Chapter 9: A Royal Farewell

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

It was about noon when things were sorted out enough for them to take us to meet Broni. There must be something about the military mindset that insists upon having a period of mayhem and destruction followed by a nice tidy-up.

Broni’s headquarters was about a half mile back from the bridge, very well hidden in a woods. Typical. After all the trouble I’d had over the past couple of days, I looked forward to giving the rat a big piece of my mind for all the trouble he caused me.

But when I saw him, I was shocked. He had traded his usual Saville Row suit for a uniform that was now crumped and dirty and there was even bloodstains on it. A nurse was wrapping his arm in a bandage and then I noticed his staff car was bullet holed.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days but with a look of such determination on his face that I had only seen when he was after a chorus girl. I have to admit, he did look extremely handsome that day, almost heroic.

Some flunky was giving a briefing, so they didn’t let us interrupt.

“Of the three enemy army groups identified in the attack, Army Group GrauNord has made the greatest advances. We have confirmed that Tarlinsk has fallen. Enemy armored columns are advancing very rapidly southward towards Zenda and eastward to the capital. We have had no contact with the HQ group of Army Tarlinsk since the first hour of the war and that Army Tarlinsk has effectively ceased to exist.

“The forest fires in the border woods and stiff resistance by national guard units have slowed the advance of Army Group GruaSud but elements have advanced into the gap between Army Zenda and Army Plaviks. We have only intermittent contact with Army Plaviks but it appears it is being pushed southward, away from Army Zenda. Reports of unit whereabouts are confused and contradictory.

“We still are in contact with Army Zenda. They have held off most of the attacks of Army Group GruaMittel. Per your orders, General Hulka is attempting to pull his troops out through the narrowing gap between the two main enemy axes of attack.

“Hcentzov Province in the southwest is still secure. The Mountain Division has reported small probing attacks that have been fended off easily. The road to Freedonia is open.

“Unfortunately, Freedonia has declared its neutrality. As a result, the British Ambassador reports that it is unlikely that any substantial assistance can be sent to us from our Western Allies at any time soon.

“Finally, our intelligence agents in the Socialist Republic of Transbalkania have identified at least 12 divisions forming on our eastern border. In addition to the Soviet advisers already in the country, several aircraft squadrons have arriving in Transbalkania. Comrade Stalin has made a speech today in which he announced his concern for the safety of the Vlox and Scyth minorities in eastern Ruritania. We can expect an attack from this quarter with 48 to 72 hours.”

Broni sat silently for a moment, the staff looking at him in anticipation. That was when he noticed me, “Weww Woxy, here at the end to gwoat at my pwedicament.”

“Hardly Broni, after all my friends and I have tried to help. Look at the help we’ve brought you: that big tank and militia men.”

“Oh yes, you’ve tuwned my national guawd into the bawwawinas. Which wouwd be gweat if we awe attacked by the Bolshoi!”

Call me a sap and a sucker for a pretty face but I didn’t have the heart to fight with him then. I asked if there was anything we could do to help.

“Weww, actuawwy, thewe is. As you have heawd, the waw is lost, almost befowe it stawted. Thanks fow hewping with that by the way. Ouw onwy hope is to get as many of ouw twoops out of the countwy as we can. We awe going to faww back to what I call the Fweedonian Wedoubt…

“The Freedonian Redoubt?”

Yes, Yes, Wedoubt, its wike a fowtwess! We’ww use the bowdew of ouw neutraw fwiend to secuwe ouw fwanks whiwe we ouw fowces can escape.

“That’s your plan? Cut and run?”

“No, we wiww escape to cawwy on the fight fwom Fwance or Bwitain. He that fights and wuns away wiww wive to fight anothew day.”

“What do you want me to do then?”

“An awmy in exiwe needs symbows of its wegitimacy. I know you have stowen the Woyal Wegawia..”

“Who said we stole it.”

“Stop with the pwetense. I know you stowe the jewews. We have the Zoya-shaped piece of gwass you cut out of the window of the Gwey Towew on the night you stowe them. It doesn’t mattew! Keep all of the othew Cwown Jewews. I just want you to get the Wegawia out of the countwy. They awe symbows the peopwe can wawwy wound.”

“Wawwy wound?”

“Rally round, I think,” offered von Schnitzel. “I didn’t know we would need subtitles for this.”

“One othew thing. Thewe is an even gweatew symbow. One that wouwd give the peopwe even mowe inspiwation.”

“And that would be?”

“My fathew, the King. He has wefused to weave, pwans on fighting to the death. If you can convince him to get out, get to Engwand, that wouwd be a huge sewvice to Wuwitania. He is the wiving embodiment of the Nation.”

"Whatsa so hard widda getting de old man to-a come wid us?" Chicolini asked, as he slapped a black jack into his palm.

“Oh he can be quite stubbown and he has a whowe wegiment of Wawoons guawding him. He will take some convincing like fwom a favowite daughtew-in-waw… hewped
by ouw watest, pwettiest waw hewo and swimsuit modew. Zoya, I award you promotion to the rank of, what are you now? Lieutenant Colonel? Good lord, I knew I shouwd have taken those seaws away fwom Auntie Wuwa. Awwight, you awe now a fuww Cowonel and I awawd you with the Owdew of the Atvawa, the highest decowation in the nation. Now both of you go and get the king out!”

Call me a sap but when he looked at me I just melted. After all I had fallen for the guy once before and here he was being all noble and brave and asking, sincerely asking, me to help him.

“Oh, hell, you big lug. I guess we can get your dad to safety. But I won’t let you off the hook for a penny of the alimony you owe me.

He kissed my hand, and I actually think he was genuinely grateful.

Then he turned to his staff and began issuing orders.

“Send to Hulka, he is to continue his breakout, moving southeast to Hcentzov. Who is in command of Army Plaviks now?

“That would be General Goldshteyn.”

“Gowdsteyn, eh? Weww, he shouwd be weww motivated. He is to bwing what twoops he can to Hcentzov as weww. We shaww howd hewe today to wawwy as many as we can and then we shaww go to Hcentzov. That is whewe we wiww make ouw stand untiw the King can join us.”

Now I should mention that the city of Hcentzov, a little university town, is more popularly known at Hentzau in the west from that dreadful Anthony Hope novel that made up so many lies about Ruritania that he was condemned to impalement in abstensia. The natives pronounce it as it they are suffering from an advanced case of typhus and are bringing up bits of lung. I think Hcentzov actually means something like “Place where sick men hack up Luggies.”

A messenger came up to us at this point, but instead of it being for Broni, to everyone’s surprise, he handed it to me.

It was from the Post Master General to “Roxy Smothers and friends” asking me to come to the capital as soon as possible to meet with him on a matter upon which the fate of the entire world rests.”

Wow, I thought, this guy is more melodramatic than Hummingbird.

Broni shrugged when I showed him the message, saying wryly, “Faw be it fwom me to countewmand my Supewiow. You might be abwe to kiww two biwds with one stone. Save the King and the wowld all at once. Wucky you."

Broni kept the big tank, believing the slow-moving behemoth would be better in the front lines than used to sneak his father out of the capital quietly. He also kept our militiamen, who were now grandiloquently called the Ktorevitsa National Guard Battalion (Ballet Capable).

At least he gave us transport back to the capital or at least let us use his bullet riddled staff car. Chicolini drove despite Hummingbird and Tura nearly coming to blows over who was the better driver in their own minds.

As it turned out, we would have been better off walking the seventy miles or so to Strelzov. It took the better part of two days to get to Streltzov, what with the constant stream of refugees fleeing eastward and clogging the roads for miles. Added to this was the periodic strafing German aircraft. The Kraut maniacs didn’t spare anyone, neither old or young or Academy Award nominees. Chicolini managed to keep us safe for the most part but his quick maneuvers and runs over rough ground did the old staff car no good. It finally gave up the ghost about 2 miles outside the capital so we had to walk the final way in.

I was shocked by what a few days of war had done to the quaint old city. The big glass roof on the Vlad and Wendy Train Station was shattered and the yards were filled with wrecked trains. It broke my heart to see the wonderful cafes and caberets on the Zagloba Prospekt all shuttered up with many burned ruins.

The War Ministry made arrangements for us to stay at the Hotel Metropol, the best in the country. It seemed untouched by the constant air attacks. Even with the war and near misses, the linens were still spotless and the staff punctilious as ever. It was the first hot bath I had had in days.

Neither the king nor the Post Master General could see us the next day so we had to wait at the hotel or more properly in the air raid shelter in the hotel basement. This was quite as bad as it sounds since the basement was richly appointed and had an excellent wine cellar. Enjoying vintage champagne and caviar is the only way to make it through a war.

So it wasn’t until the afternoon of the 8th that I was able to get in to see the King. I dragged Zoya and von Schnitzel along with me.

