Tales Of The British Resistance! Another Thrilling Instalment Of Our Heroic Saga For Patriotic Lads!

Episode Four: Agent Brons Addresses The Nation!

These were great days indeed for the Heroes of the Resistance. “Bertie” Berk – sidekick, general factotum and Chief of Technical Staff to Agent Arrow, had laboured long and hard, through many sleepless nights, to bring the hardy, but antiquated, crystal radio rig to a peak of finely-honed technological perfection.

Tonight was the night! The Resistance' Man in Brussels, Agent Brons, was to speak to the Nation. And he had chosen the humble radio set of Agents Arrow and Berk, isolated within the Nantyglo Safehouse, as the vehicle for his message of Hope and Defiance.

This was the night. Thousands of listeners – possibly millions – huddled around their radios across the Occupied Territories of Britain, ground down by years of toil beneath the merciless heel of the vile Searchlight Commissariat, would finally hear news of how the Great Struggle progressed beyond these benighted shores.

Arrow could only guess at the result of their State-Of-The-Art broadcast to the Nation.

In preparation for this momentous night, he and Berk had been laying in their supply of ammunition for the revolutionary chaos that would surely follow: The Gat Gun lay in wait with a fresh supply of .177 pellets, the catapult was newly-strung with fresh elastic, and a cache of deadly Brasso, Irn Bru and Turps Molotov Cocktails lay ready for action.

1900 Hours.

Zero Hour.

Nervously, Berk tweaked the Bakelite knob on the trusty crystal rig. A feint hissing grew louder. Deftly, as though one with the machine, Berk eased back on the tuner and lightly tapped the “Overdrive” button.

“Now!” He said to Agent Arrow, who followed the instruction to throw the switch marked “Broadcast Relay”.

This was it! Agent Brons was Live to the Nation! Circumventing the broadcast controls of the hated Gableite Regime!



“Sorry 'bout that...” mumbled Berk. “Had my finger on the “send” button all the time...”

Agent Arrow sank back into his seat. Berk tried to sound positive. “Never mind, eh?”

Arrow was unconvinced. “Next time! We'll get the buggers next time!”, continued Berk.

The radio crackled into life once again.

Berk flew to the dial and fine-tuned the delicate device as a familiar voice came through the ether.

“It's Agent Cyclops!” cried Berk; “He's through to the entire Nation!” Arrow sat up, electrified: His beloved Leader? Addressing the Nation? This was, indeed, victory snatched from the jaws of defeat!

“Turn it up, Kinsman!” he shouted; “Our Nation must hear the Leader's words!”

Berk, modulating the frequency like a great conductor controls an orchestra, reduced the crackling static to a bare minimum and allowed the Leader's lush, charismatic voice to be relayed across the airways to his starved, crushed People.

“Fellow Patriots”, he began, as Agent Arrow drew himself to a salute: “We need your donatio...”

As suddenly as it had appeared, the voice vanished.

“Bertie” Berk threw himself at the Rig, frantically checking to see what could possibly have gone wrong. “But I had it!” He exclaimed: “It was working perfectly!”

It was only then that Berk registered Agent Arrow, holding the plug in his trembling hand. There was an air of dejection around the Stalwart Resistance Fighter.

“Don't worry about it, Old Boy,” he said, pulling the rag from a Molotov Cocktail and drinking deeply from it: “It's a repeat...”

Stirring Tales Of The British Resistance! Another installment of our thrilling new serial!

Episode Three: Dark Days for the Resistance

“Here's another one!” said “Bertie” Berk, listening to the hissing static of the precious crystal radio in the Nantyglo safehouse.

The stalwart Batman and sidekick of dashing Resistance Operative Agent Arrow looked concerned.

“Looks grim, Old Chum”, he said, lowering the bakelite headphone. “Yet another report of strange goings-on at HQ”.

Agent Arrow strirred himself from his light doze. “Oh, God...” he groaned, taking another swig from his Brasso ,Turps and Night Nurse stiffener. With the new revelations of untoward goings-on at HQ coming in on an almost daily basis now, Arrow was finding it hard to remain committed to the Resistance Cause.

