his signature anywhere!”

  McMoo winked at his friends. “But he wouldn’t know that it’s been cleverly forged by Yak in the year 2550!”

  “Professor, Pat, Bo . . . please accept my apologies,” said Churchill. “And my thanks for capturing this dangerous man. We know he is a spy – but he refuses to tell us why his Nazi masters sent him here.”

  “I will never talk!” the spy declared. “Never!”

  “I’ll get the truth out of him,” said Bo, rolling up her sleeves. “Hey, Pat – remember when you hid my earring and wouldn’t tell me where? I got the truth out of you, didn’t I?”

  Pat gulped. “Well, yes, but . . . it took me days to recover.”

  “I will never talk,” the spy repeated. But he sounded a little less certain now. “Er . . . never?”

  “We have ways of moo-king you talk,” said Bo. Then, suddenly, she pounced on the spy – and began to tickle him all over! Her hard hooves dug into his ribs and jiggled in his armpits and niggled at his knees. At the same time, her udder tickled his tummy.

  “Noooooo!” The Nazi fell about, laughing so hard he was crying and aching and very nearly wetting himself. “Please, no more!”

  “Tell us why you’re here,” said Bo sternly, tickling him with her tail. “Now.”

  “All right, yes! I will!” wailed the hysterical prisoner.

  “Good,” said Bo. She jumped off him and winked at Winston Churchill. “Easy when you know how!”

  Churchill smiled. “Never in the field of human conflict have I seen such a thing!”

  “Now, then . . .” McMoo looked down at the red-faced spy. “Start talking!”

  “Very well,” the spy replied. “I came here to kidnap the most brilliant scientist in this country. And I did it too.”

  “You did not,” scoffed McMoo. “I’m still here!”

  “He means the most brilliant scientist in 1940, Professor!” hissed Pat.

  “Oh.” McMoo frowned. “Who’s that then?”

  “Sir Ivor Throbswitch.” Churchill looked worried. “He has been inventing special new weapons here in this very building. But I thought he was away on holiday . . .”

  “I conked him on the head, dragged him away and bundled him onto a boat,” said the spy smugly. “Even now, Sir Ivor is being forced to work for us in a special laboratory in France.”

  “Why not send him to Germany with all your other scientists?” asked McMoo.

  “My masters wanted him in France and they know best,” said the spy firmly. “There he will make amazing weapons for the Nazis – so we will win the war.”

  “Never!” snarled Churchill. “Because as it happens, we have got your most brilliant scientis
t.”

  The spy gasped. “Not Doctor Von Gonk!”

  Churchill nodded. “He sent us a secret message saying he wanted to come over to our side. Our spies have already smuggled him from Germany to France, where he is being guarded by my most trusted agent. Soon, Doctor Von Gonk shall be sent to Britain – to help us win the war . . .”

  “That’s not fair,” said the spy huffily. “We had the idea first!”

  “Tough,” growled Churchill. “Captain Walker, remove this man and guard him well.”

  Walker saluted, and he and his troops marched the spy from the room.

  “McMoo, we must rescue Sir Ivor before he can make weapons for the Nazis,” growled Churchill. “And we must help our French allies deliver Doctor Von Gonk to us as soon as possible.”

  “You can send a group of super-secret agents over to France to sort things out,” suggested McMoo. “Namely, us!”

  Pat gulped. “Us?”

  “Cool!” cheered Bo.

  “Just as soon as we’ve had a quick cup of tea, of course,” the professor added.

  “I had the same idea myself,” said Churchill, lifting a telephone and speaking into it. “Gloria, kindly make the tea – in our finest cups . . .”

  “Are you sure about this mission, Professor?” Pat whispered.

  McMoo nodded and lowered his voice. “The Nazis keep their top scientists in Germany, not France. I think it’s the ter-moo-nators who have got hold of Sir Ivor. We must find out what they’re up to . . . the future of the whole world could be at stake!”