The Palace had taken a couple of bombs but was not too badly hit. The old place was surrounded by barbwire and sandbags and grim Walloon guardsmen in full combat gear. At first we weren’t allowed in until I made an issue of it with guard commander. He finally showed us into what King Ruprikt called his “Wumpus Woom.” It originally the palace library founded by a seventeenth century alchemist and containing the knowledge of the Ages. Of course none of the Radziwill’s could be bothered to look at such boring stuff. Ruprikt had changed the room into a sort of gymnasium and recreation room.

The guard captain warned us that the King was exercising, getting in fighting trim for when the Huns came over city walls. With Ruprikit of course, we weren’t ever sure if he used that as a nickname for the Germans or really expected Attila and his horsemen to come leaping into his den.

In any event, we arrived just as a large man was being brought out on a stretcher. The captain noted that this was the Ruritanian Army boxing champ.

“Now it probably a good time to see the king. He’s always happiest after he’s broken someone’s jaw.”

We entered and saw that soldiers were loading the books from the shelves into large crates, to take them to a place of hiding no doubt. Great clouds of dust surrounded them as they shifted the books that had been unused for centuries. In the midst of the library was a large, makeshift boxing ring. The King was there in an old fashion boxing outfit, muscular and fit even at nearly eighty. He had a similar large older man in a head-lock and was banging the other man’s head into the turnbuckle. When he saw us, the King released the other man who fell to the floor. It was then that I say the other man was in clerical garb. I recognized him as High Bobo Frnko IX, head of the Ruritanian Greco-Roman Catholic Church.

“Wook Bobo, we have guests and woof woof what a pwetty paiw. The othew giwl is nice-wooking too.”

“Oh, Papa-in-law, you are such a flatterer,” I gushed in my best ingénue voice. “We came because we are worried about you. The Germans are coming and they will be looking for you. My friends and I want to get you to safety.”

“A Wadziwiww nevew shiwks dangew. Dangew is ouw middwe name. Just aftew Wadiswas. I think…Wet me check my passpowt. But who awe youw fwiends? Awe they as pwetty as this nice young wady? You know, she wouwd wook wovewy in swimsuit? But who is that guy?”

Bobo spoke from the floor, “I think he looks like a gypsy.”

“I am not a gypsy, I am German-Amer..” von Schnitzel tried to explain.

“A Gewman! A Gewman! Shoot him guawds! Shoot him!"

“No,” I cried. “He’s a friend, come to warn you of the danger.”

“Dangew?”

“You are in grave danger. They plan to send assassins…”

“The gypsies are known to be excellent assassins.”

“Shut up, Bobo,” I yelled at the prelate.

“If you die, the nation will have lost its greatest leader in the time of its greatest need. Come with us to Hcentzov and carry on the fight to win your nation back.”

“Weawwy? I don’t know. I must asked Gigi what she thinks.”

Of course, Queen Gigi had been dead for nearly twenty years, killed in the Great War, a fact that Ruprikt forgot on a surprisingly regular basis. Well maybe not so surprising. But it did give me a great idea.

“Why, Your Majesty. The Queen has already left for Hcentzov, you’d have to go there to ask her.”

“Hcentzov, you say? Is she sneaking awound with that fewwow with the moustache again? I’ww show hew.”

Bobo Frnko decided to speak up, “Majesty, Queen Gigi has been dea…”

“Quick, Your Majesty,” I yelled, pointing at the Bobo, “there’s an assassin! Put him in a headlock!

The King grabbed the old priest by the head and the cleric was unconscious in a few minutes.

“Weww, this has been a most wefweshing mowning. But you wiww excuse me but I have to pack for me jouwney to Hcentzov. I have to find my dawwing Gigi. I can’t wemembew why exactwy but find hew I shaww!”

He looked down at the prostrate pontiff, “Come Bobo, no wowwygagging, we awe going on a twip!”

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:

The Writer went to the Post Office. With him were the Professor and the Annoying Musicians. He didn’t worry much but he did worry now. They were going to meet with Post Master General.

The Post Office was in a grim and foreboding tower located at the southern edge of the city. The small suburban shops and homes seemed to shrink from its foreboding presence. The building was guarded by several men in brown uniforms, heavily armed men. They were mature but not old and they had the air of the experience about them. The Writer felt they were almost his equals. But not quite.

The guards showed them in to a small Spartan office. The Post Master was behind a small plain desk. He was thin and ascetic, about sixty but his eyes were far older, for he had seen too much Death and Evil in his life for them not to be old. The Writer supposed that his eyes would be the same when he reached that age. But he would still be better-looking.

The Post Master got right to the heart of the matter.

“I must apologize for not reaching you sooner. You see most of my agents have been incapacitated, mostly in trying to apprehend you and your friends.”

The Writer attempted an apology, it was uncomfortable for him.

“Oh no, my dear Writer friend. I should apologize for underestimating you and your friends. You have been far more destructive than the Axis.”

“Of course.”

“In any event, my lack of personnel forced me to hire the brigand Hozzenka and I see she has found you. So things have worked out in the end.”

“What did you want to see us about?”

“Quite simple really, it is about that small cup that the Professor carries with him. By the way, Professor, I have been in touch with your superiors in London and they have agreed, now that we are allies, for you to provide all the assistance you can. Unfortunately, one agent is not the equivalent of a British battle fleet but we shall try to make do.”

The Writer looked at the Professor with a raised eyebrow. So the Professor was a British agent. That explained quite a lot. Of course, he had known deep down that the Professor wasn’t what he seemed, was probably a spy, or didn't like girls. The Writer was a good judge of character. And of alcohol. Lots and Lots of alcohol, all different kinds. From a fine Bordeaux to cheap bourbon. Any kind of alcohol….

The Professor and the Post Master were staring at him.

“What?”

“We asked you if you would be willing to help in this mission.”

“Of course, I’ll be glad to help in this most noble venture, turning back the tide of darkness and evil to bring the world to the light of a new morning with the promise of justice for all men.”

The Professor shook his head, “You have no idea what we’ve been talking about do you?”

“That absolutely correct Professor. I have not but I am the perfect man for the job.”

The Post Master sighed, “Well we don’t have much of a choice. Here it is in nutshell…And stop drinking while I am speaking! Where did you get that little umbrella anyway!...Excuse me, a year ago, one of our of our teams of agents in Tibet uncovered a Nazi mission to find the secret of the ancient portals to the Otherworld, thinking they would be able to summons supernatural powers to aid them in the conquest of the world. The Nazis had found the secret to opening the portals of the ancient Kurgans. These were a lost people who had worshiped evil gods of enormous power. They were destroyed four thousand years ago and their civilization, except for a few scattered artifacts, vanished from the face of the earth. The cup that the Professor has been carrying has been one of those artifacts, a key, in fact, to open one of these portals. This portal is located here in Ruritania in the ancient forest of Charnobog. With that key, they would be able to open this gate and summon demons that they could control for their evil plans. Fortunately, they do not have this key, you do. But they still may be able to open the portal."

“And if they do?”

“Without the key to control them, these demons will run amok, destroying our civilization in the same way in which they destroyed the Kurgans. We want you to take the cup to the University of Hcentzov, which is not far from the forest of Chernobog. At the University is a great genius, Doctor Tesla. He’s been there for years as something of a recluse, claiming he talks to aliens from beyond Jupiter. He may know of a way to use the key, the Cup of the Kurgans to stop them.”

“Unstoppable demons from Hell and you’re asking me to stop them with the help of a madman?” The Writer asked.

“Yes.”

“Why, that plan sounds…perfect.”

Chapter 8: Over the River and Through the Woods

BBC Broadcast, 2nd of September 1939,

Just one day after launching an attack on Poland, Germany has sent its forces against the Kingdom of Ruritania. Graustark and Sylvania have also joined in the attack which comes without any declaration of war.

Just before dawn today, Axis tanks, infantry, and cavalry penetrated Ruritaninan territory on several fronts with three large armies. They have been making swift progress against Ruritanian defenses which are heavily outnumbered in artillery, infantry, and air power.

The cities of Hentzau and Zenda were attacked with incendiary bombs. Air raids on Strelzau began at 0600 local time. Civilian casualties in all three cities are reported to be heavy.

Communications to Tarlheim have been broken but earlier reports said unmanned German rocket bomb were striking the city at the rate of 50 every hour.

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:


I am still not entirely sure how we made it out of Ktorevitsa. I suppose the Germans got a bit of a bloody nose and were surprised by the stiff resistance put up by the Ruritanians. As it turned out, that’s the way it was across the whole country. But of course, courage can only do so much against high technology and beastliness.

So we hit the road while it was still open, but certainly not in the most elegant way. I mean really, a broken down taxi, a huge tank, and a hovercraft. None of it compatible in terms of speed or maintenance. The hovercraft was the worst since Tura started off in the driver’s seat. Even though we wobbled and hovered, occasionally scraping the ground, the big ham thought he was Orville Wright reborn. Maybe Amelia Earhart would have been closer to the mark. Either way, he refused to give up the controls until I had enough following too close a pass by a dairy barn. I knew I kept that blackjack in my purse for a reason. Once Chicolini replaced him, we had a much better flight.