“Says that Agent Cyclops has been caught out again. This time it's a fiddle involving ration cards. Offering Fourpence in the Shilling to settle outstanding bills.”

Arrow didn't want to hear any more. Agent Cyclops: the most respected Resistance Leader the Nation had ever known – reduced to such tactics? It was scarcely believable. Agent Cyclops: The virile young Freedom Fighter whom Arrow had first seen on that glorious, sun-kissed day so many years earlier, absent-mindedly brushing back a lock of his tousled hair as he gently, but firmly, took hold of an elderly Supporter's pen, helpfully and forcefully guiding it as she wrote a cheque for the Resistance. “Just make it out to cash!”, the heroic Leader had playfully joshed, before merrily tearing the cheque from the Follower's hand and putting it in his wallet. How Arrow had wished they could be alone together. Just once. How he'd wished Agent Cyclops would take him in his sinewy, muscular arms...

“You alright, Old Chap? Interrupted Berk; “Went a bit flushed there, Kinsman!”

Agent Arrow lit a shredded cardboard, carpet fluff and dandelion cigarette and brought his unique, incisive grasp of the Sinister Ways Of The Searchlight-Controlled State to bear on the matter.

“You're so trusting!” he told Berk; “Can't you see it's more black propaganda and smears from Gable?”

The hated Gerry Gable – Commissar of the all-pervasive Searchlight Directorate and the true power behind the State. This was, Agent Arrow had to keep reassuring himself, nothing more than the latest in the unending series of devious ploys to distract the heroes of the Resistance from their true, holy course - nothing less than wresting their benighted Nation from the clutches of a loathed regime that had allowed coloured newsreaders to appear without dinner jackets on the BBC, a Hit Parade consisting largely of discs by young people of all ethnicities under the age of fifty, and the true, nerve-shredding horror of some vile alien muck called “Chicken Tikka” used as a pizza topping.

“Guess so.” said Berk, sounding unconvinced. “Just that we're getting these reports from our comrades in the Resistance. More and more. Every day! And still no word from HQ!”

“Steady the buffs, Kinsman!” snapped Arrow. “It could be that other Resistance Cells have been infiltrated by Searchlight – we might be the only True Believers left!”

Berk nodded, taking Arrow's sage words on board. “Just wait: We'll hear from HQ and we'll know that Cyclops is as sturdy, committed and stalwart a Leader as ever!”

As if by way of punctuation, the radio crackled into life.

“It's HQ!” Berk ejaculated.

Excitedly, Agent Arrow launched himself the length of the shed and clasped the headphone to his ear, poised with a notepad and stub of pencil to take down the vital message from Agent Cyclops.

Slowly, Berk noticed Arrow's expression change. He stopped writing. His initial, near-feverish anticipation turned, over the ensuing moments, to resigned gloom.

Arrow slowly replaced the headset and switched the crystal set off.

Silently, he passed the notepad to “Bertie” Berk as he poured himself another snifter.

“We need your donat...” it said.

Berk joined his valiant comrade in a glass of the murky liquid.

Stirring Tales Of The British Resistance! Another installment of our thrilling new serial!

Chapter Two: The Deadly Dead Letter Drop

Agent Arrow - the craggy, wordly-wise leader of the Resistance - lit a precious cornflake, coffee ground and catlitter cigarette and nervously opened the door of the safehouse.

This was the first time he had left the shed in six months, and his sharply honed undercover senses told him it was a risky venture. He knew the agents of the Searchlight-controlled State were everywhere: The old lady at the bus stop, the seemingly friendly policeman on his bicycle, the young children playing in the park – any one of them could, even now, be reporting his movements directly to Chairman Gable himself; sitting in his plush Whitehall lair smoking a fine Romeo y Julieta and flicking idly through his ermine-bound copy of “What Moustache”.

Arrow knew he must take care, but the stakes were too high to remain underground now. “Bertie” Berk, his faithful batman and fellow operative, had received a message from their Control – the Resistance Leader known only as Agent Cyclops. There was a top secret communiqué to pick up from the Nantyglo dead letter drop, and it must be done immediately.

As Arrow walked nervously along the road, staying close to the hedgerows in the knowledge that he may need to dive for cover at any moment, he remembered with a swell of pride his earlier undercover service in Northern Ireland.

