Reg Carter: Deep Cover
By Ben Franks
Key...
Zellenwart (Cell leader)
Schutzstaffel: SS (Nazi party’s “Shield Squadron” or ‘MI6 of Nazi Germany’)
Obersturmführer: 1st Lieutenant equivalent in the SS.
Lift: English for ‘elevator.’
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Chapter One/Prologue: 56745
Chapter Two: 56820
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Chapter 3
Bugger was the only word Reg could manage before his flesh-stenciled vision made out the sheer numbers of Nazi soldiers in front of him. Each and every one of them stood with their sub-machine guns raised and their deep cold, grey eyes peering straight forward. Reg glanced over to Carter like a curious child, then he realised. Whilst he had been standing like a melon with his hands raised and his face weeping with blood, Carter had just stood there. He was straight-backed and lighting a cigarette. Reg assumed that he was still acting and took after him, lowering his hands and boasting his ugly grin.
“Hands up,” yelled a Nazi officer at the head of the crowd; his English was horrific. Reg complied and glanced to Carter again. He hadn’t altered his stance. Reg grew suspicious and scared. It was unusual for him to be scared and he shivered with the idea. There was an urge to shout out. Silence filled the area.
Out here the night was ripe. A white and silver moon hung in the thick, black air and its rays cursed the ground below. Reg’s foot began to twitch and he shuffled it to the left along the silver tarmac. This was an airfield. They’d come up into a large hangar over the top of the lift shaft, and upon reaching the end of their climb, found themselves disrupting a unit of soldiers who were on a tea break. How quickly they’d reacted to their new guests was outstanding and Reg assumed they were expected.
The silence grew harshly and no one moved or said anything. Nothing. A bristle of sound tiptoed through the hangar and Reg ceased shuffling. Now it was worse. It was like the whole world had frozen, but then Carter chuckled like an insane captive.
“Ah, Zellenwart. You frighten me with your paranoia.”
“Obersturmführer, you’re under arrest,” sneered the cell leader.
Carter laughed, “You will not arrest me. Nor will you arrest Mr. Von Schlick.” He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth with his bulky fingers and his arm fell to his side. Slowly, he marched up to the crowd of men to the cell leader. Reg stood still, the atmosphere was killing him. Not only couldn’t he understand a word, but also Carter had now managed to walk right up to them without being shot. His curiosity made his mind run riot. Carter continued, in a monotonous German, “You see, Zellenwart. I am a member of Hitler’s SS and you know better than I do: shoot me and another man shall take my place and shoot you back.”
The cell leader was trying to stay firm, but Carter’s presence made him sweat uncontrollably. His grey overalls began to get too hot for him, but he knew he had to stay superior. Reg could see Carter had the upper hand and considered lowering his hands, but thought twice and left them upright. “Obersturmführer – I know you are not SS. Now, put your hands up or I will be forced to take the shot!” The cell leader’s arm rose up and in his hand was a German Luger, just like Carter’s. “I am warning you, Obersturmführer!”
“Mr.? Hmm?” said Carter, expecting his name, "you will not shoot me, because you cannot take the risk."
“Put you hands up or I will shoot! Put them up! Up! I say, up!” the cell leader cried in such panic he might as well shoot Carter. He was losing it, he’d pull the trigger – Reg could tell. He’d seen this before. Reg knew men and he knew that when his men panicked, they fired first and worried later. He knew this, so surely so did Carter? He peered into the back of Carter’s head expecting some kind of action. He got one, but not what he expected. Just like in the shaft, Carter turned to him, his silvery face burning through the night sky, and in the calmest way he simply winked. Reg filled up with anxiety, but then it happened.
Carter put his hands up to his head and the cell leader gradually lowered his Luger to reach for some rope, but Carter swivelled and elbowed him in the stomach. The cell leader groaned in pain. The crowd of guards watching turned and shouted in German, mumbles of cries and groans filled the hangar as Carter swung around his arm, grabbed the cell leader’s Luger and shot one bullet behind the crowd. Why had he missed? No, he hadn’t. Behind the crowd stood a red tanker of fuel and the luck of the single shot saw it blow into blaze of heat and hell. Fire spat out in every directed and Reg fell to the floor grabbing onto the cage surrounding the lift shaft just in time to stop himself being knocked thirty feet below, down the lift shaft. Carter was thrown also, but the Cell leader had taken most of the burn. He ran back to where Reg was, his face cut and burnt, but still looking better than Reg. He barked at him to get up and Reg quickly pulled himself up onto his feet.