Originally we headed towards Zenda, figuring that the big city would offer refuge but we soon discovered that fast moving Nazi columns were all over the place, blocking a safe passage to the city.

We decided our best bet was to head for the capital and maybe even outrun the Kraut armored columns. We tried to keep as low a profile as a monster tank and flying widget could, keeping to back roads and skirting forests and the like.

Fortunately, Waggsie had purloined so many code books from his various marks, that we were quite able to track where the Nazi rats were as we fled. We also found an abundance of German uniforms in the vehicles. We were able to dress up several of the militia men as Germans with von Schnitzel and Tura, who could speak fluent German, as SS officers. We were even able to fit Fat Shmengy into one of the bulkier She-wolf outfits, that dame must have been a real doozy.

Despite the disguises we still tried to avoid the Nazis. I mean really, relying on Von Schnitzel and Tura acting skills were something we wanted to keep as a last resort.

The other big problem we had was with the big tank, although intimidating and heavily armored, it was slow and consumed a huge amount of gasoline, as did the hovercraft but that at least had the virtue of speed. The tank was also running low on ammunition for its big guns and was very difficult moving over the primitive roads. While it could get across most streams, it would be a problem when we reached some of the bigger rivers.

I recommended we abandon the lumbering thing but you know how men are, they love their toys and refused to part with it. Fortunately, Zoya knew of a big bridge on the main road to Strelzov so we headed in a generally northeastern direction.

We could see German planes filling the sky but they seemed more intent on delivering mayhem to major cities than in chasing down a group of glorified car thieves. Off in the distance we could occasionally see some Ruritanian infantry or cavalry unit desperately retreating from the onrushing hordes. We avoided these units as well, not wanting to risk being fired upon by our friends.

As a result of this, by the end of the day, we had only gone about thirty of forty miles. Given the confused state of the front lines, we decided that we would camp for the night and settled down in a woods near the main road to Strelzov.

The word “camping” brings up images of a night spent singing around the camp fire, but this was hardly the case. We lit no fire so had to eat the purloined German rations. Now while the Germans were first class invaders they were not noted for their culinary achievements so, unless you think cold schupnudel a treat, I can assure you it was a dismal night.

We could see a red glow to the northwest in the direction of Zenda. I wondered aloud if this was the forest fire we had set.

Hummingbird was quick to disabuse me of this notion, “No, it’s too big for that. That’s what a city looks like when it’s on fire. Zenda is dying and the Grim Reaper stalks its streets. It reminds of a time in China, when I was in the city of Wu Hu as it was attacked by the warlord…”

Oh spare me, I thought and I wandered over to where Waggsie sat perusing that stupid old notebook and taking no notice of me.

I thought I was through him for a loop by asking a completely unfeminine nonsequitir.

“Waggsie, darling, I noticed how really stunning your ability at driving the tank is. However did a college professor learn to drive such a thing?

If I hoped to surprise him, I was disappointed since he answered quite nonchalantly, “Oh, quite a few years ago, I enlisted in the Royal Tank Corps.”
He had turned the tables on me, for I was thoroughly surprised by this revelation, “You were an officer in the Tank Corps?”

“Hardly an officer, my dear. This was ages before I was a professor. No, as a lad I was given the choice of enlisting or going to prison. It did prove to be one of the most educational years of my life.”

“You were only in for a year? That seems a short time, were you invalided out or something?”

“Oh, heavens no, my dear Roxy. I deserted.”

Broadcast of Radio Strelzov, September 3, 1939

Ladies and Gentlemen, and now, an address by His Royal Majesty, the King:

“My dear bewoved peopwe, today, we have been assauwted by the wowest, wowst weasewy wuffians that have evew

“Wise up, my peopwe, wise up and stwike at them, stwike them when they appwoach, swike them when they advance, swike them when they tawwy, swike them when they fawtew. Untiw these bawbawians awe dwiven fwom the sacwed wand of Wuwitania.

“Thewe, that shouwd get the ignowant peasant bastawds fiwed up.”

“Your Majesty, the microphone is still on.”

“I know. Whewe’s my shewwy?”

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:

The morning mist rose seeking to cover the wounded earth in white pall. The Writer rose from his sleep and noted how like a sepulcher the quiet woods seemed.

That quiet was suddenly shattered by a unearthly shrieking. A German plane flew low overhead, going by at a speed that was unbelievable, even to the Writer who had almost broken the World Land Speed Record in 1936 but didn’t because of wind resistance from his magnificent beard.

He turned that magnificent beard skyward now, following it with his magnificent brain.

The Writer knew what the plane was. He had seen such planes when Guernica was destroyed. It was one of the Nazi superweapons, a jetplane that ran by turbines rather than normal engines.

It came in low. It’s cannon firing a stream of death into the woods. The tanks seemed to attract its attention. Good, the Writer thought.

The Writer traversed the turret and brought the big gun to bear. It would be a million to one shot to hit the fast jetplane with the slow moving gun. Of course, the Writer managed it. The shot was perfect.

The jet exploded into a great fire ball of death. Tiny pieces of the jet cascaded down like a snow of Death onto the field.

As the militia men cheered, the Writer called for them to stop. There would be plenty of time to admire his skill later. His skill and his magnificent beard.

But now, he had noticed that the fight had drawn unwanted attention. Two light tanks and an armored car, part of the vast array of fascists that were looking for him personally, because he was a dangerous man, rolled over the nearby hills.

He turned the turret and fired, another perfect shot. One of the tanks exploded. Before he could fire again, he heard cheering. This time, it was not the militiamen. It came from a woods across the valley.

Soon there was the rhythmic pounding of horses’ hooves and more shouts. A group of horsemen burst from the woods and charged towards the rear of the remaining fascist vehicles. The horsemen had big grenades on the end of their lances. They hit the vehicles before the turrets could swing around. The remaining tank exploded and the armored car was disabled by explosives delivered to the undercarriage.

The Writer knew it would happen like that. It had been perfect.

BBC Broadcast, 3rd of September, 1939

Britain is at war with Germany.

At 9.00am Britain sent an ultimatum to Germany saying that unless German troops were withdrawn immediately from Poland and Ruritania, the two countries would be at war. No reply came before the ultimatum expired at 11.00 am, and so Britain is now at war with Germany.

France sent a similar ultimatum, which expired at 5.00pm this evening. A quarter of an hour after Britain's ultimatum had expired, the Prime minister broadcast to the nation.

Diary of Zoya Bupkis

September 5, 1939

Dear Diaryushka,

It looks like I am a Heroine of the Nation again. Who would have thought that a simple country girl like me would be the Heroine of the Nation twice in one week?

This is how it happened. After Colonel Shvartbloi’s cavalry regiment showed up and finished off the German’s tanks and all, we decided that there wasn’t anymore fuel for the hovercraft. So we blew it up with grenades. Except for the part that the Fat Shmengy leaned against, since that was very flat already.

We then set off again and marched the whole day. By march, I don’t mean everyone walked. Mostly we road on the big tank. I rode in the taxicab with Mr. Chicolini and Hozzenka which was very fine since it was a nice cab, even with all the bullet holes in it. Roxy rode on Colonel Shvartbloi’s horse; she had known him when she was still married to Bronislaw. Roxy snuggled up to Colonel Shvartbloi a lot during that ride. He was very fit as cavalrymen are supposed to be and I suppose you could call him handsome but he was old. I would say he was probably at least thirty-five!

Without the hovercraft, we were harder for the German planes to spot. But we still had the big tank that we filled with petrol from the armored car. We also had all the horses although Mr. Hummingbird said we should travel somewhat apart from them so not to draw German attention. Mr. Hummingbird seemed very disappointed when Roxy chose to ride with Colonel Shvartbloi instead of riding in the tank and watching the wind blowing his beard around.

In the afternoon, we heard on the wireless that the British and French had declared war on the Germans and we were very happy, except the Professor said it was unlikely that our new allies could do anything to help, even if they wanted to, for a long time.

That night we were approaching the big bridge at Shlmielovitsa. We could hear shooting going on near it even though we hadn’t seen Germans for a while. On the wireless we heard that there were zeppelin troopers and sky-falling soldiers who had landed to capture the bridge but they only captured one end. Ruritanian soldiers were defended the other end. The Germans were surprised and quite cross, they had not expected there to be any soldiers here. Yaay for our side! They also seemed to think someone important was there.

Then we realized that they were between us and our soldiers so we would have to fight our way through if we wanted to take the big tank back with us, which would have been some big deal.

So we all got together and decided that Mr. Tura and Mr. Von Schnitzel would pretend to be Germans and convince the zeppelin troopers and falling from the sky soldiers to attack. Then our friends would attack the Germans from behind with the big tank. The cavalry and any of my troupe who couldn’t speak German would got down river about a mile to a crossing and help our soldiers on the other side of the river.

