Cowboys and Dinosaurs - Chapter 18

18. Heil, Baby, Heil

- BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP -

"Hello? Hello, Syndii? This is Steve.

"Uh, this is Private White-Trash.

"Hi. No, no, don't get angry, I'm not cancelling for Saturday, I'm on, up, in and mad for it. I just need to ask a favour.

"I have a friend who needs some help. Yes, about what happened earlier this week. There have been further developments. There's been blood.

"Well, I hate to push this on you without notice, but I was thinking Sunday morning around ten. Can you get down to Stratford?

"The entire impi, if you can get them together. Kandeece, Taneesha, Mercedeeze, Venusia, all the crew.

"It doesn't just involve saving my arse from the Albanians, Syndii. It also involves seriously pissing off Daniel and Alasdair.

"Yes. Yes, I thought that would motivate you. It motivates me too.

"Do what you like the night before. Frankly, for this job, I think the drunker you are, the better.

"You won't need to drive. I'll lay on a taxi, both ways. And, uh, uniforms. Can I have the girls' measurements?

"Well, of course I'm a pervert, why else would I spend my Saturday mornings being beaten to a pulp by big black ladies? High Court judges pay good money for that in Soho. But this is one of the rare occasions on which I am not being guided by my natural perversion. I hasten to add that these uniforms are going to cost me my entire bonus for this quarter, so I have to get them right.

"No. This is a strictly non-assegai job. Guns, if you've got them. I know it's a lot to ask, laying hold of firearms. Privates Cracker and Honky have hired a couple of period Martini-Henry breech loaders for the Saturday, and they're probably not due back till Monday morning, so you might be able to borrow those. They won't need to be fired, they're strictly local colour.

"I'll need to see all the girls on Friday night to hand out uniforms.

"Okay. Okay. Email me the measurements. The cab will pick you up from outside the Snake And Apple at ten a.m. Sunday, unless I ring you again to cancel. Cheers. Bye."

BEEEEEEEEEEBEEP BEEP BEEP -

"Hello? Period Costume Hire? Hi, do you do Waffen-SS?

"Yes, I know they pay good money for that in Soho. I need ten SS uniforms in unusual sizes.

"Yes, I'm aware there's a peculiarly high demand right now.

"A whole group of men and women from one company, you say. Did they look pissed off at all? Oh, good. But I need ten more. However, I can't give you the sizes till later.

"Well, can I ring you again at nine a.m. tomorrow?

"Good. Good. Okay. Bye."

Steve replaced the receiver and turned round to Gonoroid. "I think we're on." He looked Gonoroid up and down critically. "You don't actually have to start wearing SS uniform yet."

Gonoroid looked back from inside the coal scuttle helmet. "I'm getting into character."

"Just so long as you take it off before you go to bed."

"Spoilsport."

A crowd of people had gathered on the other side of the pavement, cooing like a flock of restive pigeons at the funny man in the German helmet talking to the other man in the phone booth.

"Look at them", said Gonoroid in audible contempt. "You'd think they'd never seen a gay Nazi before." Pips, medals and buckles gleamed on Gonoroid's tunic. The stitching was perfect. Steve could see his face in every button. If Gonoroid Quarxxx was going to be a Nazi, he was going to be the best-dressed Nazi in town.

"How long did it take to make that uniform?" said Steve.

"Couple of nights or so. It's really very similar to a Catamite Death Legionary, without the rubber flippers and extraneous shoulderpads. The helmet was the hardest part."

Steve was amazed. "You made the helmet?"

"Out of plastic, not steel", Gonoroid added quickly. "I'm good at plastic. I'm good at helmets. In our local branch of the Invinciblers, I am known as the Helmet Master."

Steve opened his mouth to speak. Luckily, his brain cut in at the last minute.

"So, Mein Kommandant", said Gonoroid. "You are in charge of Operation Anglerfish; Liz and I are in charge of Operation Sauce Bottle; and Hitler Youth Leader Gary is in charge of Operation Totalitarian Sandwich. Are we to synchronize our watches?"

"That would be very professional." Steve looked at his watch. "I have seven p.m."

Gonoroid giggled. "I'll have to synchronize my programmable calculator. I don't have a watch."

"Okay. Synchronize on seven-oh-five in three-two-one - done."

"Done."

"HEY, MATE", called a small boy from over the road. "ARE YOU A NAZI?"

Gonoroid looked up sharply. "I DON'T KNOW, ARE YOU GAY OR JEWISH AT ALL?"

"I'M NOT GAY", said the small boy with suspicious haste.

"MAYBE YOU JUST HAVEN'T DECIDED YOUR SEXUAL ORIENTATION YET. YOU WOULDN'T HAVE AN IDENTICAL TWIN BROTHER, WOULD YOU?"

"NO." The small boy looked doubtful of Gonoroid's intention. "WHY?"

"NO REASON." Gonoroid turned back to Steve. "I like this uniform. I might wear it all the time."

"Hardly. You'd be beaten up by gay men."

"Hold that thought...Steve, are you sure this inadvisably complex plan is going to work?"

Steve laid a reassuring hand on Gonoroid's shoulder. "Nothing can go wrong." He looked skywards a moment. "Besides, it'll raise the stakes in any case."

"What, from knives to guns? Do we need that?"

"Depends who stops raising the stakes first", said Steve. "But remember, you get to be a Nazi for a day. How exciting is that?"

"Ah yes! I'd forgotten that. HEIL HITLER!"

"And Heil to you too. I'd better get you indoors before you lose all chance of ever being employed by a London council again." Steve walked up the steps of GERMAN'S HIDE FOOD and fished for his doorkeys as Gonoroid turned to the street and gave an impassioned Hitler salute.

