A Captain's work - the cooler king, humorous version
If the earlier version of the Great Escape/Hornblower crossover was sombre, this is anything but.
“Ow!”
“Oh, sorry, Horatio. Bit cramped for space in here.”
There had been three tunnels at first, before the goons discovered Ioan and Paul; now all the effort was being put into Jamie. Only twenty feet from the woods, or so Hornblower had worked out, with his sextant, a set of Napier’s bones and an observation of the moons of Jupiter. If he’d got it wrong they’d be in the commandant’s quarters, underneath his bath tub.
“My nose still hurts from last time.”
“Is that where I caught you? Not the smallest target.” Archie stretched, as best he could, to reach the string which he’d pull and send the magic signal for the dirt to be hauled back. A tray - elegantly disguised as HMS Victory, in case the goons found it, at which point Pellew could pretend he played with it in the water butt - was loaded with soil. It would be disposed of later in Hunter’s hair, where it would be hidden among the dandruff.
~“Where did Styles get these?” Horatio held up the uniforms.
“I asked him and he said Don’t ask! ” Matthews face shone with either honesty or stupidity.
Styles, the scrounger. Styles, the man who last month had managed to get hold of beer, strumpfhosen, and an autographed picture of Marlene Dietrich. How even he had got his greasy paws on such the latest haul was beyond Horatio’s power to fathom. Two SS officers’ uniforms, an auschweiss, three German passports and a copy of Hitler’s dental records; such a treasure trove. The only explanation could be that Styles had been selling his body again.
Albeit the uniforms would probably only fit Hunter if he had his legs chopped off and Archie if he put on five stone, but there was such a thing as make do and mend and they had Matthews, the tailor, to oblige on that front. He’d been known to make an entire three piece suit out of two hankies and a Red Cross tea cosy.
“Ow!”
“Sorry, Horatio, didn’t realise you were behind the door. Not the old conk again?”
“No, my ingrowing toenail this time. What have you got there?”
“Ah!” Archie’s eyes lit up, to a luminosity only achieved when he was intensely excited, like when they made love or when he droned on about Shakespeare. Horatio wasn’t ready for the former (it wasn’t Thursday for one thing) and decided that if it was the latter, he’d have to fake appendicitis. “It’s some contributions to our escape wardrobe.”
“How did you come by them, sir?” Matthews knew it couldn’t have been the same way as Styles got hold of his stuff - Archie kept himself for Mr Hornblower, as was right and proper.
“I told the commandant we wanted to put on a production of Hamlet - modern dress - and he obliged with these wonderful costumes. Kill two birds with one stone; rehearsals can cover up the noise of the digging.” He laid his haul on the table.
“Some of these are women’s clothes!” Horatio held up something more suited to hanging on a street corner than catching a train to the coast.
“I think the commandant has rather enlightened views on the characters of Gertrude and Ophelia. Anyway, that little black number is just your size, Horatio. They must like their women nice and hearty over here.”
“I’m not wearing a black crepe dress, not in a million years.”
“If it’s the wrong colour for you, Mr Hornblower, this here green coat and skirt would match your eyes lovely.”
“Thank you Matthews.” Horatio stomped out, irked. This dressing up malarkey was a pain. Perhaps Bush the forger would let him come and draw some German eagles all afternoon until he felt better. Shame it wasn’t Thursday.
~
“What are you doing?” The guard had almost caught them emerging from the entrance to the tunnel. Five minutes earlier and the show would all have been over, the lot of them in the cooler. As it was, they’d barely had time to get their clothes off and their bodies into the showers. Cunning plan, to start the tunnel from the hatchway to the showers. Horatio’s idea of course, seeing as he spent most of his time there.
“What does it look like?” Archie lathered his hair with a rather nice bar of Lifebuoy - another of Styles’ don’t ask items.
“Ow!”
“Oh sorry. Horatio, didn’t mean to flick the suds in your eye. Here, use this yourself, not that you need it.”
“What’s he doing here?” The guard - one of the tamer ones, you could bribe him with coffee and autographed photos of Kitty Cobham - pointed to Oldroyd.
“I’m the lifeguard.”
“Dumbkopf.”
“No, honest. Mr Kennedy can’t swim and Mr Hornblower gets seasick. I have to stay here and keep ‘em safe. Commandant’s orders.”