So that’s what we did. My boys and I had to walk the whole way since Colonel Shvartbloi said it wouldn’t be good to overload the horses even though lots of the cavalry had my picture in the swimsuit and offered me a ride and Roxy got to ride on the Colonel’s horse and I know for a fact that Roxy weighs more than me, much more.

We got across the river without too much problem, some of the horses stood in a line all the way across to make sure we made it. I slipped a couple of times and I swear it felt like someone had thrown rocks at my head but Roxy said it was hail. It was a warm night so the cool water felt kind of nice, except for when I got knocked over by the log. When I got up, I noticed that Roxy and the Colonel were giggling over some private joke but they wouldn’t tell me what it was.

We met up with our boys who were defending the river and they said their boss had been told that that we were coming. So they had the cavalry line up behind the river bank while my troupe and I got in line with some soldiers who were defending a part of the river a little bit away from the bridge. They said that our friends had told them that a German attack would come at this spot.

In the meantime, Mr. von Schnitzel and Mr. Tura and the big tank drove up to the Germans and told them they were there to help.

The Germans were in two big brick buildings on the west side of the river. There were a lot of them and they had a small armored car and some mortars that they brought with them in their zeppelins and aeroplanes.

At first the Germans were happy to see them but their commander, a very cross man named Pupil got even more cross because Mr. von Schnitzel began demanding ammunition and fuel and all sorts of things.

Still, things were going swell for our side until the German soldier girl, Mitzi, showed up. She was an officer just like me but she suddenly saw Mr. Hummingbird and admired his beard so much that she wanted to get closer and talk to him. That would have been bad because Mr. Hummingbird had a thick American accent and pronounced all his letters differently.

Fortunately, Mr. von Schnitzel and Mr. Tura prevented her getting too close by asking about the plan to attack.

This was all to keep the Germans busy because Hozzenka and her brigands snuck into one house and shot all the Germans there with some sort of quiet gun that Hozzenka had. In the meantime, Fat Shmengy went into the other house and killed all the Germans there. I think he sat on most of them. He was supposed to use his anti-tank rifle as a sniper gun and shoot the Germen leader when the attack began.

This all happened right before the attack. The attack was going to go good for our side since Mr. von Schnitzel and Mr. Tura were in black uniforms with the funny “Ss” on them and they planned the attack. They told the Germans about a place in the river where they could cross which was where me and my troupe were waiting for them. This was where Mitzi would go. They also told the Germans to launch an attack right across the bridge, the armored car leading and the big tank would follow. Then the walking troops could attack across the bridge and they would win. Ha! What a surprise was waiting for them! Ha!

They were all set to go and attack and probably be slaughtered when we all heard a motor above us.

The German Pupil was very happy and said it was air support he requested. It was a small zeppelin with only a couple of men in it but it had a very big gun that shot very quickly.

The little zeppelin with the big gun flew over the river and began firing at Colonel Shvartbloi’s horsemen and knocked a lot of them down.

That was when Mr. Tura got this idea. He shouted that they should start the attack now that the zeppelin had arrived. He would signal the start by throwing his grenade. He pulled the pin and clamped his one hand over his eyes. You see, Mr. Tura was very good at shooting and throwing grenades so long as he wasn’t looking. It was because he hated the sight of blood I think. He tossed the grenade and instead of going across the river, it flew up at latched onto the side of the zeppelin. When the grenade went off, a small fire started and the zeppelin quickly flew away, trying to blow the fire out.

In the meantime, the armored car began crossing the bridge. It suddenly stopped right in the middle because the Professor had taken most of the gasoline out of it. Then he drove the big tank up behind it and pushed it right off the side of the bridge. Yaay again for our side!

Balleting to Victory

About this time, Mitzi and her soldiers began crossing the river. Our soldiers began to shoot and killed a lot of them. Then I yelled for my troupe to charge. We advanced, using a grand battement à la seconde. We attacked with a series of brise, knocking the remaining Germans down into the water. Then Mitzi was in front of me and tried to shoot me. Fortunately, her gun was full of water and it didn’t fire. Since she had tried to be so mean, I came at her with a quick Pas de bourrée followed by a battement frappé to her head. She fell down. All our soldiers who lined the river bank, stood up applauding and yelling “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!”

Inside the yard of the one brick building from which the German Pupil, and Mr. von Schnitzel and Mr. Tura were watching the attack, the German began shouting at Mr. von Schnitzel, accusing him of incompetency and cowardice and worse. He said he would report him to his superior, see him broken. It was nothing less than treason!

Mr. von Schnitzel stood quietly during all this and then said, “One more thing, Pupil. I am also Jewish.” Then he ducked and Fat Shmengy shot Pupil right in the head. There wasn’t much left of his head after that.

In the meantime, the big tank stopped on the middle of the bridge and Mr. Hummingbird turned the turret around. He shot the big gun at the mortars. Then Colonel Shvartbloi’s cavalry came charging across the river and right into the zeppelin troops who were crossing the bridge. Most of the Germans were killed or ran away.

There was much cheering and slapping of backs. Mitzi asked if she could be guarded by Mr. Hummingbird or at least some hair from his beard. He smiled at her and blew her a kiss. She fainted.

Then an officer came up and said that we needed to go see the boss. He said it was Prince Bronislav.

Some Pulp Games at Cold Wars 2012

This is just a couple of notes on the games I got to play in at Cold Wars 2012. My son and I didn’t get there until early Friday evening but had a great time.

Friday night, we played in “The Lion Eats Tonight,” a big game hunting game using new rules by Howard Whitehouse. The game was hilarious (as Howard’s games usually are). There were 12 players with half playing the hunters and their gunbearers, etc. I played Colonel drunk-before-noon who proved to be absolutely clueless. I tried to bag a couple of hippos right off the bat, missed horribly, and stirred up every beastie in the watering hole. This resulted in my bearer, Wellington (who I insisted on calling Amanda) being lunched by a crocodile, the rest of my party fleeing, and me spending the rest of the game trying to say one step ahead of an angry and persistent hippo.


The table for The Lion Eats Tonight


The Colonel approaches his target


The Colonel's new pastime, long-distance sprinting


Poor "Amanda"

Elsewhere on the table, one of the actually competent hunters wiped out an extended family of lions only to be pushed off a cliff by Keith the ill-tempered rhino who was played by my son with incongruous ninja-like stealth.


Keith the Ill-tempered Rhino

The best moment in the game occurred when the husband in an English aristocrat couple on holiday was slaughtered by his erstwhile prey. His game wife, when told of the tragedy replied, “I’m rich!”

Saturday I ran my Goodbye to Guns game. Excuse my bragging a bit but the game was actually awarded a “Legion of Honor” ribbon by the HMGS folks as well as getting a lot of positive comments about the look of the game from passersby.



I had about 14 players so things were happening all over the board; I can only give some impressions. The whole concept of the game was to be a race by the various players to rescue the Princess Ludmilla who was held captive by the evil Dr. von Keuger. Of course, the hero of the story was Ernest Hummingbird, my drunker and more likeable pulp version of Hemmingway. One rival was American super-agent and flyer, G-8. We also had Blackadder and gang, the Ruritanians, Americans, and Italians.





I also included a plucky young British Tommy trying to be reunited with the beloved animal he had raised from young. Sadly, this was not a magnificient war horse but rather Private Baldrick searching for his pet rat, Joey, who was being used as a lab rat in the lair of Dr. Keuger.

On the Central Powers side, in addition to Kreuger, were various stripes of Germans, some demoralized Austro-Hungarians, fierce Turks, a couple of Bulgarians, the Red Baron, and Mata Hari, who did more to slow the Allied Big Push with a couple of tassels than the entire Central Power force.



As is often the case, most of the players completely disregarded the motivations I had written up and just went blasting away at each other. This is absolutely fine, since chaos and a complete disregard for instructions is one of the thing I like to see in players.



Ultimately, the Allies did achieve a breakthrough although the front line German and Austrian troops put up a pretty effective resistance for quite a while. The Americans had a dramatic assault on the main German trench line and the Italians actually managed to assault Mt. Zeppo with minimum casualties, except for about half of the Italian Army that ended up following Mata Hari like puppy dogs.







The Ruritanian army actually achieved the furthest breakthrough with the big Tsar tank not only surviving the bullet-magnet treatment by the entire Central Powers force but landing the embarked naval landing party to claim the credit for capturing the Austrian town of Glottelstaap.



The Red Baron had a less than stellar day. One of G-8’s Battle Aces was attempting to attack the Baron’s aerodrome and was shot down. The pilot bailed out and landed directly on the Baron’s taxing Fokker. For the rest of the game, the two fought hand-to-hand.



G-8 began behind enemy lines in disguise and so was able to free the Princess with the help of the far more competent Joey the War Rat, with the Germans none the wiser. In the meantime, Hummingbird who was driving the secret super weapon of the Allies, a truck carrying an elite corps of messenger pigeons, barreled through No Man’s Land, running down anybody that got in the way. He made it the shores of the lake where artillery fire from the big German tank destroyed the truck but Hummingbird, along with his side-kicks Gladys and Mrazek. The trio jumped into a convenient rowboat and headed towards the castle. G-8 and the Princess were at this point fleeing across the bridge to shore when Dr. Keuger recognized them and sent his giant bats to stop them. G-8 and the Princess dove into the water with the bats close behind. Hummingbird hurried the boat to their aid, but not before some Turkish soldiers shot down his side-kicks.

