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Post By The Hooded Hood gets on to Malta Sat Jun 12, 2004 at 12:50:28 pm EDT |
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Part the Thirteenth: The Island That Refused To Die and the Secret of the Tunnels | |
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| Sir Mumphrey Wilton and the Lost Temple of Mystery - Part the Thirteenth: The Island That Refused To Die and the Secret of the Tunnels “The British offensive in Libya continues to press westward after securing Benghazi. Allied troops have destroyed over 15,000 tons of enemy shipping so far in the push into Norway, and the oil refinery at Vaagso is ablaze. And Russian forces of the Caucasus Command, with support from the Black Sea Fleet and the Red Air Force crossed the Kerch Straights today and entered the Crimea after fierce fighting. Meanwhile, refugees from fallen Hong Kong are still escaping out of the city. And our thoughts and prayers go out to our boys in Luzon, who were forced to evacuate today from Manila and Cavite and fall back to the island fortress of Corregidor.” “A reminder again to you folks down in the tunnels underground. It’s not safe to travel alone down there. Move in parties, take good lights, and if you see anything suspicious, get away and tell a member of the armed services. Let the MPs deal with it. Lord knows we’ve lost enough people to the Nazis without needing to lose more in the old passages. So be smart and safe, everybody.” Scott Alan glanced up at the big clock over his broadcasting desk. “And I see now the second hand is sweeping towards twelve midnight, so I guess I’ll be signing off to all you guys here in Malta by wishing you a happy new year. Let’s all hope it’s better than the last one, and we can put those Axis down like the mad dogs they are. Goodnight.” The sound effects technician shut off the transmitter with a relieved sigh and laid his headphones on the table. “Boy, do I hate having to talk on the radio,” he confessed. “If Charlie wasn’t still in the sick bay after last week’s bombings…” “You seemed to do just splendidly,” the man in the doorway assured him. “Couldn’t do better. And there is a war on. People make allowances.” “I suppose so.” Scott Alan pushed a twist of hair back from his forehead and rose to greet his visitors. “You must be the Sir Mumphrey Wilton and Miss Canterbury, I guess.” “We must be,” agreed Miss Canterbury, smiling at the earnest, nervous young man. “And you’re the person who picked up our radio broadcast from Spain and arranged for Mister Amazing to be sent to bring us safely out.” “I, um I didn’t really do much. I was just monitoring the chatter, trying to pick up anything that would help us here. As you know, Malta’s surrounded and we’re taking a nasty pounding.” He gestured overhead where the droning of Luftflotte Zwei warned of more night raids. “When I heard Sir Mumphrey using those codewords I couldn’t believe my ears. So I told my officer, and he told his, and… presto!” “Somebody at the War Office must like you, Sir Mumphrey,” noted Miss Canterbury with feigned surprise. “Somebody at the War Office seems to want me dead, lookin’ at the places they send me,” snorted Mumph. “Still, glad they took me seriously enough to send that Amazing chap to pull us out of Spain. I know it’s supposed to be neutral but there are too many fascist sympathisers there to be comfortable, and damned Nazis strutting like the already own the place.” “And are you okay now?” the radio technician asked. “You were… I heard you were pretty banged up when Mr Amazing got to you.” “You mean he’d been tortured for hours and wouldn’t tell them anything,” clarified Miss Canterbury. She thought for a moment about her ex-fiancée Rodney, who had begged and blubbed at the mere threat of harm, then slipped a possessive hand around Mumphrey’s arm. “Had worse,” grumped the object of her comparison, “though I was dashed glad to see you of course Miss C., even though you had taken ridiculous and absurd risks.” Miss Canterbury smiled. “I owed you a rescue. Did you really think you could bundle me onto a plane and stay behind to die heroically, you silly man?” “Mr Amazing said you’d stowed away on the transport plane that took Sir Mumphrey to Spain.” “Spot of luck there,” Sir Mumphrey noted. “If there hadn’t been bad weather and a huge dogfight over Sicily then Miss Canterbury might just have found herself with me in Axis territory instead of enjoyin’ the tourist spots of Seville.” “I’m just glad Mister Amazing was able to find us before Herr Wertham’s thugs,” the young lady admitted. “You must pass on our thanks to him as well, Mr Alan. He rather rushed off before we could offer our gratitude.” “I’m sure Mr Amazing was only doing his duty as well,” Scott Alan said, trying no to blush because he secretly was the patriotic mystery man. “Has that duty anything to do with the unsafe tunnels you mentioned in that broadcast just now?” wondered Sir Mumphrey. His keen eye played over the cork noticeboard where official press communiqués gave the description of missing and dead civilians who had come to harm in the