Scoundrels

by Victor Cornwall

  Then the gates started to close.

  I knew if we didn’t get out of Castle Klunghammer now we’d be killed. There was no going back. The cockpit window shattered as we continued to take heavy fire, and now we were in swirling snow and wind with no protection from the enemy’s rounds. I held my breath as the gap between the gates narrowed.

  Almost there.

  Gate closing.

  Almost there.

  Gate closing.

  “Bloody hell, we’ll never get through!” I heard Cornwall shout over the din. One wing clattered loudly against the edge of the gate and it seemed our escape was to be in vain, as we were still going far too slowly to take off. But we were suddenly through! Below us were thousands of acres of Black Forest.

  The pilot told us to hold on. The nose of the aircraft tilted over the edge of the rock face, and we tipped like a sea-saw down the cliff. Surely we’d be smashed to a million pieces.

  What happened next was a surprise. We weren’t flying, or falling, but hurtling down a very steep, smooth ramp, like a giant ski jump. It came as such a surprise that for a moment Cornwall lost himself and shouted out “bloody hell, we’re going to make it!” in English.

  Our cover had been blown, at least inside the cockpit. The pilot was quick to react and frantically reached for his Luger. I kicked his arm as hard as I could, knocking the pistol out of his hand and through the broken window. Then I dived on top of him and wrestled him to the floor.

  Cornwall had been holding the Klung Hammer since we were in the tower, and he finally found a use for it by bludgeoning the pilot to death. All the while, we were gathering speed down the ramp. “Take the controls Trevelyan and make it quick, our Cresta Run is nearly over,” he said, wiping the worst of the blood off the Klung Hammer on the dead pilot’s jacket. I looked ahead. One hundred yards ahead the runway curved abruptly upwards, and I could see that I needed to react quickly. Grabbing the joystick I yanked it back in the nick of time and the plane was suddenly in the air.

  We were flying.

  I began to familiarise myself with the controls, which tested my German to its limits. “Hohenmesser, that’s the altimeter… Klappenanzeige? That must be the flap indicator.”

  I pulled the Drosselstick up sharply, and increased our speed. “Yaaaaah,” I breathed through gritted teeth as the nose climbed further. We’d done it. We’d escaped. Now all we had to do was kill the five remaining Nazis in the back, and head for Blighty, dildo onboard.

  There we are you see Major, that’s the way to tell a story. As old Maurice Johncocktosen used to say after a Scoundrels dinner, ‘stick a fork in me, I’m done’.

  Why don’t you deal with how we got back to Blighty?

  Yours sincerely,

  Major Arthur St. John Trevelyan

  Hellcat Manor

  Great Trundleford

  Devon

  27th October 2016

  Dear Major,

  What an unexpected surprise, I enjoyed that chapter. I found your account of Hitler’s riddling not only accurate but tasteful and restrained. In another writer’s hands that could have so easily have come across as vulgar. Well done.

  I shall now conclude this story. We’ve escaped the castle, we’re in the air, and we’re on our way home. Simple?

  Not a chance.

  __________

  CHAPTER 13

  Dambusted

  Germany, 1943

  After the chaotic escape from the castle it was a relief when the plane finally settled at its cruising altitude of twenty-five thousand feet. But our troubles had only just begun.

  During the take-off the landing gear had been damaged and failed to fully retract. Now it hung half-cocked underneath the plane like a broken arm. On top of that there was virtually no glass left in the cockpit, causing the cabin temperature to drop below zero. And on our left we could see thick black smoke spilling all over the port side engine which had been hit with heavy arms fire. The aircraft was wounded and we were still a long way from home. Then we had the small matter of the five Nazis still on the plane. God only knows what they were thinking back there, but soon enough we’d have to deal with them.

  Neither of us were properly armed save for a giant titanium dildo, and despite its beautiful engineering it was no match for a Schmeisser Maschinenpistole.

  Trevelyan took a few minutes to set our course on the Autopilot: Brize Norton, England. Just the thought of it gladdened my heart, but we had no time to think of a heroes’ return yet. We steeled ourselves, opened the cockpit door and entered the main body of the aircraft.