The game ended with a fierce hand-to-hand struggle between all of our heroes, including Baldrick who had managed to attract the attention of most of the German reserves but somehow managed to survive, and a host of rebellious lab rats lead by Joey. Ultimately, Hummingbird managed to rescue the Princess. Baldrick was reunited with Joey. Mata Hari, seeing how the war was shaping up, left for Paris with half of the Italian army going with her, intending to be her back-up dancers and orchestra. The Red Baron never did resolve the melee with the Battle Ace but did end up drifting over Allied lines, I ruled that ultimately the plane ran out of fuel and he was taken prisoner. A happy ending for everyone, except Dr. Kreuger who vowed revenge against the upstart Hummingbird.

I had a great bunch of players in the game who all got into the spirit of things and didn’t take things at all serious, even the Central Powers players, who like all pulp villains ultimately ended up losing.

At the table next us to was a very cool game in which pterodactyl mounted Luftwaffe were attacking some US bombers. Very cool looking game.






Saturday night, we joined a short demo game of Howard W’s new, as yet unpublished, sci-fi rules, Alien Suns. Nice, fast-playing set of rules. In the game, I played some special forces fighting local rebels. I think I rolled every bad roll I possibly could while my opponent kept rolling every good possible roll. Still a fun, easy way to end a long busy day.

I’m look forward to Historicon where I will probably run Goodbye to Guns again, possible along with another Hummingbird adventure, The Old Guy and the Big Fish.

Chapter 7: Disappointing the Fuhrer

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

I was floored by the explosion of our car but for only a moment. When I came to, Hozzenka was running across the road, pistol in one hand and dynamite stick in the other. In her wake followed a horde of gunsels that would have put George Raft to shame. Some of them ran over to the village tavern and began firing at the SS she-wolves that had come out of the hovercraft. The rest followed Hozzenka who was tearing towards the big tanks that were coming up the road. She had a look of homicidal joy on her face.

We could sure use the help. The three lead tanks were almost into the center of the village and they were wrecking everything in sight. A shell came overhead and hit the tavern, destroying it. A big fireball flew out of it when all the hooch went up and I was sure I could hear Hummingbird’s cry of anguish when this happened.

While all this was going on, up pulls the big taxi we had arrived in. Zoya was behind the wheel and she yelled to me that, with all the tanks and Germans coming, it might be a good idea to leave. For a moment I actually thought she might not be a complete chowderhead. We sheltered behind the big car while we tried to get Chicolini up, knowing he was a far better wheelman than the dimwit ballerina.

Tura was up already but he must have still been suffering from the concussion of the blast since he wasn’t shrieking with terror as he had been for the last twenty minutes. As shots from the she-wolves’ machine guns pinged all around us, I noticed that he was fumbling with one of the grenades. He had somehow accidently pulled the pin and was tossing it between his hands like a hot potato.

“Throw it, you bone-headed chump!” I yelled.

Tura threw the grenade, with his free hand clinched firmly over his eyes. Amazingly, the pineapple hit square in the middle of the pack of she-wolves. This happened about the same time that some of our heroic village militia came back, inspired by Hozzenka’s arrival and hurried along by the brigands’ bayonets.

When they saw the blast knock down several of the she-Nazis, they began cheering Tura, yelling things like, “The Poles are great warriors! God be praised to have such allies!”

Of course, this went right to Tura’s already oversized head and the ham got caught up in the moment in a big way. Seeing all the eager faces around him, he shouted for them to charge. Of course, he was not completely out of his mind and let the rest of them take the lead, saying, “Men, I want you to know that if things get really rough, I’m behind you every step of the way.” The rubes cheered themselves silly over this. They flung themselves forward, Tura “leading” them from a safe distance behind.



At least this should distract the Krauts, I thought, as Zoya, Chicolini, and I jumped into the taxi. Chicolini manned the wheel and I thought we were going to head out of town. But he had a queer look in his eyes and kept muttering something like “vendetta!” and “fascista puttanas!” He drove straight at the line of the remaining SS women. I braced myself as machine gun bullets hit the car. We ploughed into the line and several of the dames flew over the hood.

Chicolini managed to bring the taxi to stop just short of plowing into the hovercraft. That was when I saw that Waggsie had polished off the pug-ugly stormtrooper that was on top of the craft and he was in the process of dropping the big dame onto the pilot and captain. When the big brute hit them, both collapsed and we charged onto the hovercraft.



In the meantime, Tura’s boys had finished off the she-wolves and stormed aboard as well. In a few minutes, we had captured the hovercraft with the militiamen going crazy shouting Tura’s praises.



In the turret above us, Waggsie was blasting away with one of the craft’s machine guns toward the chateau and the SS goons that had gone after the Grand Duchess.

Before any of us could catch our breath, Tura had jumped into the pilot seat and was firing the engines up. In a moment we lifted off, albeit as unsteady as Hummingbird on a bender.

Now I had mentioned what a horrible driver Tura was. Well he was an even worse pilot. He apparently had a role as a pilot once and spent a whole afternoon at the Warsaw Airport doing research for the part. Of course, in his mind this made he the equivalent of Lindbergh. So keep in mind when I say “fly” it really was more of a wobbly, motion-sickness-inducing, fluttering sort of thing.

Probably guessing Tura’s abilities, Waggsie jumped off the hovercraft while we were still only a few feet above the ground and headed towards the fight.

Tura called out to him, “Professor, don’t be a fool. The rest of our friends will find a way out. Remember ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’”

“Sorry old boy, but never went in much for that discretion thing,” he said and then he was gone into the smoke and fire.

Excerpt from And A One and A Two, My Life Following the Demon Rhythm of the Polka, the unpublished autobiography of Stanislaus Shmengy

Okay, so maybe we not have best plan to fight Fascist baddies. We not expect them have so many walking tanks that can come through swamp. So sue me.



Now one little walker tank comes over and shoots up cabin we hiding in. We shoot back but no such luck, bullets bounce off. Most of guys with me, they, how you say, take powder and run away. I say to self, Stash, you not gonna get out here unless you show much guts and not in puking way. So I sneak out of cabin, just before little walking tank smash it. Then I sneak around back of walking tank and climb up it from behind. So far so good. I knock on lid but driver, he just make with fingers at me. He very much mad I on tank and he can’t shoot me since I standing between guns. He tries shake me off tank. No such luck, I used to breaking wild tusked djikis to use for children amusement rides in village fair back home. So I stay on no problem. Then I start shooting at lid and shooting at driver. Since I am closer now, bullets hit mostly glass in lid. Glass break and driver fall over. This what I like to see. I can now open lid and dump driver out. I get in and am surprised that inside controls not so different from tractor back home. I think Boy if only Yosh here but still I can drive too.



So I make tank to walk and I think I go look for Yosh since last I see he was in church which in now all wrecked. I go toward back of church and what is right in front of me but big walking tank with back towards me. I shoot cannons at it but shells just bounce off. Then I try to ram but I not realize my tank too short so I miss but am now right underneath big walking tank.

Big walking tank now try to turn around to shoot back to me. But it no can turn since it stuck between edge of church and big trees. So big walking tank tries back up but I too quick and back up little tank, keeping little tank’s leg stretched out to trip big tank when it back up. Thump Bang Crash! Big tank fall over like in motioning funny picture, Policemen of Keystone.



All this noise bring other small walking tank over to see what happened. I shoot little walking tank and Boom Boom it go up in much boomings and smokings.

But I forget more regular tanks coming into town. I feel big Thump. I see shell has hit top of legs of my tank. Now my walking tank not walking so much good anymore. Also many more shells of guns coming toward me.

I figure is now good time to amscray which I learn in Chicago is word for getting hell out of place very fastly.

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:



The writer felt the destruction of the inn before he saw it. He felt the thousand bottles of beautiful amber nectar cease to exist, felt the skill and the love that went into making them slipping from the world, leaving a hole in his soul.

In his mind’s eye he saw every shard of glass glistening like diamonds as they fell to earth; every drop of that life-sustaining liquid soaking into the earth like his life’s blood draining from center of his heart. He had seen the cruelty of man, from the Halyi Gubbi to the Picu Urriellu but this was beyond cruel; it was profligate in its senselessness.

He knew he had to fill the hole in soul with something. Ordinarily it would be alcohol. Now all he had left was fury. So be it. His retribution against the Germans would be perfect.

He left the copse of trees from which he had been killing the Germans one at a time. He needed to kill more of them more quickly. He moved swiftly but silently through the underbrush that paralleled the road. He passed the tanks and half-tracks and trucks until he came to what he was looking for.