Everyone’s jaw dropped at Oldroyd having actually said something intelligent, but the guard didn’t notice. He’d spotted the towel malfunction as Archie left the shower cubicle and had lost the power of speech.
~
“Too short. Ten bloody feet too short.” Archie swore again, then hissed down the tunnel for more supplies of rope.
“What’s that? Ow!”
“Sorry, Horatio. Didn’t realise you would be running out as I was running in. You must have cocked up on the old calculations; we’re short of the trees.”
“Hell. Still one hundred and twenty seven of us to get out, as well. Perhaps…”
“Bright idea time?”
“We need a diversion, someone to sacrifice their place in the tunnel, perhaps even their life, to let the rest of us escape. If we could keep the goons distracted…”
Archie swallowed hard, noble to the last. “I could do the old towel trick, you know, distract them with my manly frame…”
“No!” Horatio couldn’t let him do that. Thursdays would never be the same again. “I can think of just the man.”
Not much later, a stream of prisoners passed quietly into the woods and away, the huge spotlights from the tower frozen, no longer scanning the perimeter, the dog patrols finished for the night. In the middle of the compound, lit only by a single searchlight, Captain Sir Edward Pellew, DFC and bar, had launched into his fifteenth rendition of The Lambeth Walk.
~
“Where have you been?”
“Sh, Horatio. Only German now, please.”
“Was Sie schon?”
“Just checking out the road ahead. We’ll be clear once we get through this village. Then we hit the canal and it’s plain sailing - if we can nick a boat - to the coast. If not, Shank’s pony.”
“The village? I’ll never make it through…ow!”
“That can’t have been me this time, Horatio.”
“No, it’s these bloody high heels. How can women wear the wretched things?”
“They make you look very attractive, Horatio. Junoesque, I’d have said.” Actually…” A mischievous smile played on Archie’s lips.
“Yes?”
“Well, we could do with a few more of the old Deutschmarks and you do look remarkably slinky in that number. Wiggle your hips a bit as we go through the town, especially if the SS are about. We could make enough money to see us onto a ship. Ow!”
“Sorry, Archie? Did I kick you? It’s these high heels…”
“Ow!”
“Oh, sorry, Horatio. Bit cramped for space in here.”
There had been three tunnels at first, before the goons discovered Ioan and Paul; now all the effort was being put into Jamie. Only twenty feet from the woods, or so Hornblower had worked out, with his sextant, a set of Napier’s bones and an observation of the moons of Jupiter. If he’d got it wrong they’d be in the commandant’s quarters, underneath his bath tub.
“My nose still hurts from last time.”
“Is that where I caught you? Not the smallest target.” Archie stretched, as best he could, to reach the string which he’d pull and send the magic signal for the dirt to be hauled back. A tray - elegantly disguised as HMS Victory, in case the goons found it, at which point Pellew could pretend he played with it in the water butt - was loaded with soil. It would be disposed of later in Hunter’s hair, where it would be hidden among the dandruff.
~“Where did Styles get these?” Horatio held up the uniforms.
“I asked him and he said Don’t ask! ” Matthews face shone with either honesty or stupidity.
Styles, the scrounger. Styles, the man who last month had managed to get hold of beer, strumpfhosen, and an autographed picture of Marlene Dietrich. How even he had got his greasy paws on such the latest haul was beyond Horatio’s power to fathom. Two SS officers’ uniforms, an auschweiss, three German passports and a copy of Hitler’s dental records; such a treasure trove. The only explanation could be that Styles had been selling his body again.
Albeit the uniforms would probably only fit Hunter if he had his legs chopped off and Archie if he put on five stone, but there was such a thing as make do and mend and they had Matthews, the tailor, to oblige on that front. He’d been known to make an entire three piece suit out of two hankies and a Red Cross tea cosy.
“Ow!”
“Sorry, Horatio, didn’t realise you were behind the door. Not the old conk again?”
“No, my ingrowing toenail this time. What have you got there?”
“Ah!” Archie’s eyes lit up, to a luminosity only achieved when he was intensely excited, like when they made love or when he droned on about Shakespeare. Horatio wasn’t ready for the former (it wasn’t Thursday for one thing) and decided that if it was the latter, he’d have to fake appendicitis. “It’s some contributions to our escape wardrobe.”