As soon as Gonoroid's arm thrust skywards, a black mirror-windowed stretch limousine hummed down the street like streamlined evil and occupied the pavement directly in front of him. As Steve watched, two gigantic ill-favoured men exited the car, marched up to Gonoroid, and lifted him as if he were a shop window mannequin, separating his bootsoles from the pavement.

"Excuse me sir."

"Mr. Dowd would like a word with you, sir."

Gonoroid was lifted like an indignant puppy into one of the long rear doors at the back of the limo; locks clanked solidly and Germanically shut in those doors, and the car whisked out into the street once again.

Steve recovered breath enough to shout:

"OI -"

The car turned the corner with surprising speed, filling the width of the road.

Steve stared after the car in consternation. A fortysomething man with a chemotherapy haircut, who had also been watching the car, leaned over to Steve and handed him a leaflet. The leaflet was entitled WHY THE BNP IS NOT RACIALIST, and sported a poorly-photostatted cartoon of Osama Bin Laden and a negro pimp roasting Britannia over an open fire.

"So perish all enemies of World Jewry", said the man earnestly. "You and me, we're the last Nazis left. Britain for the English, brother."

"I'm afraid you've got me wrong", said Steve. "Actually, I'm a reptile."

"You what?" said the chemo patient.

***

"I'm not sure I want to go through with this any more."

"We must go through with it. We must defend ourselves."

Steve and Liz were standing in the street outside the front door of DANDAIR. Rumblings and roarings had been emanating from behind it all day. The putty had been shaken from the windows of the houses on both sides. Tiles were sliding down their roofs. DANDAIR, meanwhile, which appeared to have been specially strengthened against tank vibration, was undamaged. Whatever was going on inside the house was a mystery to outsiders; every curtain, every blind was drawn.

"We can't let it get any worse than this. They've got Gonoroid."

"Gonoroid is only a mammal. He is expendable."

"He has aspirations to be a reptile. Specifically Brevet Sub-Commander Gonoroid Quarxxx from Space Cruiser Invincible."

"I see." Liz mulled this over. "I had always considered their names to be a coincidence."

"They could kill him", said Steve.

"If he is a reptile, he will die like a reptile", said Liz. "With honour, and without any disgusting sweating. But if they have taken one of our men, we will simply have to take one of theirs."

"That's not in the plan", said Steve.

"It is now", said Liz.

The latest series of rumblings shrieked to a stop. Quickly, Steve exploited what might be a few precious seconds of silence to reach out and ring the doorbell. Even so, the wait for someone to come and answer the door was interminable. When, eventually, the door did open, it was opened by a man in a Russian greatcoat, fur hat, and accessory submachinegun.

"We're busy", he said, and shut the door. Steve set his foot against it.

"We want to come and see your show on Sunday", he said. "Please provide us with directions. We're dying to see it."

"It's not a show", said Alasdair from inside the hat. He peered at Liz like an entomologist at a specimen jar. "Is that a woman? Are you bringing a woman into my house?"

"She's a reptile", explained Steve.

"Ah. Ah. Oh, well, why didn't you say. Please come in."

The preparations for the Battle of Stalingrad had reached fever pitch. The map of the battlefield was now detailed and complex, and had spilled out across several neighbouring tables. It was now also occupied by hordes of toy soldiers and the same two scale model tanks, one bearing a teutonic cross, the other a scarlet star.

"It's not a show", repeated Alasdair. "No cameras. No press. We do this for the historical realism, to further mankind's knowledge of the past. And to drive around in a ruddy great armoured vehicle and see hundreds of strapping young men in SS uniform. All non-combatants have to keep clear of an arbitrary square marked out by these points here, here, here and here." Affairs seemed now so far advanced that Alasdair had his pointing stick permanently on his person. "Last year we fought the Battle of Alam Halfa in a quarry outside Rickmansworth, and some poor unfortunate flytipper was mistaken for German sidecar reconnaissance and shot over one hundred times with blank .303. Poor devil looked like some weird man-leopard hybrid. Never again."

"But I suppose you have to get on to the battlefield?" said Steve.

"We drive on here." Alasdair tapped the map. "All low-lying water meadow; the only way in by car's down this lane. Drainage ditches stop foot traffic too. No sightseers, not at this time on a Sunday. We're free to roam around going DAKADAKADAKA to our hearts' content. Marshals will man this gate to make sure unauthorized traffic comes through. The Nazzies are coming in the same way. Most of the action will probably take place around this disused sewage facility here - it's a strategic strongpoint right at the centre of the map, with good strong shelter afforded by these concrete settlement tanks -"

"So we won't be able to see a thing."

"Giving you a good view isn't the idea", grumbled Alasdair. "Though there's the shell of an old factory here; the marshals will adjourn to its roof later on to be able to see the whole show. You can get to it easily down this other road here. Don't run around it in the dark; they've taken out all the elevators." He turned and fixed Steve with a third-degree scowl. "Was that all you wanted?"

"Certainly is", said Steve, trying frantically to memorize the map in the meagre time available.

"Then out! Out!" Alasdair spanked Steve non-playfully on the bottom with his pointing stick. "We have a war to plan!"

Steve and Liz allowed themselves to be herded from the house. The front door banged behind them.

"Get that?" said Liz softly.

"I think I can remember most of it", said Steve doubtfully.

Liz tutted. "Insufficiently prepared as always." She held up a mobile phone with a zoom-lens camera. "A good job one of us wasn't."

"Liz", said Steve, "you are the dominant species of the future."