It was an open-topped armored vehicle, a tank from which the turret had been removed and replaced by a heavy artillery piece. This would be the instrument of his vengeance. One instrument, anyway. He remembered he had a bandolier filled with grenades and the large bullets for the elephant guns. It also had several bottles. The bottles had been filled with alcohol. But not anymore. That time was over. He had finished them this morning.

He leapt onto the back of the gun track. The two crewmen there were completely surprised. He disposed of them quickly. It was perfect.

He saw a platoon of infantry marching up the road next to his track. They had not noticed him. He threw the bandolier into their midst. They were gone in a flash. Perfect.

The explosion from the bandolier set fire to a nearby halftrack that also exploded. Perfect.

The explosion from the half-track set a nearby truck on fire until it too blew up. Perfect.

Then he went to the controls of the big cannon. He aimed it quickly at the tanks advancing up the road in front of him. He fired the big gun into the rearmost tank. The treads blew off and the crew ran screaming from the vehicle. Perfect.

He fired again and the next tank’s turret exploded. Perfect.

Then he heard a noise behind him. It was a large tank coming up the road, now. It was twice the size of any tank he had ever seen before. Its main gun looked like it came from a battleship. Perfect. He would capture it.

Anything was possible for him today. As the Hindu poem said, he had become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds. Well, at least not a particularly nice guy.

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

While all of our problems with the she-wolves and hovercraft were going on, von Schnitzel and Fat Shmengy were trying to rescue the Grand Duchess. They had quite handily dispatched the rat butler with a combination of bombast and skillful posterior manipulation.

Now they faced the SS Anenerbe as personified in the nasty but diminutive form of Colonel Schwartz who packed an incredible amount of evil into a travel-sized package. In this he was ably aided by the cruel but credulous Ilsa and the dramatically faceless goon Stalhelm as well as a supporting cast of Russian mystics, Tibetan monks, and Creatures Made Using Secrets That Man Was Not Meant to Know.

Schwartz demanded that von Schnitzel turn over the Cup of the Kurgans. Now even if Eric had wanted to, he simply couldn’t do it since good old Waggsie had knicked the thing, assuming quite rightly that it was best not to be left lying around.

After von Schnitzel’s curt refusal, Swartz sicked the Frankenstein’s monsters on him. Now when angry, von Schnitzel was known to have an incredible capacity at intimidating anyone, be they actors, crew, or studio executives. In this case, it was mindless inhuman constructs, which I guess really isn’t that different from studio executives. Von Schnitzel really worked himself into a lather this time and the poor green flat-heads went running whimpering out of the courtyard.

As he wiped the froth off his lips, he saw that Ilsa had drawn her pistol and was pointing it as his head, “Don’t think your bluster will have any effect on me, Herr Direktor. I am an Aryan woman and not some dumb brute.”

“Wait, repeat that line.”

“What? ‘Don’t think your bluster will have any effect on me, Herr Direktor. I am an Aryan woman and not some dumb brute.’ Why?”

“Say it again, only this time, control the anger more, make it more full of pride.”

Ilsa did so again and von Schnitzel clapped his hands.

“Have you ever done any acting?”

Ilsa blushed and said coyly, “Well, I did have the lead in my local Strength through Joy spring operetta three years in a row.”

“Well, liebshen, how would you like to be a star?”

The SS woman lowered the pistol, obviously star struck, “Really?”

Von Schnitzel responded by shoving his director’s megaphone over her head and giving it a good bash. He grabbed the Grand Duchess’ hand and ran towards the courtyard gates.

Fortunately, this was the point when Waggsie’s burst of machine gun fire tore into Stahlhelm, killing the brute before he could react. Another burst hit the mad Russian priest.

Fat Shmengy, using his ever dexterous buttock muscles had the tractor ready for this moment. It shot forward, knocking down the courtyard wall and running over the monks and one of the Karloffs.



Von Schnitzel and the Grand Duchess followed after the tractor. They were crossing the front lawn only to be confronted by Schwartz and the remaining Frankenstein. The Monster seemed to have gotten over his fear of von Schnitzel and was advancing menacingly.

“Hey Good Looking!” von Schnitzel cried. “Yes you, tall, dark, and bolt-necked. I know you are not such a bad fellow. You just had a few bad breaks, All you really need is your Mommy.”

The confused monster stood there confused and then, with tears in its eyes muttered, “Ja, Ja! Mutti!”

Von Schnitzel then pointed at the Grand Duchess and said, “Well I’ve found your mutti. She is right here.”

Grand Duchess, for the first time a smile crossing her face, crooned, “Oh, you poow deaw, whatevew have they done to you. Mummy wiww make it aww bettew, my wittwe dawwing.”

The green monster collapsed into her arms, tears streaming from both of their eyes.



“How do you do keep doing that!” screamed Schwartz in frustration.

Another burst from Waggsie machine gun made Schwartz realize that his inning was over for now, so he legged it towards some Kraut infantry that was just coming into the village, leaving von Schnitzel go.

Meantime, I could see that the Shmengys had reunited and traded their tractor for our taxi. They picked up von Schnitzel and sped to the road out of town heading east.

The Grand Duchess was also heading out of town. She was perched on the shoulder of her new “baby” as it strode towards the forest, several of the villagers following after her. She had one of her elephant guns in hand and shouting something about “fight on against the dweadful invadews fwom ouw sacwed fowests.”

As Tura began to lift the hovercraft off the ground, I saw that most of the brigands lay dead in the streets. They had suffered heavy losses in an unequal fight against the main German column. So Hozzenka, in a fit of pique, had run up on her own to the advancing tanks with her dynamite. She had blown the tracks off two of the vehicles before they got her. One of the disabled tanks managed to swing its main gun around and fired at her as she sprinted towards another tank. The gun blast hit near enough that she was struck by several bits of shrapnel. The few remaining brigands were dragging her hulking frame down the village street when we spotted her.

Tura sighed, “Oh the tragedy of war, and he began to turn the hovercraft away from the village.

There was a loud click and we turned and saw Zoya was pointing her pistol at Tura.

“Now Mr. Tura, I don’t want to be mean about this but I won’t allow you to leave Hozzenka behind. She saved my life several times and it just wouldn’t be nice to leave her like this. Besides, Mamushka would be very cross and believe me, you don’t want to have my Mamushka cross at you.”

You could see Tura’s mind wrestle with the two threats to his life and limb. Somehow he decided that the Germans were less an immediate threat than a vacuous blonde so he turned the ship back. We left down a rope and soon had the prostrate form of the big ruffian aboard.

That was when we saw the monster tank.

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:

The big beast turned its massive gun at the gun track and fired, destroying it. The Writer had already leapt off, a dry ironic laugh in his throat at the Germans having to destroy their own vehicles. The big tank rolled forward to clean up the remaining resistance in the village. Several parties of infantrymen were following up, moving past the burning hulks of their panzers.



As the massive tank passed him, the Writer leapt onto its back as easily as if he were riding one of the Sand Worms of Thark, a feat for which he achieved such reknown among the native Hill Martians. Like the Sand Worms, the Germans were completely unaware of his presence. Perfect.

As the great iron war machine rolled into the village, blasting everything in sight, he realized that another figure had joined him. It was the Professor. Plucky fellow. The Writer would have preferred to tackle the great tank by himself, a true contest of soulless machine against the Spirit of Man but he could probably use help steering the thing. The Professor had the Cup of the Kurgans with him, a thing that was ancient when Alexander marched into India. Using the Writer’s cigar, they lit a beam of fiery light that cut the hatches of the tank open. The Writer drew his pistosl, a .45 Colt Automatic given to him by a grateful Colonel whose life he saved on the Isonzo Front and the Tokarev he had taken from Sanchez’ dead fingers after the fight at Caramba. He leapt into the belly of the beast, firing all the while. The six crewmen were dispatched in an instant. Perfect.

Shoving the bodies out of the way, the Professor got behind the steering controls while the Writer went to the great gun. It was belching death to any that were in range. The tanks that the brigand girl had immobilized went up in fiery blasts. The great behemoth then struck into the midst of a crowd of infantry; the Writer recognized the death’s head of the SS on their caps. Perfect.



He saw that the hovercraft his friends had captured was heading eastward. He also saw that the Musicians, both the fat one and the skinny one along with the Angry Director were leaving in the omnibus. He knew they would need his help. He also knew that it was time to leave. He could sense that the troops he fought were just the beginning. There was a whole division behind this initial thrust. He had done enough damage for one day.

His revenge had had been perfect.

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

As we flew out of town, we saw the big tank coming up the street, Hummingbird operating the turret, blasting away at any German vehicle or troops that came within range of the terrible big gun.

Tura whistled, “Boy, that Hummingbird sure liked his booze.”

