Chapter Five: The Dirty Dozen

It was an ugly group. Not in the manner of their physical appearances—though some were decidedly unlovely to look upon—but in the battered and bruised state of their souls. These were men and a woman who, by all rights, should have been dead, yet they endured. Too tough and valuable to be cast aside, they were also too unpredictable for any conventional unit. Colonel Marriott, his face a mask of stone beneath the brim of his campaign hat, checked the roster on his clipboard. Each name was accompanied by a blurred photograph and a brief, damning synopsis of their dedication to rebellion and chaos. They were a select company, unified by the singular choice to risk their lives and military careers to wipe the Nazi scourge from the face of the Earth. These were the kind of people others crossed the street to avoid, or silently, instinctively, made room for at a crowded bar.

Drake was first in line, a hulking monument of a man, not because of any particular prowess but simply because the prison MPs had herded them onto the bus in alphabetical order. He was a piece of heavy-duty bad company, his face a map of brawling and mayhem, his nose a flattened, crooked mess of cartilage battered beyond any hope of repair.

“Good to have you with us,” Marriott said, his voice a low rumble as he shook Drake’s leather-gloved hand firmly.

A fleeting expression of bewilderment crossed Drake’s battered features. “Sir, if I might take a moment,” he rumbled, “do you know who I am? I want to check they didn’t spring the wrong bloke from the brig.”

Marriott glanced down at the blurred photo on his clipboard. “Yes, I believe it’s you we requested,” he said, his smile a thin slash across his face. “You’ve shown a most amazing adaptability on the battlefield—precisely the kind of stuff we’re looking for in the SAS.”

Drake laughed deeply, a sound like gravel rolling in a drum. “If you mean, did I ignore company orders and do my own thing once the commander caught a bullet? Then, yes, that’s me. Unfortunately, the British Army took a different view from you, and court-martialled me for my troubles.”

Marriott held his gaze, a direct and uncompromising stare. “Things have changed. Using a smoke bomb, you drew the enemy towards a well-placed grenade in a tin can, single-handedly obliterating a munitions depot, a platoon of SS soldiers, and a Panzer tank—undoubtedly twisting the outcome of the Battle for Belzoni to the glorious Allied victory we enjoyed.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Drake said, winking and smiling broadly.

Marriott nodded curtly. “Go and get some breakfast, Drake. We’ll be shipping out today.”

Corporal Feral was next in line. Older than Drake and a great deal uglier, a deep, savage slash of red tissue contorted his mouth into a perpetual sneer—a brutal medal of honour he wore proudly. After a few rough chuckles about his unauthorized, one-man missions, he followed Drake towards the mess tent. Feral had slipped over enemy lines and poisoned the enemy’s water supplies with cyanide. There was no battle the following day—Feral had already won.

Marriott’s next recruit was a civilian and his most protested addition to the unit. The top brass were not impressed with his choice, but he had stressed that she was imperative to the mission. Madeline Frank, better known to the underworld as the Angel of Death, stood staring at him, hands on her hips. She didn’t blink, didn’t smile. Black hair, eyes of an even deeper black, thin lips, twenty-seven years of age, a staggeringly high IQ; attractive if she had made even half an effort.

“Hey,” she barked, her voice sounding drunk, though she was prison sober. “Are you in charge around here?”

“Until they find someone better,” Marriott replied with a wry grin.

“Is it true that I’m not going to hang?” Madeline looked confused, enjoying the sun on her ghost-white skin. “And I can kill Nazis, right? However the damn hell I want.”

Marriott nodded. “That’s right, Frank, you get to do what you do best, and King George will provide a full pardon upon the successful completion of the mission.”

“And the mission is what? I’m no soldier, boy.” She eyed him warily as she lit her pipe.

“To kill Nazi scum however the damn hell you want,” Marriott offered. “Plus, where we’re going, it’s sunny most of the time and the air’s fresher than a prison cell.” He gave her a cheeky wink.

Madeline broke into loud, manic laughter. “I like you—you’re funny.”

Marriott proffered an open palm, like a gunman sealing a deal in some smoky Western saloon. “So, we have a deal?”

