A TBO Homage: 'The Siege of Sandy Lane'.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

The 'Mongoose' was very, very good at 'Pest Control'.

And this assignment was personal...
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George and Helga Maltravers were not nice people. They'd inherited his father's nice Anglo-German import / export company. Almost destroying it via bad luck and worse judgement, they blamed 'Those Damned J*w Bankers' for their woes.

George, of course, became an ardent Moselyite, was duly interned.

Freed by the 'Peace' and progressive German take-over, he found himself in official favour, with powerful local connections. He shipped fine furniture and other auction gleanings to Germany at handsome profit, imported delicacies for local 'Administrators'. As he had no qualms about calling down official ire upon rivals, few dared stand against him when bidding rose.

At last a 'Woman of Substance', Helga sought to dress the part. Her tastes were, at best, unfortunate, but few dared remark, fewer twice. Seeking recognition in local society, she found scant, oft-begrudged acceptance. Her buffets and soirees were Arctic-grade disasters, with most subsequent invitations so-politely declined. She applied to the prestigious 'Ladies Whist' circle at the local golf club. They regretfully informed her that the course was scheduled for cultivation, would soon close. Neither club nor circle could, in all fairness, accept new members,

Fuming, she applied to the lesser 'Whist' circle at the local lawn-tennis club, was belatedly, reluctantly accepted. There, she discovered it was one matter to play 'Whist' with her twin sons and 'Helga Bron', their young-widowed, deeply embittered 'Poor Cousin' House-keeper, and quite another to duel those sharp-witted ladies .

Which is how my elderly, but still eagle-eyed aunts Madeleine and Matilda became involved. Yes, they caught Helga cheating. Repeatedly. Minor card-fumbles could be ignored, given they were playing for pence not pounds. An occasional 'oopsie' might be reluctantly 'overlooked' given George Maltravers' malign connections. But the stupid woman just kept on cheating, flagrantly, clumsily, haplessly.

So, Helga was 'Dismissed the Circle'. She complained to her husband. He duly denounced my aunts as 'Resistance Members'. Happens they were not, their out-spoken, oft-investigated Anti-Fascist views much, much too dangerous for such membership. Ha ! Even the local German authorities recognised that ! But, as Maltravers' mud stuck better, official action ensued.

Given my aunts must be 'significant' members of the local Resistance, the process unfolded with all the formality of a three-act play or three-reel silent movie. Of course, the Germans tried to be discreet, but this was a quiet suburban road with genteel detached houses, not a busy city street or isolated farm. First, watchers. Then a detector van, hoping to direction-find their wireless' Morse. Finally, in the small hours of a Monday, boots to front door.

After forcing that, the braw pair of 'Front Men' threw open the inner, porch door, charged. And fell flat on their faces, over strong wires fastened, ankle and shin-high, between the frames. Madeline, who had the stronger wrists, was probably the pistoleer who put three Webley rounds into the second pair. Matilda, the less squeamish, probably the back-stabber of the first pair with the recently sharpened Zulu-war Assegai spears that had hung above their mantle-piece for so very long. As the fifth raider turned to flee, he took a bullet in the back.

Gathering weapons and ammunition from the fallen, the aunts prepared their beloved home for impending assault. They piled the bodies behind the front door like so many sand-bags. They angled two 'foxed', but still nice full-length mirrors. They posed their two tailors' mannequins with cardboard guns in out-stretched hands. They positioned vases and jugs with an infernal blend of tar-soap shreds dissolved in a slippery mix of kerosene lamp-oil and 'Methylated Spirits'. Then, turning on all the gas-taps as they retreated, left via the 'French Windows'.

Scaling the hedge-hidden stile to the neighbours' garden, where I used to play with Jenny and Jeff, they worked their way around, across, to deep cover on the other side of the road.

The circus parade duly arrived: Two cars, two trucks, a half-track with pintle-mount machine-gun. A whistle blown, the flanking detachment charged the back as the main team stormed the front. The latter promptly discovered, struggled over the bodies piled in the porch. Then came to grief on the original and subsequent wires. As did those forcing the back. 'Infernal Mix' went every-which-way. Then, some-one must have glimpsed a mannequin's pistol or reflected gun, fired.

'Etna' ensued. The town-gas explosion hurled debris, stunning the waiting second wave. It partially collapsed the house on surviving raiders. That 'Infernal Mix' lit, engulfing those in hellish fire. As screams arose, ammunition 'cooked off' and 'fire discipline' collapsed, no-one noticed careful 'German' gun-shots from their rear.

The dead rear-guard's grenade into the half-track, though, could not be mistaken for 'debris damage', nor a second into a truck. Order was slow to restore as, back-lit by the pyre, any quick-thinking NCO, officer or Agent promptly fell...