In those far-off days, fighting the Fenian menace, Arrow was famed among his comrades for adopting a disguise so cunning, so effortlessly convincing, that anyone would have assumed he was Belfast born and bred. The orange woollen wig and beard, the bright green jacket and matching top hat set off with a large, felt shamrock. The whole finished with a corncob pipe and a nuanced accent perfected only after carefully studying “The Quiet Man” a dozen times or more...

Thanks to this impenetrable disguise, he had felt safe. Whenever he greeted a suspected terrorist with the words “Top o' the mornin' and beggorah! T'will be a foyne day fer plantin' a bomb of good auld Oirish gelignoyte under the bedevilled English, so it will!”, he had known that he went entirely unsuspected; instantly accepted by one and all as a fellow Papist.

Here, today, it was different. Although he had improvised a disguise to pass himself off as one of Gable's UAF henchmen, the safety pin through his septum was beginning to sting and the threadbare tee shirt (bearing the legend “I Luv Alvin Stardust” – Agent Arrow knew full well how influenced were young Marxists by their incomprehensible adherence to punk rock) was cold in the brisk Welsh air, even when worn over several stout layers of potato sacking.

More unsettling than his discomfort, however, was the feeling of being so totally alone: Unable, in some cases, to trust even fellow Resistance fighters. Barnbrook of the Yard – the sterling detective with a nose for trouble; “Honest” Eddy Butler – stalwart of the London Resistance; both had been unmasked in recent months by Agent Cyclops as slavering Marxist traitors, bought and paid for by the state in return for Tesco Vouchers beyond the dreams of avarice. Lately, Arrow had even begun to suspect that their man in Belgium, the Agent known only by the codename “Ex-Nazi”, had been turned.

These were dark days indeed.

So far as Agent Arrow was concerned, there were only a handful of true Resistance Fighters left. Agent Cyclops, of course, and dear old bumbling, well-meaning Agent Berk. These and a mere handful of others were the last survivors of the Resistance.

Arriving at the Ffoesmaen Inn, Arrow approached the door with understandable trepidation, tapping the accepted code – three short taps and a long scrape – on the side window.

No reply.

He tried again, with greater insistence. Still, there was silence.

Furtively checking that no-one could see, Agent Arrow bent down to the letterbox and shouted the Special Emergency Code Phrase inside.

“John has a long moustache!”

Still there came no reply.

Gingerly, his hand tight on the trusty .177 Gat Gun in his pocket, Agent Arrow entered the Public Bar. The landlord seemed nonplussed to see him. “A cunning ruse. The poor man's terrified we're being watched by Agents of the State”, thought Arrow.

“What can I get you, Sir?” asked the Landlord.

Clearly this was another code, thought Agent Arrow. “It's. A. Very. Nice. Day. Today.” he replied, slowly and deliberately, while winking.

“Bitter? Lager?” Continued the Landlord.

This wasn't working. Perhaps the unfortunate fellow knew their conversation was being monitored.

Taking his courage in both hands, Agent Arrow realised he would just have drop any subterfuge and come straight to the point; when the bullets started to fly, he'd take his chances.

“Look. Have you got a letter for me?” He asked. The Landlord sighed.

“Oh, it's you is it?” he said, taking an envelope from beneath the bar and handing it to Arrow. “Sent to the wrong address”.

Agent Arrow took a pint of fine (if strangely cold) lager and sat in a corner to read the secret communiqué.

Was this it? Was this finally the message from HQ that all staunch fighters of the Resistance had so long awaited? The announcement that the elements were in place and the final battle was to begin?

He allowed himself to pause, before opening the envelope. This had come from the hands of Agent Cyclops himself: The same hands that he would occasionally use to brush back his lustrous, dark hair. The same hands with which he would stroke his broad, manly chest and possibly reach down to...

“You alright there, Sir?” interrupted the Landlord; “looks like you're getting a bit flushed.”

Agent Arrow shook himself from his reverie and tore open the letter.

“Dear Fellow Patriot” the letter began.

“The British National Party urgently needs your dona...”

Agent Arrow's heart sank. He finished his pint.

Don't miss the next thrilling episode: The Name's Morris - Paul Morris

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!"