  The first thing I noticed was that there were now only four Nazis. One of the soldiers was lying dead on the floor, shot through the neck by a round from the castle’s machine guns.

  The remainder was sitting in a row on one side of the fuselage, on webbed seats. Three of them were young lieutenants dressed in the uniform of the Wehrmacht, and on the end sat a man who I guessed was in his mid-thirties, a Captain in the grey uniform of the Gestapo. He had a menacing air of authority and I took an instant dislike to him.

  Trevelyan and I slumped into seats opposite the soldiers.

  “Sorry about that gentlemen,” I said in German, “we’ve set a course and we’re on our way. I hope you understand why we had to leave as quickly as we did.”

  The Gestapo Captain smiled. “To where, may I ask, are we going?”

  “Paris.”

  “Paris?” He sounded surprised. “Why on earth would we be-”

  “Fuhrer’s orders,” Trevelyan jumped in, cutting him off. The officer was taken aback by Trevelyan’s abruptness.

  “The Fuhrer,” he said thoughtfully.

  Trevelyan had played our trump card very early. Nobody would question orders from the Fuhrer. The Captain considered us both for a moment. He seemed to be thinking something through. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he said politely to me.

  “Lieberschmitt. I am Captain Walter Henryk Igor Lieberschmitt.”

  He nodded. “And please forgive my curiosity, but who is your commanding officer?”

  “No need to apologise Captain. Major Hubertus von Aulock, of the Battalion Brandenburg.” I said it without faltering. “We’re under special orders. We flew in with the Fuhrer today from the Wolfsschnanze.”

  “I see.” He seemed to be considering my story. “So you’re a Brandenburger.”

  “For my sins.”

  It was a gamble giving away so much information, but I hoped it would add credibility to our story. The Brandenburg Division was a group of German commandos made up of non-German nationals willing to fight for the Nazi cause, and as such Brandenburg was the antithesis of the Aryan ideal, consisting of Slavs, Poles and other ethnicities. I hoped that this would explain our accents. The Gestapo officer turned his attention to Trevelyan. “And you are?”

  “Captain Dieter Jungfrau of 2. Kompanie. Another Brandenburger, I’m afraid.” He said it without even pausing a beat, apologetically, as if aware that his regiment was second rate compared to the Gestapo. It was a note-perfect performance.

  The Gestapo Captain sniffed loudly and took out a packet of cigarettes. Then, ignoring his Lieutenants, he offered us one each. We accepted, and after helping us light them we leaned back in our seats, puffing away merrily. The plane continued on its course towards England. The Gestapo Captain regarded me through the smoke of his cigarette.

  “Are you not interested to know who I am?”

  “I was just about to ask,” I replied lightly.

  “I am Captain Otto Schäfer of the Gestapo. I’m sorry to commandeer your aircraft, but we need to get to Berlin.” He said it with such authority it took me by surprise.

  “Sorry Captain, did you just say ‘commandeer’?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid we will have to diver
t to Berlin. Klaus take the controls.” One of the Nazi officers got up from his seat and made his way to the cockpit.

  Trevelyan spoke, “Captain, the Fuhrer expressly wants the contents of this container taken to Paris.” I held up the dildo to support our case. Was that recognition on the Captain’s face? Had he seen the Klung Hammer before or was he just shocked at the sight of the dildo?

  “May I ask when you received these orders?” he said.

  “This morning. We were briefed by Hitler himself.”

  Schäfer nodded “And you’re saying that you escorted the Fuhrer personally to the castle earlier. On this plane?”

  “Yes. And I wouldn’t relish telling him we failed to carry out his orders. Would you?”

  “I see.” There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. And then the civilised tone turned icy.

  “Captain,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I was on this plane with the Fuhrer when it arrived, and I didn’t see either of you.”