Dawn revealed a scene of utter chaos. The original five dead, plus a further dozen. More than a dozen crippled or horribly maimed. A dozen left unfit for 'Active Service'. Sundry 'Walking Wounded'. A truck and half-track destroyed. Assorted officers and Agents with reputations in tatters...

Officially, 'The Siege of Sandy Lane' was a great victory, a 'Partisan Fortress' located, razed. But, after surviving officers' fulsome commendations and lauded promotions came orders for the 'Eastern Front'...

And what of my intrepid aunts ? Around Noon, they were found in a final embrace in the small, nearby park's neat gazebo. They'd split a precious part-bottle of good cognac, to which they'd added an entire flask of 'Collis-Browne Mix'. A few drops of that powerful alkaloid blend would still a galloping 'Gyppy Tummy'. A spoonful would enable major surgery. A half-bottle would fell an elephant, never mind gently stop an old lady's heart...

I was at the other end of the country, doing 'Pest Control'. And, yes, revenge is a dish best eaten very, very cold. Took a while to resolve 'pending' tasks, get 'into area', warily contact, liaise with the understandably nervous 'Resistance'. Though astonished, and so very proud of those two 'Old Dears', they knew the Germans knew the 'Real Resistance' was out there, some-where. And, yes, had a score to settle...

I bid them 'Go Dark', deep-bury their weapons and equipment, pass no messages, make no reports. If practicable, be indisputably else-where. And, yes, frame some informers...

Then I asked about the Maltravers' domestic arrangements. Apparently the two parents, their obnoxious twin mid-teen sons and their harridan of a house-keeper were as bad as each other. None had any qualms about using their connections unkindly. The area's butchers, bakers and green-grocers perforce took scale weights to the local Post Office every Monday morning, paid the sixpence to have them checked, re-certified, to be sure, to be sure.

Worse, any meat order must be a better cut than billed, with a few lamb chops, gratis, as thanks for their business. Or else. Bakers would include a few extra 'morning rolls' with warily selected loaves. Glum green-grocers would set aside any 'unsightly' veg, then add a few extra potatoes and carrots, another turnip etc after the order was weighed. The terrified tobacconist would routinely add a 'lagniappe' to Mr. Maltravers' purchase. The twin sons would buy 'Four Ounces' of mints from a candy jar, then each take another handful.

Happens these twin horrors had recently been inducted into the local 'SS Youth'. Near an anniversary dear to such, there was to be a nice buffet at their house, with their SS sponsor, his aide and several local 'Administrators' as honoured guests.

Game on !!

That chill evening, as the Maltravers' powerful electric gramophone belted out fascist anthems, I ghosted from the night's mist. The two chauffeurs and the staff-car driver were close-stood against the damp. Sharing cheap cigarettes, they were utterly unaware of my silent approach. The staff driver, armed, took my first muffled bullet. The other pair died where they stood. I pushed them into their vehicles' shadow, took the staff driver's Luger. After checking the load, I walked to the house, rapped the knocker.

My left-hand's muffled gun-shot threw the house-keeper back, too suddenly dead to be surprised. I followed the pounding music to the lounge. All eight were facing the big portrait over the fire-place, proudly 'Heiling'. The 'Aide', the worst threat, took a muffled round through his upper spine. As he fell across the laden buffet, I put my right hand's Luger rounds into his boss, the two 'Administrators' then swinging left, the father.

The mother charged me, screaming something vile. She died at my feet.

The two teens, their reality up-ended, just stared at me. Then, as one, they tried to un-sheathe their uniform daggers. One took a 'muffled' round to the heart, the other a 'Luger'. They were still dying as I rolled them onto their backs. Using their so-new uniform caps, I drew their proud daggers, drove those hilt-deep into their so-new uniforms' chests. The SS officer and his aide, I similarly impaled.

After flicking the gramophone to 'repeat' the foul anthem in play, I nudged the volume control to its end-stop, slipped away into the dark and mist...

Come the morning, the day-staff, a Cook and Maid who glumly noted the parked cars and still-playing music, almost stumbled over the drivers. Sensibly, inferring atrocity, they just stood and screamed. Investigations drew a blank. The pounding music had masked the gun-fire, and who'd dare ask for *that* anthem to be mitigated, never mind muted ?

The Gestapo rounded up the usual informers and suspects, some of whom had had evidence carefully planted. Despite frantic protests of innocence, several serial informers found themselves convincingly 'framed' as double agents. Thus, the Gestapo had juicy victims to report, un-aware their customary atrocities had helped the Resistance 'clean house'.

[jemhouston]

Excellent tale

[MikeKozlowski]

Nik,

As always, bravo.

Mike