  Chapter Four

  A FAMILIAR FACE IN FRANCE

  Just a few hours later, McMoo, Pat and Bo were sitting together on a large plane, flying through the night over France with parachutes strapped to their backs. Captain Walker sat beside the pilot with a map, working out the best place to jump.

  Pat’s stomach was buzzing with nerves. “I thought France was Britain’s friend in the war,” he said, checking his parachute for the hundredth time. “How come the Nazis are there?”

  “Hitler’s forces invaded France three months ago,” the professor explained. “But many people living there are secretly fighting back as part of the French Resistance – and helping the British too.”

  “Gotcha,” said Bo. “So the French Resistance are looking after Doctor Von Gonk until they can send him to Britain.”

  “Right.” McMoo nodded. “But with the Nazis controlling all ports and airports, getting him across the English Channel is incredibly dangerous.”

  Pat gulped. “How are we going to get back to Britain?”

  McMoo grinned. “Carefully!”

  Captain Walker came through to join them and opened the exit hatch. Cold air rushed into the plane. “Get ready to jump, chaps – and er, lady-chap. If all goes well you should land beside a big wood, and a woman called Odette will take you to safety.”

  “See you down there, guys!” Bo hurled herself out of the plane. “Geronimooo!”

  Pat took a deep breath and jumped after her. Suddenly, he was hurtling through the sky at 120 miles per hour! It was an incredible feeling. “Watch out, world,” he cried. “Flying cow alert!”

  After a few seconds he pulled open his parachute and floated down to earth. Everything seemed calm and peaceful – until he landed on Bo’s tummy!

  “M-ooof!” she gasped, scrambling up. “Watch your hooves, bruv!”

  McMoo made a perfect landing beside them. Pat listened to the sound of engines growing fainter as Captain Walker’s plane flew back home – leaving them alone in a dangerous land. He gulped. The thought was scary, but at the same time amazingly exciting!

  “Quick, this way!” hissed a French voice from behind a nearby bush. “I am the Resistance leader sent to greet you . . . Odette LaBarmer!”

  The French woman jumped up from behind the bush – and Pat and Bo gasped with dismay. She looked exactly like Bessie Barmer!

  “Oh, no!” Bo wailed. “We run into Bessie’s relatives wherever we go!”

  Pat nodded. “And they’re always horrid.”

  “Shhhh!” McMoo warned them. “There may be Nazi patrols close by.”

  “What is wrong?” Odette looked a bit upset. “Why do you scowl at me? I bring you fresh baps!” She pulled out some bread rolls from her skirt pocket. “See?”

  “They probably taste like poo,” said Bo rudely.

  “Quiet, Bo,” McMoo said sternly, gratefully taking one of the offered baps. “You are supposed to be a secret agent, not a toxic one! Churchill said Odette was to be trusted. We must give her a chance.”

  “I suppose we don’t have much choice, all alone out here,” said Pat.

  McMoo smiled at Odette. “Forgive my young friends, madame. They are tired and weary. And if they’re anything like me they could do with a cup of tea!”

  “Of course, monsieur,” said Odette. “I have a little at my bakery. Come! We must move quickly . . .”

  As she crashed away through the forest with McMoo close behind, Pat and Bo looked at each other.

  “What was that funny thing on Odette’s face?” asked Bo.

  “I–I think . . . it was a smile!” Pat watched the woman wobble away in wonder. “Maybe this Barmer’s not so bad after all.”

  “Maybe,” said Bo, as they set off after the others. “But I think we should keep a very close eye on Madame LaBarmer, Pat. A very close eye indeed!”

  After thirty minutes trailing Odette through the undergrowth, the cows reached a big bakery. The air was filled with the roar of fighter planes heading towards Britain – and with the smell of fresh loaves as Odette let them into the large, warm kitchen.

  “I thought food was in short supply because of the war,” said Pat suspiciously. “You seem to have tons of it here.”