She slapped it, his sinewy fingers clenching right around her smaller hand. The pressure increased on both sides. The playful glint in her dark eyes was animalistic, betraying a desire to get down and tussle. Finally, she whacked him across the face with her free hand, turned without another word, and with the pipe gripped in her full lips, trudged off towards the smell of fried bacon. Servicemen instinctively moved out of her way, parting like fractured ice in the wake of an unstoppable force of nature.

With inside help from the French Resistance, Madeline, driven by revenge for her murdered POW husband, had secured a nursing post in a Nazi officer’s hospital. Her German linguistic skills were indistinguishable from a native, Black Forest, Bavarian, her cover meticulously researched. The hospital soon ran out of morgue space, but Frank was always above suspicion, given her trustworthy nature; she could make men feel exquisite—loved, and then dispatch them into the abyss without concern.

Marriott shook his head, wondering for a moment if the top brass were right. “Next!” he shouted with a friendly smile, shrugging his shoulders. Too late now.

The next three recruits came as a readymade, high-functioning unit from Devonshire, England. Before they volunteered for duty, they all practiced the obscure, Polynesian pursuit of wave riding, or surfing as it was known by the locals. They were in their early twenties. Smith, short and stocky, resembled a rat, with prominent front teeth and a black eye. Woodhouse was tall and built like a bull, hardened from farm work. Crampton looked like Fagin, slightly taller than Smith, skeletal and very Dickensian. Being around him felt like being transported into a dusty stage play.

Marriott looked into their excited eyes. Christ, he thought, after reading their sheet. “Very impressive, lads,” he chirped.

Smith stepped forward; the architect. “It was one of the biggest, single explosions in recorded military history,” he stated for the record, grinning his tobacco-yellowed smile. “We took out a Nazi-occupied village.”

“And when he says ‘took out’,” Crampton added slyly, from behind a smouldering, untipped cigarette. “He means that it’s now a crater…nothing more.”

Woodhouse, tanned, handsome and unshaven, just nodded and looked pleased with himself. “Ordnance bound for the Luftwaffe. Three, paint-can, time bombs later, and—whoof! There she blows, Captain!” A glint of something akin to childlike wonder filled his brown eyes. “Beautiful…” he lamented with a smile.

“Get some breakfast, lads,” Marriott offered, nodding towards the mess tent. “We’ve got a lot to learn from you boys. Good to have you on board.” They were a tightly knit bunch, a single fighting organism with three heads. Marriott was pleased with his choices, so far.

The Genesis Twins were next; those scripture-tattooed, runaway works of art from the Moscow State Circus. Acrobat fit, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, they looked like they had fallen off the cover of a Nazi propaganda leaflet. Their abundant medals spoke of unquestionable valour, but their unashamed preference for the company of men made them pariahs in the eyes of the British Army.

Ludovic looked deep into his brother’s eyes. Mac returned his urgent gaze.

“I expected more of you,” Ludovic whispered.

They both ignored Marriott, not due to bad manners or poor breeding, it was just that they were away in their own world.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Mac looked smug as he hovered over the chessboard in his mind. “but that’s checkmate, so put up and shut up, and face the consequences—cigarette ration—please.”

Ludovic rapidly scanned through every option available, but he was beat. “Whatever,” he said casually, reaching for the cigarette carton in the top of his canvas kitbag.

The silence was shattered by Marriott’s uncomfortable cough. “I hear you both have very tricky bowling actions,” he blurted. Playing village cricket was one of his guilty pleasures. Their reputation as formidable sportsmen had preceded them.

They looked at him blankly, and then nodded as the outside world slowly swirled around them, like a heavy, velvet cinema curtain slowly parting to reveal the silver screen.

“So, why are you here?” Marriott asked curtly, mildly annoyed at having to wait to get their attention.

Ludovic piped up on both their behalfs, as they snapped smartly to attention. “We’re here to join a crack force, here to deliver what will, in the fullness of time, become legends of terror. Something Hitler will remember to the gallows.”

Mac nodded his agreement. “The Führer’s desire for Africa will soon, like his grip on Europe, shatter forever. God has sent us as agents of chaos—to perform His will.”

Marriott thought they spoke with a certainty that was both strangely poetic and eerily reassuring. They had walked out of hostile jungles where everyone was cut to ribbons, without so much as a scratch on either of them; survived a firing squad when an earthquake buried the enemy soldiers under a ton of sandstone; and had a reputation for eagerly storming machinegun posts like children playing at war. Good people to stand behind, Marriott thought, those from whom bullets slide off.

