Starts Today! A Manly Tale Of Pluck And Derring-Do In The Face Of Unspeakable Beastliness!

Chapter One: Codename - Green Arrow!

“Cripes!” Green Arrow ejaculated, “There's a message coming through!”. “Bertie” Berk and Agent Arrow strained to hear the faint tapping of Morse Code coming through the hissing static of their trusty crystal set. “Can you make it out?” asked Arrow urgently, passing the bakelite headset to Bertie.

“Sound's like “Send... Ammunition?” replied his sturdy sidekick; “Send... A... Musician?”. The two heroic resistance fighters exchanged quizzical glances. Was it code? Had their Controller, the shadowy figure known only as “Agent Cyclops”, adopted a new cypher without telling them, or had the information simply been lost in the last supply drop, along with the oft-promised funds from HQ?

Arrow delicately, and with the practised touch of an expert, tapped the radio rig with the heel of his shoe. The static fell away slightly.

“It's getting clearer”, he said. “Send... A... Alsatian? Dalmatian?”. “Search me, Old Boy” replied Berk, “got any lager?”

The lager, bubbling happily on the Primus stove, had been just about the sole comfort for the brave lads of the Resistance during the long weeks of their confinement at the Nantyglo safehouse, an abandoned shed behind the sewage works. That, and the occasional luxury of a cigarette, cunningly fashioned from tealeaves, acorns and toilet paper.

As Berk poured a chipped enamel mug of the steaming nectar, Arrow continued to alternate between frenziedly hitting the doughty rig with his shoe and tweaking the fragile cat's whisker.

“Kinsman-I'm getting it! Pass me the pen!”

Bertie groaned. The pen – a top secret Resistance-issue ballpoint which (Cyclops had explained, as he sold it to them for twenty guineas) had the cunning function of changing its ink colour instantly whenever the Trained Operative manipulated sliding tabs arranged around the base – was, as ever, in its “special hiding place”.

“Hang on a mo', Old Chap; just finding it.” Berk reached down inside the back of his moleskin trousers and carefully wrested the precious object from its trusty scabbard. After a few moments, beads of sweat dotting his brow, Bertie handed the vital implement to his Comrade.

“You may want to give it a quick wipe.” He said.

Tremulous with excitement at hearing from HQ, Arrow briefly allowed his mind to wander: Was this it? The message all staunch Britons had so long awaited in the dark days of their terror under the iron boot of the ruthless Searchlight Commissariat? The Call to Arms? The beginning of the final titanic struggle that would see all but decent, Christian, heterosexual, heavy-drinking, White Britons driven from the land of his birth?

His thoughts turned to Agent Cyclops sending the message from his secret HQ deep in the Welsh countryside. Perhaps, mused Arrow, the heroic young Leader was sending his message fresh from the shower; rivulets of water still dripping from his broad, manly chest. Perhaps, while composing the vibrant message of hope and defiance, he may have brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, briefly allowing the towel to drop from his waist and perhaps... perhaps...

“You alright, Old Bean?” interrupted Berk. “went a bit flushed for a minute there.”

Arrow shook himself from his reverie and returned to the task in hand.
Letter by letter, he carefully decyphered the stuttering dots and dashes.
“S”, “E”, “N”, “D”, “New Word – D”, “O”, “N”, “A”, “T”, “I”, “O...” Arrow stopped writing.

His staunch heart sank as he closed the notebook.

“While you're at it, Bertie – pour one for me...” Berk filled a jam jar with the potent liquor. Arrow took a sip and recoiled as the scalding brew touched his lip.

“Do you think we're meant let it cool down first?” He asked.

Don't miss next week's thrilling installment: "Carve His Name With Mother's Pride!"