An extract from the diaries of Twattersley Fromage MBE
Mission accomplished and time for a bit of R&R…or so I thought! However, it was not to be. Let me explain.
Three weeks previous none other than Winston Churchill himself had summoned me to Chequers and requested I seek out and recover his stolen cat – a cat by the name of ‘Nelson’. He was ever so fond of the animal and with tears in his eyes told me, “Nelson is the bravest cat I ever knew. I once saw him chase a huge dog out of the Admiralty. I decided to adopt him and name him after our great Admiral. I hold the view that a German special intelligence unit have him and that Hitler will boast of his capture in order to taunt me. I simply must see his safe return to Blighty. ”
The old boy’s presumption was that a Hun spy had stolen said feline from under the very noses of his security guards from the rear garden of 10 Downing Street itself! Apparently, a rather lovely looking gal with blond hair and wearing the full dirndl of a bodice, blouse, full skirt and an apron had been spotted making her escape over the back wall with the squealing moggy under her one arm and a full tankard of pilsner in her spare hand. That she did not spill a drop was the giveaway that she must unquestionably be one of the Bosch.
In my book the miscreant who had the snatched pussy could be none other than my old adversary namely the exquisite in body, nefarious in mind Brunhilda Katzegrabber. Not long past she and I had crossed swords in Rome, me on a quest to capture Mussolini’s pet lion cub ‘Ras’; she determined to thwart the enterprise. It ended honours even as Mussolini had let it be known he couldn’t give a toss about the cub anyway as, in his own words, ‘Si caca ovunque’. As such it had little value to the war effort! Nevertheless she and I had shared a drink or two prior to Brunhilda inviting me back to her quarters for a spot of clandestine rumpy-pumpy on a ‘no names; no pack drill’ basis. Regrettably though whilst we shared her bed I can’t say I bedded her as I had fallen asleep the second my head hit the pillow the worse for drink! She was not best pleased I can tell you, saying that even Goebbels with his legendary lack of family jewels could outperform me.
Whatever, I saw little point in tracking Brunhilda across war torn Europe knowing full well she would have headed straight for Hitler’s Bavarian alpine retreat The Berghof where no doubt he would have his taxidermist at the ready to dispatch and stuff poor Nelson and thereafter display the feline here, there and everywhere thus rattling Winnie and boosting the moral of the Wehrmacht.
However I was not without a plan of my own. You see it was a well-known fact the old Adolf idolized his pet German Shepherd that went by the unsurprising name of ‘Blondi’. Rather than try to retrieve Nelson I determined that I should steal Blondi and arrange for an exchange of pets!
So it was off to the airfield once more and my trusty Lysander. Under the cover of darkness I flew to within a short distance of Hitler’s gaff landing neatly in a valley cut flat by an ice age glacier. Armed with a sufficiency of anaesthetic ridden raw steak I made my way to the gates of The Berghof. Upon arrival I simply climbed the wall, called out the dog’s name and bingo she was filling her face and in just seconds was sparko. Chucking her over my shoulder I was off to the sanctuary of the nearby pine forest but not before letting it be known, by way of appropriate graffiti that I held the Fuhrer’s pet hostage and that her safe return was dependent upon Nelson being handed back to yours truly.
I knew Brunhilda would guess where I was hold up – we are after all both consummate intelligence officers held in high regard far and wide. So it was of little surprise to spot her at dawn crossing the meadow with very much alive Nelson under her arm and a bratwurst sausage in her spare hand.
“Cooey Brunhilda, cooey…over here.”
“Ah English so you have the dog I see. We exchange yes?”
“Hold your horse’s girl if we exchange here your chaps will no doubt shot me on the spot. No this deal only works if conducted on neutral ground. My Lysander is parked up nearby so I suggest you and I plus the mutt – snoring away like a goodun yet unharmed you’ll note – and the cat fly over to Switzerland and do the exchange there. Agreed?”
“By the way why are you holding a bratwurst?”
“Don’t know really I just am.”
We duly made the swap lakeside in Lucerne and that was that. Job done! The dignity of both sides remained unblemished.
Back in England Winnie was chuffed to bits to have Nelson back and awarded me yet another gong for the already overburdened left breast!
Upon arriving back at my Belgravia pad and recalling I hadn’t washed these past few days I ran a bath, and armed with a copy of The Times and a good cognac determined to have a jolly good soak. Imagine then my surprise upon reading the obituaries who should sneak into the bathroom but none other than Brunhilda attired in her trademark dirndl!
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“English, I sense the tide of war turning your way and wish to come over to your side. I have many secrets I can share with you that will foreshorten the struggle, namely of how to penetrate our Enigma and Lorenz ciphers – just keep my name out of it. What you say?”
With that I immediately popped out of the bath – holding my privates of course – and got the top bod at the Home Office on the blower. He was over the moon about it and decided there and then that we’d credit that useless team of glorified professor types at Bletchley Park with having cracked said codes. Result or what!
Things got better still for back in the bathroom Brunhilda had her kit off and was immersed and inviting me to join her. I did notice she’d left the end with the taps for me – bloody cheek!
As we were lathering each other she even suggested we head for the bedroom next…I really thought my luck with the gals was on the turn at last. However, just as we were drying ourselves the air raid siren went off. Plainly we had to dress in haste and, with hundreds of others seek sanctuary in the nearest tube station. Bollocks!
The thing is once the all-clear siren was heard Brunhilda announced that she’d gone off the idea yet intended to keep feeling joyful.
“Brunhilda, just how can you feel joyful building up a chap’s hopes then thwarting them thus. It’s a cruel thing you have done in my book.”
“No English you misunderstand I mean my British girlfriend from before the war, she lives here in London – her name is Joy Full.”
I trudged back to my flat a broken man.