“Get yourselves a good breakfast, and welcome to the SAS.” He ticked them off the list; the first eight members were now assembled. The other four were hammers, hard hitters, barely controllable in conventional terms, straight from the frontline, looking to make a name, all with a personal grudge against the Axis. They would rendezvous with them in Lagos, Nigeria.

~

Formal segregation was the order of the day in the mess tent. Senior ranks huddled together, their card namespaces looking out of place next to tin mugs. Everyone nursed a large coffee or tea as the chef dealt out eggs, bacon, toast, and vitamin supplements—mission rations, fully loaded. There was no ‘eking it out’ with these portions.

You could identify each group of soldiers by their uniform as they sat at the long wooden tables, laughing, making the best of it. The British Army was very precise about uniform, down to specialised identification insignia. The SAS already looked out of place. In contrast, they looked like a bunch of mercenaries, their ‘uniform’ a mishmash of equipment collected from the battlefield—stripped from the dead. Their weapons were personalised and lethal, like the characters that brandished them; knuckledusters shone, hunting knives nestled, poison lurked in ampoules, and phosgene gas ached to be released from its metal confines. The accompaniments of war waited patiently to kill.

Drake looked up from an enormous, yolk-leaking, bacon sandwich, held firmly in both hands. “Hey, Feral,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “What do you know about Marriott?”

“He can shoot the balls off a gnat from a mile away.” Feral nodded to himself, a knowing look in his eye. “In a hurricane,” he added. “I shit you not, he was taught by Native Americans to shoot from a charging horse. Dug in, the man’s an assassin of the first order. Killed more people than smallpox, they say.” Feral spat a clump of fat to the grassy floor.

Drake considered this for a moment. “He’s big mates with Tarzan, right?”

Feral nodded silently as he chewed. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said eventually, the thick pig slice finally abating to his hungry jaw. “They killed that top Nazi. Pissed Hitler off big time, they say. Tarzan threw him off a train.”

Drake laughed. “I heard about that.” He took a large swig of sweet tea, a frown creeping over his brow. “Isn’t Tarzan just some sideshow celebrity, though? You know—like the circus strongman or that bloke with the whip in the jungle cat show?”

“He’s neither of those things,” Marriott offered flatly, sitting down next to the men, balancing a teetering monument of fried swine on a tin plate.

Drake dropped his eyes. “Sorry, Colonel, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

“Please call me Loxley from now on—no more rank bullshit.” He cricked his neck and eyed the men carefully, noting their shocked reaction to this new culture. “Tarzan is a product of survival, nothing more, but he’s a man who you want on your side, particularly in Africa. He’s joining us, so make up your own minds.” Loxley laughed to himself, a knowing look in his eyes. His mouth watered, and he went in for the kill—the bacon sandwich didn’t stand a chance.

~

Tarzan strode along the busy dockside with his new family in his wake. The sun was setting, slowly drifting beneath the waves on the horizon. The air carried the heady scent of brine and diesel. Jack and Sungi looked around with wonder at the teeming throngs of servicemen going about their duties. Mighty seaplanes were being lovingly tended to, bullet holes patched, and coughing engines re-tuned. Mia was attracting more attention than she cared for. The blonde beauty enthralled the same servicemen.

Tarzan, Mia, and Jack were dressed like an aristocratic German family, decked out in expensive tweed jackets and trousers. Each of them displayed that vile emblem, the swastika, on a black armband; an unfortunate accessory, but necessary for their cover story. Heavy luggage, humped by three well-tipped railway porters, followed behind them. It contained clothing for the jungle, medical supplies, cocktail ware, and weapons. Sungi wore her wrap, lovingly repaired and laundered by Percival, along with stout leather boots and a bright red mackintosh, which she had fallen in love with at first sight.

Jack’s excitement was beyond containment. Not only was he going to fly on a seaplane to Africa, but along with Mia, he was to travel with Sungi, to reunite her with her tribe, the Waziri. There, they would venture into a forgotten realm that was safe from the Axis. The jungle contained a lost city, known to Tarzan and Sungi’s people as Barara. This was to be their home until Tarzan returned.