“Fuck,” said Reg, and it was all he could manage before Carter barked at him once more.
“Right, they’ll get up in a minute! Grab your MP40 and let’s do this,” his broad face was serious, but at the same time he smiled. “It’s party time.”
Reg laughed and ran for cover, Carter quick on his heels. They found a small plane at the rear of the hangar behind the lift shaft and slammed their backs to the opposite side to shade them from view. Muffled screams crowed through the front of the hangar and Reg noticed they were getting up. Carter’s time was up. This was Reg’s turn. Soldier’s always topped the Agents when it came to going it loud and Carter knew this, letting Reg take charge.
“Not only are these pieces of German shit inaccurate, their range sucks to!” he shouted over the noise, “wait for them to get close, then we go all guns blazing! What did ya say? Three or four each?” He laughed and shot his head round the side of the front of the plane before turning back to Carter, who was still surprisingly calm. “You’re built like a fuckin’ rock, aren’t yah?”
Carter grinned. He looked around for something more to give them a fighting chance. Reg covered him with short, three round bursts in the direction of the enemy. Chatter-chatter, chatter-chatter. In the distance a Nazi fell to the floor with his hand gripped on his shoulder and his head whaling with noise, Reg put him out of his misery and a three burst followed taking his head from his shoulders. Reg gagged. That was sick, he thought and turned to Carter expecting him to have an idea. Carter stood in the slightly torn SS overall, fiddling with his tie.
“Jesus Christ, Carter!” roared Reg, “this probably isn’t the time for your gentlemen act!”
Carter smiled, “no, Reg, this is my proud act.” He laughed and continued above the noise, “the plane Reg. We’ll get out in the god-damn plane!”
Reg cursed as a bullet shot through his trouser leg, missing his flesh by millimetres. He turned back and responded by emptying a whole round on the advancing Nazis, then turned back to Carter who’d already clambered inside the plane. He followed suit, chucking his MP40 away and shouting at Carter to use his. Carter complied and handed Reg his gun. He popped on the earmuffs and began familiarising himself with the controls. Reg on the other hand thought he was in a movie and had left his plane door open to stand on his seat, angle himself so his top half stood outside the window and with one hand he continued shooting with his three-burst tactic.
Carter swung round to him and ripped him into the cabin.
“Shut the door, we’re moving out,” and as he said so, the propeller at the front of the plane began to turn. Reg quickly pulled his door shut and reloaded the MP40 just in case Carter’s plan went tits-up. Carter began to taxi the small plane anticlockwise to face the front of the hangar. His view was of an iron-tunnelled hangar, a cold, dark night sky at the end of it and a handful of grey shooters in-between. He cursed and Reg turned to him.
“Fuck Carter, I hope you can fly this thing!”
“’Course I can, it’s those Nazi boys that aren’t going to make this easy!”
Reg’s face burned with pain as he talked, “well we might as well try because I haven’t even taken my four Nazis with my yet – and I ain’t going down without ‘em!”
Carter smiled, focusing on the controls he accelerated forwards, using the moon as his flight target. Once building up enough speed he began to turn the plane a little and it jumped up wanting to take off. “Not yet, baby…” muttered Carter under his breath. The Nazis below saw what he was doing and stopped shooting to jump out of the way, but because Carter was flinging the plane from side to side, carefully avoiding the lift shaft, the Nazis had no option to stop, stand and retake aim to stop the plane, all they could do was run and try to get behind the plane. Carter was beginning to feel the strain as a couple of Nazis dodged the flight path and had started firing onto the plane again. A tin noise cracked as a couple shot through the back, but nothing to threaten take off. Carter gradually approached the end of the hangar and Reg threw himself in the back of his seat, struggling endlessly to secure his seatbelt, fearing for his life he closed his eyes and squinted in pain.
Carter raised the plane’s drive system and took it up a little. The plane didn’t have it and jumped back to the ground. Carter began to sweat. “Now, baby!” he cried and lifted up the leaver, only for the plane to jump a little more and return to the ground again. He needed speed. The strain of pressure grew on him as the majority of the Nazis were now behind the plane and ready to start firing. Reg opened his eyes with a flicker to see they were out of the hangar. He blinked and took in the other, new obstacles in their way. Planes – far larger than theirs – were dotted along the tarmac. Carter swung the small plane from side to side, dodging and gathering speed at the same time. The Nazis behind them were now chasing, struggling to keep up, only to be replaced by fire from the airfield’s watchtowers, three of them, standing with their golden-white spotlights and sniper rifles.