  The plane buffeted in the wind. Adrenaline flooded my system. Trevelyan, for once, was a step ahead of me. He sprang out of his seat and lunged at the Captain, but as he did a Lieutenant brought up his Schmeisser and struck Trevelyan across the temple, knocking him to the floor. The other Lieutenant trained his weapon on me before I could strike.

  “I suggest you sit down,” Schäfer said, now pointing his Luger at me. “We have some things we need to discuss.”

  I looked into the inscrutable black hole at the end of the barrel and reluctantly sank back in my seat. I took a deep breath and let my training take over. I made a quick assessment of our situation and compiled a mental inventory of our assets and liabilities. It was one of the easiest assessments I have ever made. Our situation was either bad, or really bad.

  I felt the plane bank to the right, and turn. We’d changed direction. We were now on our way to Berlin.

  __________

  Trevelyan had picked himself up off the floor and found the seat next to me, rubbing his head where the Schmiesser had hit him. Schäfer offered us both another cigarette and we accepted. “I’m interested, Captain Lieberschmitt. If that is your name?”

  “It isn’t.” I spoke English for the first time. “But I’m damned if I’m going to give you my real one.” I blew a funnel of smoke into the air. “What else would you like me to not tell you?” I said bullishly.

  “The Klung Hammer,” he said pointing at it with his pistol. “How did you get it?” Now this was a surprise. He knew about the Klung Hammer, knew its name, and in revealing this he’d given away a chess piece. We’d assumed it was a secret, but if Hitler’s men knew about it then they knew how unstable he was. This was useful information indeed.

  “I pulled it from your Fuhrer’s arse.”

  Schäfer smiled. He was far too experienced to take the bait, but it was worth trying to ruffle his feathers.

  “Yeah, he took it like a dog,” Trevelyan added.

  “Shut it, fatso!” he cut back. “I’ll get to you in good time.” Trevelyan didn’t have an answer to this.

  “You know this plane is stricken.” I said, trying to spread a bit of doom. “We’ll never make it to Berlin.” Schäfer leaned across to one of the Lieutenants and murmured something in his ear. The officer stood up and made his way towards the cockpit. That meant only two of them were left in fuselage with us.

  I’d noticed that this young officer had been looking at me in a curious manner. He had a bland face that was nevertheless vaguely familiar, and I was about to suggest as much to Trevelyan when my attention was broken. The left hand engine spluttered and flames appeared at the window. The smoking engine was now on fire.

  “I told you Schäfer.” I said ominously. “You need to put that fire out or we’ll never make it past the Feldberg.” He knew as well as I did that this strengthened our weak hand. The burning plane put us all in the same boat, so to speak.

  The remaining Lieutenant now leaned across and spoke softly to Schäfer. With the noise of the engine I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I had an uneasy feeling though, especially when Schäfer nodded and looked over towards us.

  “Well, well, well. So, you are Messrs. Cornwall and Trevelyan. Names I’m sure I won’t forget. It seems you got onto the wrong plane at the wrong time.”

  I couldn’t believe it. That Lieutenant had somehow given us away. He knew us. But from where? “Lieutenant Hansclapp has got a perfect memory for names and faces. Bad luck for you.”

  Hansclapp! The name was a bolt from the blue. The Austrian chap from school, Gruber Hansclapp. Trevelyan got it at the same time as me and didn’t mince his words. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at Gruber? You’re a bloody Nazi now?”

  Hansclapp spoke. “Don’t be too surprised Trevelyan. From where I’m sitting it seems like I made a good choice, don’t you think?” He was infuriatingly matter-of-fact.

  “It won’t matter either way if we don’t put that fire out,” I said wearily, “we’ll all be toast.” The fire was taking hold of the entire wing. Hansclapp and Schäfer spoke again, this time more urgently. Then Schäfer got out of his seat.

  “You, Trevelyan,” he said pointing with his Luger. “Take a fire extinguisher and get out on that wing.” Trevelyan looked at me glumly and stood up. I had the feeling this wasn’t going to be his day.