As they approached the massive seaplane, a hush fell over the cacophony of the dockside. The crew, a grizzled lot of pilots and mechanics, paused their frantic work. The SAS soldiers, a hardened group of killers and misfits, stopped their banter and stared.

The men’s gazes, which had been full of contempt for the German aristocratic party, now shifted, becoming rapt and mesmerised upon their recognition of Tarzan and the sight of Mia. Her blonde hair, a beacon in the twilight, caught the last rays of the setting sun, transforming her into a creature of mythic beauty. She walked with the easy grace of a wild thing, her expensive tweed outfit unable to disguise the lithe power beneath. A few of the soldiers, including Drake, let out low whistles. Corporal Feral's sneer, usually a permanent fixture, seemed to twitch in a flicker of grudging admiration. The scene was as if a goddess of the hunt had suddenly confronted a group of wolves, and for a moment, awe silenced their brutal instincts.

Tarzan, ever the savage protector, felt the stir of a low growl in his throat. He put a hand on Mia’s shoulder, a possessive gesture that was both a reassurance to her and a warning to the men. His voice, a low and menacing baritone, cut through the reverent silence. “The sheik had a hundred wives — his most precious jewels. He who lays a hand on my jewel will lose his own.”

The men shifted uncomfortably, and a few dropped their eyes. Tarzan's primitive threat was clear, and none of them were foolish enough to doubt his resolve. The thunderous roar of the seaplane’s engines broke the tension as they coughed to life, the propellers a shimmering blur against the darkening sky. The magnificent beast of steel began to shudder, its pontoons groaning against the water. The air filled with the scent of aviation fuel and the promise of a long journey.

With a final, sharp glance at the men, Tarzan led his family up the gangplank where Loxley was waiting with a smile, and into the belly of the craft. The soldiers stamped out their cigarettes and followed the faux Nazis. As the heavy door sealed shut behind them, the plane began to glide across the water, its engines wailing a song of departure. It lifted slowly from the surface of the harbour, shaking off the last vestiges of civilization. Beneath them, the yellow lights of the dockside slowly drifted away. The jungle waited.

~ To be continued….

C.K. SMITH books can be found on AMAZON >

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"We stand forever indebted to Edgar Rice Burroughs, whose boundless imagination first brought the call of the jungle to our souls."
C.K. SMITH

ERB Official Website

Copyright Notice: Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. (ERB, Inc.) holds trademarks on the name "Tarzan". This derivative work is copyrighted by C.K. SMITH©2025, but the copyright only covers the new, original material, images, and characters, and not the parts from the public domain source.





Chapter Four: The Shadow of the Swastika

Far within the impenetrable green walls of the African jungle, where the sun's fiery kiss could scarcely penetrate, Jane Clayton, wife of the formidable Lord Greystoke—better known to the world as Tarzan of the Apes—writhed in the cruel embrace of her bonds. The beastly Nazi, a smirk of malicious triumph etched upon his features, leered at his helpless captive as their lumbering motor-truck crashed and heaved its savage way through the dense undergrowth.

Sepp Hausser, an infamous SS officer whose name was a whisper of fear throughout occupied Europe, watched his prey with an air of cold, reptilian interest. He had been the vile instrument of her abduction in Paris, snatching her from the cultured elegance of the famed Comédie-Française theatre. In that darkened world, a mere word of German displeasure could spell ruin, a banned play, or the ultimate punishment for those who dared to defy the iron will of the Reich.

"Are you not, perhaps, a trifle grateful, Frau Clayton," Hausser hissed, his voice a sibilant whisper as he lit another cigarette, "for being saved from a monster?"

Jane, a vision of defiant beauty even in her distress, turned her head to face her tormentor. The fair skin of her face was smudged with dirt, and her greenish-blue eyes, usually so full of gentle light, now burned with a fierce, untamed fire. Her clothing, once a fashionable Parisian dress, was now a tattered and filthy ruin, and the delicate skin of her wrists and neck bore the livid marks of her brutal captivity.

"My husband is Tarzan of the Apes," she spat, her voice ringing with a conviction that only true devotion could inspire. "He is the Lord of the Jungle, and his vengeance for this monstrous act will be a thing of unspeakable terror."