Reg shouted as blood dripped into his eyes and began crying out about his face. This didn’t help Carter. His sweating had grown on him like the it had on cell leader back on the ground, the plane was getting closer and closer to taking off but at every point would just jump back to the ground. Reg forced himself to be calm and stared half blind around the cockpit.
“Fuck! You stupid bastard,” he cried pointing at a switch dramatically. “You didn’t turn the landing lock off! Fuckin’ hell!”
Carter laughed, but it was cold and full of fright. His sweaty, bulky fingers that had held the cigarette back on ground hovered over the landing lock and he pressed it down. The plane squealed with agony as the nose-dived then lifted pulling the small plane and it’s two passengers away from the tarmac. Carter let out a sigh of relief and Reg pulled his hands to his face in agony. Carter gripped his arm with one hand tightly so it hurt, “Come on you skinny nipper, keep your thoughts off it.”
“Easy for you to say, you tough bastard,” screamed Reg as if his voice had never broken.
Carter laughed and the night encircled them, leaving behind the silver, cold tarmac of the airfield.
* * * * *
Dawn broke out as a small plane flew over the orange-grey skies of Belgium, and in a small, wooden shack, a kettle whistled over the boil. Green fields and a couple of flowerbeds surrounded the shack and it was the only human building for many miles around. It was brown and so ordinary, but one, very large transmitter stood standing out of the top; it was silver, ugly and dangerous looking.
“Roger!” Marie exclaimed, “Where’s my cuppa?”
“No panic, Marie. It’s just coming.”
Marie smiled, slouching back in her armchair like a school kid. Her hanging, wrinkly neck looked worse now and two thick, grey eyebrows covered her serious green eyes. She wore almost exactly the same clothing, her black v-neck, now slightly too big for her, and her horrifying grey skirt. She mumbled with the radio on her lap, and decided to do some side work. Putting on her black-rimmed spectacles from a small, wooden side table, she read a paper document over once or twice. After reading, Marie took the radio and began fumbling the tuner along different wavelengths. It buzzed wildly. Roger stepped in with two cups of tea in either hand from the kitchen. His hands were so large they practically hugged the china. He turned to Marie kindly, “Here you are, my love.”
She took the tea off him and smiled, “Thanks awfully.” The sentiment was somewhat sarcastic but Roger was too hung up on drinking his own that he hadn’t noticed. Roger was no longer in his blue, work overalls, but a khaki short sleeved shirt and an old, dusty pair of trousers. He slumped in his armchair next to Marie’s and looked over to her.
“Having any luck?” he asked, his body perched over to her like a hungry bird.
“Not at the moment. Can’t get the right frequency… must be because it’s so early – no talks of the German woman at this time of day.”
Roger laughed.
“I know you like those talks, Roger.” Her tone was saddened and serious.
“Oh, I do admit they’re funny, my love, but you top them all!” he said trying to clear his ground. He backed down back into his one armchair and resorted to the pleasure of his tea.
The radio buzzed as Marie fiddled some more. She was just about to retire her efforts when she made out a single crackle on one of the wavelengths. “Hoorah!” she cried, fiddling the radio’s tuner to the exact point of interest. Roger had regained his perched position.
“Crack… buzz… crack… this is Carter. Come on Mrs Tester, I know you’re listening. Mr Tester, perhaps? Hello?” the radio squeaked before the transmitter repeated the message, “This is Carter. Come on Mrs Tester, I know…”
She peered over to Roger expectantly, only to see his perched and sipping his tea, his eyes fixed on the radio in curiosity. She roared a curse and scowled at him. “Roger!” she bellowed, “Don’t just sit there, you blitherin’ numptey! Get the microphone before some German picks this up! You here?”
Roger reacted like an obeying child, shifting his large weight off the armchair and over to a box marked, ‘wedding photos’. Picking it up, he turned it upside over and began searching through electrical equipment that had fallen from it.
“I’ll be dammed, Roger!” his wife cried, listening to the repeating message as if it were the height of her favourite radio broadcast.
Roger brought himself to his feet holding an old microphone in his hand and handing one end of the lead to Marie. She plugged it in quickly and threw her old, wrinkly finger toward Roger as to say ‘start talking’.
“Carter!” he yelled in a false surprise, “what can we do for you? And be quick, the Nazis won’t take kindly to no transmit!”
“Permission to land?” said a dry voice through the radio.
“Granted!” said Roger, cheerily, “Over and out, my son.”
The radio returned to a buzz and Roger stepped outside with Marie.
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