  “I bake things for all the Nazi troops,” said Odette. “It is good because I overhear them as they eat. But it is also bad because poor French folk are starving.” She sighed as she got the tea going. “I smuggle out all the food I can.”

  “In her stomach, by the look of things,” Bo muttered to Pat.

  Soon Odette was passing round mugs of tea. McMoo took a big swig and smacked his lips. “Delicious!”

  “Odette, have you heard anything about a British scientist called Sir Ivor Throbswitch being taken by the Nazis?” asked Pat.

  She nodded. “Local soldiers say that a British scientist is building a secret weapon in a lab disguised as a farmhouse. Some very important Nazis are flying here to see it.”

  “Old Ivor didn’t waste much time, did he?” McMoo looked troubled. “Odette, where is Doctor Von Gonk? We must get him to Britain as soon as possible.”

  “I am holding him in this bakery,” she revealed. “The escape plan has been worked out. Already he is well hidden in a crate of pies – and this very night, a lorry will arrive to drive him away to the nearest port.”

  “Ingenious!” McMoo gulped down the rest of his tea. “He can eat the pies on the journey to keep his strength up.”

  “Prof, I think I should take Doctor Von Gonk to old Churchill myself, to make sure nothing happens to him on the way,” said Bo. “The Nazis mustn’t get him back.”

  “That’s a very good, very brave idea,” said McMoo, and Pat nodded proudly. “Pat and I will stay here with Odette and try to find Sir Ivor.”

  “Very well,” said Odette, bustling away. “I will prepare another crate of pies . . .”

  “Just make sure they’re vegetable pies and not steak!” Bo grimaced and lowered her voice. “I just hope we really can trust Madame LaBarmer. She looks so much like Bessie it’s frightening.”

  Then, suddenly, Odette burst back into the kitchen – looking frightened herself. “The lorry to take Doctor Von Gonk has arrived,” she gabbled, “but a platoon of Nazi soldiers has followed it here!”

  “Uh-oh,” said McMoo. “They’re bound to come into the bakery.”

  Pat gasped. “And if they find us . . . we’re doomed!”

  Chapter Five
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  THE FOREST OF FEAR

  “No one panic,” said McMoo urgently. “Here’s what we do. Pat and I will create a distraction to lead the soldiers away. Odette, while we are gone you must hide Bo in the other crate and get her and Von Gonk onto the lorry.” Bo opened her mouth to protest – but McMoo stuck a bun in it. “Don’t argue – mooove. And good luck!”

  Bo nodded reluctantly as Odette led her away.

  “Er, what distraction did you have in mind, Professor?” asked Pat.

  “We’ll think of something,” said McMoo. Grabbing a sack of crusty rolls, he led the way to the back door and Pat followed him outside.

  As they made their way round to the front of the bakery, it wasn’t just the cold night air that made Pat shiver. A big lorry was trundling down the road towards them. But a truck full of Nazi troops was overtaking it. Once the truck had passed, it stopped – blocking the lorry’s way.

  A tall, handsome Nazi soldier got out of the truck. He wore small round glasses and walked with a limp. “I am Colonel Vogel,” he told the lorry driver in an icy voice. “What is your business here?”

  The lorry driver shrugged. “The owner called me. She said I am to collect an urgent delivery.”

  “At three o’clock on a Sunday morning?” Vogel’s eyes narrowed. “This sounds very suspicious . . .”

  “It wasn’t the owner who called you, lorry driver,” boomed McMoo, jumping out of hiding. “It was us, the Anti-Baking Brigade, luring you into a trap!”

  Vogel swung round in surprise. “Halt!” he barked, and a dozen Nazi guns were suddenly pointing straight at McMoo. “Do not move!”

  “Stop cruelty to pastry!” yelled McMoo. He started lobbing rolls at the Nazis. “Save dough from destruction!”

  “Pies are evil! Bread is bad!” Pat added, throwing a few rolls himself. “Bagels are devilish!”

  “And an anagram of bread is beard,” roared McMoo. “Would you eat a beard? Ugh!”