Chapter 6: All God’s Children Got Guns

Diary of Zoya Bupkis

September 3, 1939

Dear Diaryushka,

Well there I was in command of an army! Who would have thought that a simple country girl like me would become an army commander! Well, all right, it wasn’t much of an army, just the Shmengys and about a dozen villagers and it was only for a day, but still…

Everyone seemed to think that the village was in danger of being attacked because of the Grand Duchess living there and because a big road that went from Grauheim to Strelzov ran through the southern end of town. So the Grand Duchess called out the militia and put me in charge.

She even made me a temporary, honorary colonel or something even though she thought it wasn’t quite proper for girls to be in the army where they don’t wear bustles. But the title was still written down and had her official seal and everything. She gave out lots of titles and ranks, even to the Shmengys. Of course, she couldn’t bear the thought of Leutonians being officers so she made them Sergeant Majors, which I guess meant they were only studying to be sergeants like at University but it did mean they got to wear lots of stripes on their sleeves.

She also told me to train the men. Now, even though I am an officer, I wasn’t ever really trained or anything except someone showed me how to salute. But I figured that a little bit of exercise never hurt so I began teaching the men using the Vaganova Technique. We started simply with a few demi pliés, tendues, and ports de bras, followed by pirouettes and pas de deux. Some of the men showed some real talent, working their way up to sautés, changements, sisonnes and even grand jeté en tournant. These last movements proved especially useful, as it turned out, since it made them much harder for the Germans to shoot them. I think the tutus I was able to fit on them also confused the Germans’ aim quite a bit.

Fortunately, the Grand Duchess had lots of guns and bullets in her basement. Previously, these had been for her hunting safaris but now were mostly used for taking care of household pests. She said the Lewis machine guns were especially good for rooting out clogs in the plumbing. I was puzzled about all the hand bombs she had and asked what she used those for. “Why, fishing, my dear, what else?” was her response.

The other thing that was good was that the Shmengys could shoot the guns really well, even for being stupid Leutonians, so they showed the men how to do that. I asked Skinny Shmengy if they had learned to shoot so well in the Army but he said no, they learned to shoot that way living in Chicago.

Mr. Hummingbird and Mr. Chicolini were also very helpful, coming up with all sorts of ideas of where to plant hand bombs and hide trenches filled with pointed sticks.

Mr. von Schnitzel came up with a plan to dress up the scarecrows out in the wheatfields on the west side of the town with some of the old uniforms that the Grand Duchess had lying about the chateau. He laid the scarecrows down in the wheat, rigged up to a frame that he would pull up suddenly using the village steam tractor. He thought this might surprise the enemy into thinking there were a lot more soldiers defending the village.

We all worked really hard the whole day, except the Professor who kept trying to figure out meaning of all the scribbled notes in the little book he took from the little German back in Emeric’s. They did have the best drinks there, you know. Lest you think the Professor was a shirker, he was trying to figure out what the little book said about the chalice or bowl or whatever it was. The German he took it from must have had terrible penmanship since it took so long for him to figure out what it said. Occasionally, the Professor would look up and say things to nobody in particular, things like, “Why they had a run in with the Ruritanina Postal Service in the Himalayas!”

To which I responded, “Yes they will deliver absolutely anywhere!”

Then he said the chalice or bowl or whatever might be some sort of key which I thought was just plain silly, how could you fit a bowl into a lock? I noticed that the Professor was very good at taking things from other people’s pockets and opening locks with hairpins but not particularly good at, well, professory things. I suspect he would do better teaching locksmithing rather than archeology or astrology or whatever it was he teaches.

All in all, it was a very exciting day but scary so I didn’t sleep very well last night and everyone was up by dawn getting into their assigned positions, ready to fight the invaders.

Well, at least we thought we were ready…

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:

As the morning sun rose, so did the mists of dew, vanishing like the peace that was evaporating from the soon-to-be wartorn Earth. The Writer knew what was coming. He had seen it from the deserts of Tigre in Abyssinia to the banks of the Ebro in Spain. Death was stalking him, stalking them all now. But Death would also be coming to meet the Germans. He had made sure of that. His plan was perfect.

The Germans would come down the road that ran south of town, probably in a long column with their reconnaissance troops in front. He could hear the motors thrumming in the distance already.

The road was the only way they could come. To the south and north were thick forests. To the west, except for the road and a set of railroad tracks running north to south, there were a few small wheatfields and then nothing but swamp. No tank could come through there and infantry would take days to cross the mire.

No, they would come down the road. Into the traps and the fire of his men. It would be perfect. He sipped on his flask of bourbon while he considered their position.

First they had dug a trench across the road, just before it crossed the railroad tracks. They filled the trench with stakes and then covered the trench. If motorcycles led the column, as he knew they would, they might miss spotting it and crash into it.

Chicolini prepared the next traps. Chicolini was good at coming up with ways to kill and the Writer wondered about where he learned the skill. But he didn’t ask Chicolini. That was something one didn’t ask a man about, sort of like asking him the circumstances when he lost his virginity. Oh, a man could volunteer the information, maybe brag about it, or make up stories about it, or at least hide the embarrassing parts of it. But one didn’t ask a man about it…

Chicolini placed several grenades under the railroad ties. Any vehicle going over them should trigger them. The Writer approved. Then they buried grenades in the road on the other side of the tracks, connected by wire so that any vehicle or anyone on foot would trigger them. They got the wire from the Duchess’ piano. She didn’t like that but he promised to return the wire when they were done. They would probably need to tune the piano after that though.

There was a windmill on the side of the road, just beyond the spot where they placed the grenades. The Writer put Chicolini in the windmill with a Lewis gun. He had also given Chicolini the case of empty scotch bottles from his room. They had filled them with brefnish, the local flammable drink, and put cloth wicks in the bottles. The Writer invented something like these when he was in Spain. He had used them to blow up some of Franco’s tanks. Only he used gasoline then. You couldn’t drink gasoline; he knew - he tried. The Writer knew he wouldn’t get credit for inventing them. That was probably for the best, a Hummingbird Cocktail should describe something creative, some work of art, or at least something someone actually drank.

Across from the windmill was an old roadside shrine. The Actress was there along with Tura. She had insisted that she be allowed to fight.
Tura had not. He had to be found. He was hiding under one of the beds in the chateau. His nails carved grooves in the floor as the Leutonians dragged him out to join the fight.



The Actress had come up with the idea of dressing herself and Tura up as ghosts. They would hide in the shrine and spring out when any of the Germans got past Chicolini’s traps. It might disorient the attackers and maybe even scare them. It sounded like a hare-brained plan but it showed that she had guts. She also insisted that they give her some of the grenades. That showed she had brains. Guts and Brains. And gams. Beautiful, shapely gams that went all the way up…The Writer shook his head to clear the thought of the Actress - such thoughts were dangerous at times like these. Death was approaching. On swift legs. Swift, shapely legs, perched on high heels, with her skirt swishing back and forth….What was he supposed to be thinking about? It was so hard to think straight what with all the whimpering that Tura was doing. That and all the bourbon he had drunk that morning.

He was in a copse of trees just beyond the shrine. He had taken one of the Duchess’ elephant guns, the .416 Rigby, the gun he first used when he was hunting elephants in Alabama because there the Tusca-- wait a minute -- that wasn’t right, he had never been to Alabama. Who had said that? Maybe he shouldn’t have so much bourbon this morning. On top of the Scotch last night… No, on second thought, he should have had that much.

The Professor was there in the copse of trees with him. The Professor looked uncomfortable. The Professor was a thinker not a fighter. The Writer, he was a lover not a fighter. But he was also a fighter, so don’t get any ideas…

The Fat Leutonian was perched in the church tower with his anti-tank rifle.
From there he had a clear shot up most of the road. The Fat Leutonian was an eater but the writer hoped he was also a fighter. A big, hungry, grotesquely fat fighter.
Some of the village militia under his brother, the thin Leutonian, were inside a couple of cabins at the end of the village. They would open fire on any German who managed to get to the village itself. The Dancer was in the center of the village with the rest of the militia as a reserve. They were right by the tavern. He had to stop back every half hour or so to make sure they were still there. And that the tavern vodka supply hadn’t been tampered with.

All of the women and children and old men, went off to hide in the woods as they had done since time immemorial. All that is except the Duchess who stayed in the Chateau with her loyal butler. Also staying was the old man Yoda who said, “Damned will be I if filthy Non-speakers drive me my home from I let.”

Over in the fields to the west of the village, he could see the Director was perched on the steam tractor prepared to pull his mannequin army out of the weeds, to make the Germans think a flank attack was coming. The Writer didn’t approve of this part of the plan. It was too subtle and the Fascists were not noted for their subtlety.

But there was no time to argue the point. He heard the rumbling of the engines. Death was now coming down the road - at 40 miles per hour. And Death wasn’t wearing high-heels or swishing a skirt this time.

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

Now, you may ask, darling, whatever possessed me to get involved in the fight that day. To be honest, I wasn’t really sure back then and am still not entirely sure today. Now as you know, I have never been one to run from a fight, whether it was a contract dispute with a greedy studio exec or a fascist blitzkrieg of a near-helpless little nation. Ruritania may not have one of the more fashionable places on earth but it had been my home briefly and I had found that most of her people were exceptionally kind, in a quaint, eccentric way, chiselers like Broni notwithstanding.