Hausser’s lips curled into a sneer of amusement, and he erupted into a fit of cold, mocking laughter. "Tarzan of the Apes," he mused, the name tasting like a strange foreign morsel upon his tongue. "Yes, I believe I have heard this ridiculous fable. Born in the wild, you say? Reared by brute beasts? I do not believe he is a man at all. He is nothing more than the missing link, a primitive lump from the primordial muck."

A faint, defiant smile touched Jane's lips. "Perhaps you should tell him that yourself, when he arrives," she challenged, her gaze unwavering. "If you have the guts, that is. It is you who are the cruel monsters, the brutal killers and murderers, ravaging through this ancient jungle for mere gold and plunder."

Hausser’s eyes narrowed with cold malice. With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he sent a cascade of glowing cigarette embers onto his helpless captive. "Do not trouble yourself with such fears, Frau Clayton," he sneered, the cruel mockery in his voice as sharp as a blade. "To be on the safe side, I have already assembled my men and given them their orders. They are to expect the arrival of some large, light-coloured gorilla." A chilling laugh escaped his lips. "We shall be ready for him."

"You men are fools if you think you can defeat him," Jane declared, her voice ringing with a fierce, unwavering conviction. "He is the very fury of the jungle made flesh."

As she spoke, she noticed the sudden shift in the Nazi's demeanor. The cold mockery in his eyes was replaced by a look that was altogether different, something she found far more unsettling. A hungry, predatory glint appeared as he took his polished ebony cane and, with a slow, deliberate motion, began to lift the edge of her tattered dress, exposing her firm and shapely legs.

"We shall see," Hausser said, his voice a low, husky growl. "But you are a magnificent creature, Jane Clayton. I would not myself touch you, you understand. A woman who would mate with a beast disgusts me. But my men, they are hungry for such a body. These ruffians would love to lay their filthy paws upon the mate of Tarzan. That," he said with a vile smile, "is a spectacle I would truly enjoy."

"Do as you wish," Jane said, her greenish-blue eyes blazing with a fierce certainty as she met the gaze of the SS officer. "You and your men are as good as dead. Of what use will your guns be against Tarzan? He can slip invisibly into their midst; blend with the trees; carry you away, one at a time, until you go mad with fear."

Before Hausser could utter a reply, a swift-moving, hand-crafted arrow whizzed through the heavy tarpaulin of the truck's cover, missing his head by a hair's breadth. He dropped to the floor, beside Jane, the vile stench of his breath causing her to recoil in disgust. "No shooting!" he bellowed at his men, his bravado instantly vanished. "The arrows are not poisoned! We have arrived at last. This is the valley of the Snake Men."

Jane's eyes went wide with a primal terror at the name. Outside, the rain of arrows continued, striking their targets with sharp thuds. Cursing, several of the soldiers yanked the crude shafts from their limbs and raised their rifles. The dense, oppressive jungle all around offered no clue as to the assailants' location; the arrows were swift, and their source remained unseen. The men snarled and swore under their breath, but none dared to defy their leader. This, apparently, was but a "friendly welcome" in these foreboding parts.

Hausser peered out from under the tarpaulin, keen not to suffer an arrow himself. As he watched, a large group of children slipped from between the trees. They were all carrying bows and wearing bright red robes. Some were black, while others bore the features of Europeans, for the cult had recruited from the ranks of the Spanish and Portuguese sailors who had felt the call of the jungle as python worship spread across the entire continent of Africa.

The children slowly circled the two trucks, making the platoon of German soldiers visibly nervous. Once they were fully surrounded, a teenage boy of perhaps eighteen years stepped forward. His hair was grown long and woven into tightly braided strands that cascaded down his muscular back. He wore the same bright red robes and carried a long spear to increase his reach in combat. His skin was heavily tanned, and he had the same topaz eyes as his deceased father—a man who, unbeknownst to him, currently lay dead in the cellar of Greystoke Castle. His name was Jelani.

"Who is your leader?" Jelani barked, pointing the poisoned tip of his spear at the throat of the closest soldier.

Hausser climbed out of the truck with an air of strutting grace that belied his previous cowardice. "Ich bin Hausser, General der Waffen-SS, and to whom do I speak?"

Jelani planted his spear handle in the mud and extended his right arm at a 45-degree angle, with a straight, open palm facing downwards. "Heil Hitler!" he shouted, a salute promptly returned by Hausser. "I am Jelani, warrior and Snake Man," he roared proudly. "We have been expecting you. Leave the mechanical beasts here and follow me to the temple. My people are waiting."