  A blizzard stormed the fuselage as Trevelyan opened the side door. The wind and noise filled the space and told us everything we needed to know about the conditions outside. He turned back once to look at me but said nothing. He tied a rope around his waist and attached the other end to a bracket used by the loadmaster. We could both see that the rope was pitifully thin. My guess was that it would snap under the first bit of tension.

  The plane shook and bucked in the choppy mountain air. Trevelyan leaned forward and gripped the rim of the doorframe as a parachutist might before making a jump. Then he inched himself out onto the wing of the plane. Schäfer seemed to be enjoying the show. “I don’t think your friend is very happy. Perhaps he doesn’t have a head for heights,” he laughed.

  The conditions were horrendous. Trevelyan was either going to freeze to death or be knocked from the wing with the turbulence. He was flat on his stomach with the fire extinguisher tucked under his chin. Then slowly, painfully slowly, he began to drag himself towards the flaming engine.

  It was now unbearably cold inside the fuselage. Schäfer walked across to the door and tried to close it. But it wouldn’t shut securely because of Trevelyan’s lifeline, so he pulled out a penknife and cut it. The loose end slid through the door and he slammed it shut. Instantly the noise levels dropped, the harsh elements banished. Along with Trevelyan.

  I moved to the window. Out on the wing Trevelyan was clinging on for dear life. He gingerly turned his head to see the untethered rope flapping behind him. Our eyes met and he gave me an ashen stare. All colour had drained from his face. “You look worried Major Cornwall,” said Schäfer. “It seems you don’t have faith in your colleague.”

  “Really? I don’t know what you mean,” I said, knowing exactly what he meant. I tried to appear nonchalant, but when I glanced out the window I saw that Trevelyan’s hair was now on fire. I quickly turned back towards the Captain, not wishing to give the game away.

  “I think you’ve misread the situation Captain Schäfer,” I said. “If I look worried it’s got nothing to do with my colleague, I can assure you of that.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could just about make out what was happening outside. Alarmingly, Trevelyan was now smashing his head against the wing in an attempt to put his hair out. These were desperate times but I tried to remain stoic. “In fact, there’s not a better fellow to be out on that wing right now. Trevelyan’s a man of incredible bravery and mental strength. He can find a solution to the most complex problem. I’d choose no other person at my side i
n a situation like this.”

  Schäfer had stopped listening. He was staring past me out of the window. I didn’t need to turn around. I’d read his face perfectly.

  “He’s fallen off, hasn’t he?” I said.

  Schäfer nodded.

  Bugger.

  __________

  Flames engulfed the wing. Hansclapp stood up and looked out of the window. “The wing is still on fire,” he reported. For the first time I noticed his monotone voice and dead, shark-like eyes. If he was feeling any emotion he didn’t betray it.

  I on the other hand, felt strange. I had to quickly come to terms with the news that Trevelyan was dead. He and I had never really been friends. Not at least in the sense that friends like each other. In fact, he annoyed me beyond words. He was as frustrating a companion as anyone I’d ever met, and yet…

  I had known him longer than I’d known anyone else in the world, and since our schooldays our lives had been inextricably linked. He was maddening at times, infuriating, but occasionally he’d do something that would surprise me, and for a short while after I’d view him through a different lens. Despite his many faults, he was the only constant in my life. He was like an unsightly facial birthmark, unpleasant to look at, rough and irritating, but part of who I was. I’d spent most of my life wanting it removed. Now it had been. I rather missed it.

  “Don’t be so glum.” Schäfer said. “Your friend won’t have felt a thing. His body was probably frozen rigid before it shattered onto the rocks below.”

  “Well at least he didn’t die a Nazi,” I said venomously. “Trevelyan was not only an exceptional officer, he was a Scoundrel, a rare breed indeed.”

  A strange thing occurred. The moment I said the word ‘scoundrel’, Hansclapp’s head swivelled around to me. He was listening intently, so I thought I’d test the waters a bit. “When news of his death reaches the Club a very good bottle of claret will be opened, and there may even by a testimonial match for him at Lord's. That’s the English equivalent of a Viking longboat burial at sea. Who would ever accord you such respect?”