“How did you come by them, sir?” Matthews knew it couldn’t have been the same way as Styles got hold of his stuff - Archie kept himself for Mr Hornblower, as was right and proper.
“I told the commandant we wanted to put on a production of Hamlet - modern dress - and he obliged with these wonderful costumes. Kill two birds with one stone; rehearsals can cover up the noise of the digging.” He laid his haul on the table.
“Some of these are women’s clothes!” Horatio held up something more suited to hanging on a street corner than catching a train to the coast.
“I think the commandant has rather enlightened views on the characters of Gertrude and Ophelia. Anyway, that little black number is just your size, Horatio. They must like their women nice and hearty over here.”
“I’m not wearing a black crepe dress, not in a million years.”
“If it’s the wrong colour for you, Mr Hornblower, this here green coat and skirt would match your eyes lovely.”
“Thank you Matthews.” Horatio stomped out, irked. This dressing up malarkey was a pain. Perhaps Bush the forger would let him come and draw some German eagles all afternoon until he felt better. Shame it wasn’t Thursday.
~
“What are you doing?” The guard had almost caught them emerging from the entrance to the tunnel. Five minutes earlier and the show would all have been over, the lot of them in the cooler. As it was, they’d barely had time to get their clothes off and their bodies into the showers. Cunning plan, to start the tunnel from the hatchway to the showers. Horatio’s idea of course, seeing as he spent most of his time there.
“What does it look like?” Archie lathered his hair with a rather nice bar of Lifebuoy - another of Styles’ don’t ask items.
“Ow!”
“Oh sorry. Horatio, didn’t mean to flick the suds in your eye. Here, use this yourself, not that you need it.”
“What’s he doing here?” The guard - one of the tamer ones, you could bribe him with coffee and autographed photos of Kitty Cobham - pointed to Oldroyd.
“I’m the lifeguard.”
“Dumbkopf.”
“No, honest. Mr Kennedy can’t swim and Mr Hornblower gets seasick. I have to stay here and keep ‘em safe. Commandant’s orders.”
Everyone’s jaw dropped at Oldroyd having actually said something intelligent, but the guard didn’t notice. He’d spotted the towel malfunction as Archie left the shower cubicle and had lost the power of speech.
~
“Too short. Ten bloody feet too short.” Archie swore again, then hissed down the tunnel for more supplies of rope.
“What’s that? Ow!”
“Sorry, Horatio. Didn’t realise you would be running out as I was running in. You must have cocked up on the old calculations; we’re short of the trees.”
“Hell. Still one hundred and twenty seven of us to get out, as well. Perhaps…”
“Bright idea time?”
“We need a diversion, someone to sacrifice their place in the tunnel, perhaps even their life, to let the rest of us escape. If we could keep the goons distracted…”
Archie swallowed hard, noble to the last. “I could do the old towel trick, you know, distract them with my manly frame…”
“No!” Horatio couldn’t let him do that. Thursdays would never be the same again. “I can think of just the man.”
Not much later, a stream of prisoners passed quietly into the woods and away, the huge spotlights from the tower frozen, no longer scanning the perimeter, the dog patrols finished for the night. In the middle of the compound, lit only by a single searchlight, Captain Sir Edward Pellew, DFC and bar, had launched into his fifteenth rendition of The Lambeth Walk.
~
“Where have you been?”
“Sh, Horatio. Only German now, please.”
“Was Sie schon?”
“Just checking out the road ahead. We’ll be clear once we get through this village. Then we hit the canal and it’s plain sailing - if we can nick a boat - to the coast. If not, Shank’s pony.”
“The village? I’ll never make it through…ow!”
“That can’t have been me this time, Horatio.”
“No, it’s these bloody high heels. How can women wear the wretched things?”
“They make you look very attractive, Horatio. Junoesque, I’d have said.” Actually…” A mischievous smile played on Archie’s lips.
“Yes?”
“Well, we could do with a few more of the old Deutschmarks and you do look remarkably slinky in that number. Wiggle your hips a bit as we go through the town, especially if the SS are about. We could make enough money to see us onto a ship. Ow!”
“Sorry, Archie? Did I kick you? It’s these high heels…”