So I suppose that is how I found myself that morning, crouched behind the shrine to the Saint of Perpetual Fatulence or whatever, with a purse full of hand grenades, dolled up as if I was about to meet Topper. Of course, Tura was hardly Cary Grant and it wasn’t a kindly old gentleman that I was waiting for.

I could see the German column coming down the road. There were four motorcycles with those little cars on the side, two by two, followed by a couple of small cars crammed with troops and a big armored vehicle with wheels in the front and tracks in the back.

The first two motorcycles hit the hidden trench at high speed, crashing into heaps of bodies and twisted metal. The rest of the column skidded to a stop. The remaining motorcyclists jumped off their bikes and crouched down in the weeds along the side of the road.



Then I heard the shot from Fat Shmengy’s anti-tank rifle. It made a loud clank of the front of the half-track. Although it didn’t seem to do any damage, it must have rattled the Blockheads inside because they too tumbled out into the road.
It wasn’t long, however, before the Krauts sorted themselves out. Several groups on foot began moving into the village, using any cover they could to avoid the machine gun fire that Chicolini was shooting at them from the windmill.
They also got a big mortar set up and began firing shells into the church. Despite hitting it several times, Fat Shmengy kept firing away, seemingly no worse for the artillery coming his way. Maybe his fat cushioned the concussion from the mortar shells.

Suddenly the two scout cars made a dash forward. They jumped the narrow trench and the first one hit Chicolini’s grenades as it crossed the railroad tracks. The car rolled to a stop just in front of me. It showed some signs of damage but the crew seemed unscathed but was clearly disoriented.

I grabbed the cringing Tura and we charged towards the car, our ghost costumes billowing about us in the smoke from the damaged car. Tura’s terrified wailing actually added to the effect and the disoriented Aryan Supermen ran from the car in panic. I ran after them and tossed a grenade their way. One of them fell when the pineapple burst behind him.

What? Oh, heavens, darling, why would you think that was the first time I ever killed or maimed anyone? Tosh!

All the while, Hummingbird and Barqueless were taking pot-shots at the approaching Germans with the big elephant guns. Hummingbird began dropping the Krauts with considerable frequency despite being obviously three-sheets to the wind.
The other scout car had tried to follow but Chicolini began lobbing the fire bombs at it. It quickly turned aside and the crew dismounted and rushed towards the windmill.

This was what von Schnitzel had been waiting for; he pushed the tractor forward as fast as it would go. The uniform-clad scarecrows popped up, startling the advancing troopers who went to ground.



Then out of the morning mist, I made out the silhouettes of several large objects lumbering through the swamp. The biggest was one of those walking tanks like the one that Skinny Shmengy had destroyed during the parade in Graustark. Two smaller walking vehicles were on either side. These looked like the front ends of fighter planes on top of mechanical legs with big cannons and machine guns perched atop their shoulders. They moved deliberately and without hindrance through the swamp. No tank could have crossed it but the big pads at the end of their legs must have spread the weight more evenly. So Hummingbird’s plan wasn’t so perfect after all.
We didn’t have much time to think about this. The mortar finally got a direct hit on the church steeple. Only a panicked yelp of “Chicago Bang Bang!” indicated that Fat Shmengy had managed to escape in the nick of time.

The smaller walkers fired their machine guns into the wheat field, easily shredding the scarecrows. Von Schnitzel dropped the ropes linking the tractor to the scarecrow device and throttled the ancient tractor forward. As he passed the wrecked church, Fat Shmengy jumped, or rather oozed, onto the tractor.



The smaller walkers moved into the village. Skinny Shmengy and his men fired at one but the bullets bounced off the steel frame. The walker returned the favor with its machine guns and several of the militia men fell. Oddly, most managed to avoid being hit by pirouetting out of the line of fire. These survivors headed away from the fight, leaping in unison over the intervening walls and hedges with enormous grace.

The other walker moved the center of the village, firing into the cottages, setting several on fire.

The big walker fired its cannon into the windmill. As the thin wooden mill disintegrated, the force of the blast shot Chicolini out and he landed at my feet. The Germans were coming towards us. I wrestled the cameraman to his feet and we headed toward the abandoned scout car. Tura was already behind the wheel preparing to drive off.

“Hold it, you chump. Don’t even think of scramming in that breezer without us!” I shouted.

This startled Tura enough to give me time to dump Chicolini into the car and dive in after him. Tura then tore off into the center of the village.

Overhead a whirring sound could be heard. Distracted by the fighting with the walkers, we didn’t notice the hovercraft streaming through the air. This was the same one that had pursued us from Graustark. On the top of the hovercraft, I could see a malignant little twerp in black uniform and at his side was that dish-water blonde floozy that Hummingbird had charmed in Emeric’s. Unfortunately, I had no idea where the blowhard scribbler was so he could repeat his performance.



The hovercraft landed in the very center of the village, not far from the gates of the chateau. The Nazi Munchkin and cut-rate Marlene Dietrich jumped down from the craft, followed by a big bald man with a long beard and dressed in flowing robes covered in arcane symbols. He was flanked by, of all things, a bunch of Oriental looking geezers in orange robes. Two inhumanly large green creatures with large scars crossing their bodies followed.

“Holy Karloff, what the heck are they?” I wondered out loud.

As this group marched toward the chateau, a squad of rather nasty-looking SS women fanned out from the vehicle, shooting at anything that moved.

“Colonel” Zoya finally decided to do something. She ordered the small party of remaining militia to attack the hovercraft. This ended rather abruptly when the SS dames showed a definite lack of respect for the fine art of the ballet. Zoya and what was left of her boys came tumbling back towards our spot near The Three-Legged Toad. The survivors fired a few shots in the general direction of the enemy before quietly heading out of town, leaving us behind.

Soon, we saw Skinny Shmengy’s men retreating towards us as well. There were several big tanks coming down the road, probably called in to help by the reconnaissance troops. Their cannons blasted everything around them.

Meanwhile, as Von Schnitzel later told me, Fat Shmengy got the tractor up to the chateau, tractor-driving being one of the few talents that Fatty had, aside from eating everything in sight and being beaten to a pulp by tiny old men. Von Schnitzel realized that with the walkers showing up, any chance of our stopping the Nazis was nil so he figured that somebody should go save the crazy old bat, just to frustrate the Krauts if nothing else.



They pulled into the courtyard just as the hovercraft was landing outside. The old lady was coming out of the chateau with Mausvarmr behind her. As expected, the Duchess looked about as pleased as if someone had spit in her buttered klopkies, but simple annoyance at trespassers wasn’t the problem. Before von Schnitzel could say anything, he noticed that Mausvarmr had a shotgun pointed at the Duchess’ back.



“What is the meaning of this?” von Schnitzel shouted in his most frightening tone of voice.

Although the butler paled a bit at the tirade of Teutonic temper, he gamely spoke up, “I am Volksgoth, Herr Direktor. It is time my people were freed from this anarchic mongrel excuse for a nation and joined in a greater Aryan state with the help of our German cousins. Taking a valuable hostage can only assist in the struggle to achieve that end.”

Von Schnitzel blustered but the butler stood his ground. All the noise that von Schnitzel made did keep the little man’s attention so that Fat Shmengy, who had never dismounted from the tractor, could slip the thing into gear. Using his extensive posterior muscles, he shifted the gears into reverse and nudged the throttle. The big behemoth – the tractor, that is, not Shmengy – shot backwards and rolled right over the flatfooted footman. Von Schnitzel was able to pull the Duchess out of the way at the last moment. Once the tractor rolled to a stop, there was very little left of the dirty little Fifth Columnist.

“Mausvawmw, considew that youw two week notice!”

Then the gates to the courtyard burst open and the two huge green creatures lurched in. The little SS man strode toward Eric and arrogantly asked, “Well if it isn’t Herr Schnitzelman. All right, where is the cup of the Krugans?”



While all this was going on, we were trying to figure out how to best get way to get out of town without getting our heads blown off. The tanks were approaching fast and their shells were screeching in faster and faster.

Suddenly, the world turned upside down and I felt myself hurtling through the air. I felt a huge impact as I hit the ground and I felt like I was going unconscious. I tried to see what had happened. I realized that I was no longer in the scout car. It was sitting a few yards away from me on its side and it was burning. I noticed that Tura and Chicolini lay beside me unconscious. I felt myself beginning to fade as well.



Just before I blacked out, I noticed some sights that at the time I thought were delusions but turned out to be real. Waggsie had some how climbed up on the back of the hovercraft unnoticed and was now pummeling the guard there. Skinny Shmengy was standing astride the top of one of the small walkers, blasting away with his Chicago typewriter into the cockpit, idiotically laughing with glee as the glass canopy shattered. The last thing I recall was a strong hand on my shoulder and a deep voice telling me to lie still, help had arrived.

It was Hozzenka.