network of tunnels under Malta. “Lot of casualties.” “To be honest Malta’s not the safest place to be right now either,” the radio man admitted. “There are bombing raids every night. The locals here have carved shelters out of the island’s bedrock and they sleep down there, living on starvation rations. We’re losing planes and men all the time.” “But?” Miss Canterbury sensed a but. “But were carrying on anyway,” Scott Alan grinned sheepishly. “We’ve sunk two thirds of the Italian supplies to Rommel’s Afrika Corps and word is the Italian Foreign Minister has told Adolf no more convoys because we’re slaughtering them!” “Good chaps,” approved the eccentric Englishman. He looked pensive. “But there’s something else, yes? Something worth draggin’ Mr Amazing all this way while the dust’s still settlin’ in Pearl Harbour?” “You’d have to ask the General about that,” answered Scott Alan. “You know my clearance, laddie,” Mumph noted. “You can talk.” The concrete fortress shook with a near miss. Dust sprayed down from the ceiling. “Go to your quarters,” Scott advised them. “I’ll see if Mr Amazing can call on you later.” Malta was old. Some of the tunnels that ran beneath it had been carved back in the days of the Knights Templar and Knight Improbabler. As street after street and village after village had been eradicated by the Luftwaffe the people had taken to the rock shelters, expanding them and erecting makeshift bunks from rough timbers. By now the Maltese had established a strange kind of equilibrium, and shared their underground shelters and remaining resources with a humbling cheerfulness. “Makes me feel proud,” admired Sir Mumphrey Wilton as he found a bunk for Miss Canterbury. “To be British?” “To be human. If war brings out the very worst in our natures then surely it brings out the very best as well, what? The noble core of the human whatknot.” Miss Canterbury smiled. “It brings out the best in some,” she admitted. “So what next?” “Wish I could stay to help out with the fracas here. Don’t like runnin’ from a fight. But we have an appointment in London that we need to keep as soon as possible.” “With Bookman about the decoded Bertram text? You think he can crack it?” “MH seemed to believe so. Faust thought it was possible. So yes, if we can…” Wilton fell silent as he heard footsteps approaching. The tunnels were dimly lit by bare bulbs on twisted wires. He relaxed a little when he saw a private appear and salute him. “Sir, I’m sent to escort you to the general, sir.” “Ah, so we’re going to get to the bottom of this tunnels disappearance mystery are we?” Mumphrey approved. “Mr Amazing there, is he? C’mon Miss Canterbury, let’s see if we can’t find out some more about the local problem, what?” “Er, I was just sent for you, sir,” the private said awkwardly. “Go ahead,” Miss Canterbury shrugged. “I need a rest anyhow. If I can sleep with the tunnels shaking when the bombs drop.” Mumphrey nodded and followed the soldier down the passageway. It was a long, twisted route, down rather than up, along deserted corridors that were dusty with neglect. “Where are we going, exactly?” the eccentric Englishman wondered. “Seems a dashed strange direction to get to the command centre.” “We’re almost there,” the private assured him. “ Sure we are,” Mumphrey agreed, halting beside a stack of rotting packing cases. “But the dust is botherin’ me, what?” He kicked one of the crates so it shattered into splinters. “Mostly the fact that you don’t leave footprints in it.” The soldier turned round and bared his fangs. “I love killing officers,” he said. Mumphrey plunged the fragment of wood from the packing case into the vampire’s heart. “Won’t stand for insubordination,” he told the corpse. “And get those boots cleaned.” There was shuffling along the corridor, from both directions. “Ah,” frowned Sir Mumphrey. “The missing civilians, I presume?” The vampires smiled and moved forwards. There was no door on the alcove where Miss Canterbury slept, only an old blanket nailed up as a curtain over the archway. Still, her visitor coughed and called politely through the doorway. “Miss Canterbury, may I come in?” The vicar’s daughter woke from a troubled sleep and blearily called , “Yes, what is it?” “Your death,” said Sturmbannführer Graf Anselm Hertzhog promised, fixing his red eyes on her and licking his two prominent incisors. In our next exciting episode: Nazi vampires! What more could you ask (since we’ve already done the monkey episodes)? Note: During World War II, the citizens of Malta survived a prolonged and brutal siege at the hands of German and Italian military forces (1940-43). In recognition, in 1942 King George VI awarded the George Cross "to the island fortress of Malta--its people and defenders", the only time an entire community has been so honoured. President Franklin Roosevelt, describing the wartime period, called Malta "one tiny bright flame in the darkness." Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2004 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2004 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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