"Excellent!" Hausser exclaimed before he turned and helped Jane down from the truck.

Jelani and the children all gasped in unison at the sight of the white woman, the mate of Tarzan.

"So...you are Tarzan's woman," Jelani whispered, striding forward until he was toe-to-toe with her, peering down into her terrified eyes. He looked her up and down before roughly snatching at her right breast, squeezing it casually as though testing the ripeness of fruit.

Jane gritted her teeth against the pain and then spat in his face, swiping his hand away. "Don't touch me!" she shouted. "You will feel Tarzan's blade, and I will enjoy watching him destroy you and your vile cult."

Jelani wiped the spittle from his chin and then looked back at the children, shouting something in his native tongue, the secret language of the Snake Men. The children all started to make a loud clicking sound, "Tchick! Tchick! Tchick!" as they popped their tongues against the roofs of their mouths in unison.

"We will enjoy you, Jane," Jelani whispered. "That you can be certain. Well, whatever is left of you—after the ceremony."

Jane sneered up at the boy, profanity bubbling up beneath her breath.

Jelani turned and walked into the dense jungle. "Follow me!" he shouted. The Nazi war party followed, but Hausser was unsure as to the Führer's choice of associates. They would soon belie their usefulness and become slaves, the same fate the continent would no doubt suffer.

~ To be continued….'The Dirty Dozen'

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C.K. SMITH books can be found on AMAZON >

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"We stand forever indebted to Edgar Rice Burroughs, whose boundless imagination first brought the call of the jungle to our souls."
C.K. SMITH

ERB Official Website

Copyright Notice: Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. (ERB, Inc.) holds trademarks on the name "Tarzan". This derivative work is copyrighted by C.K. SMITH©2025, but the copyright only covers the new, original material, images, and characters, and not the parts from the public domain source.





Chapter Three: Call of the Wild

Tarzan, Lord Greystoke, arose and stretched, expanding his hulking chest to drink in deep draughts of the fresh morning air. A light breeze, carrying the scent of dew and distant blossoms, blew up from the lake below. Many odours floated upon the air—some he classified without effort, but others were strange—the scents of native birds he did not know, of trees, shrubs, and flowers with which he was still unfamiliar. Greystoke was his birthright and his home, yet his duties often kept him far from his ancestral dwelling.

His clear, grey eyes scanned the wondrous beauties of the Greystoke lands spreading out before him, yet in that moment, he felt a profound sense of loneliness, for he missed the feeling of waking with Jane in his arms. The ornate room was cool, for the jungle-bred ape-man rarely slept with the chamber’s double doors closed.

As he stood naked on the balcony, a figure of primitive majesty enjoying the peace of the morning, his butler, Percival, entered the room, moving with the quiet deference of a man accustomed to his master’s unconventional habits. The castle’s black cat, Honey, wove herself lovingly about Tarzan’s leg, her purr a gentle counterpoint to the distant call of a cuckoo, as the tall, elderly man poured coffee from a silver pot.

“Good morning. I trust you slept well, my Lord,” asked the butler in his quiet voice. His black and grey attire, impeccably starched and pressed, made him look like a flamingo dressed by Presbyterians—a silent, proper man of the highest English order.

Tarzan smiled. “I did, my loyal friend. And tell me, how are our guests this morning?”

“They are very well. Miss Mia has risen and is tending to Master Jack and Miss Sungi,” the butler replied, his tone as precise as his movements. He handed Tarzan a silk robe, which the jungle lord took with a slight frown and reluctantly covered his powerful frame. The garment felt like a strange, unnecessary binding upon his skin.

“Good, I will join them for breakfast,” Tarzan said, his voice a low rumble. He noticed a letter resting on the silver platter, a strange object of civilization waiting for his attention. “What is this?” he asked, his keen eyes noting that it bore no postmark.

Percival’s face was a mask of polite incomprehension. “I have no idea, my Lord. It was hand-delivered sometime last night.” The butler looked vaguely disturbed, as if the unknown delivery was a grave breach of protocol.

Tarzan ripped open the envelope with a swift, savage gesture. Inside, nestled upon the pristine stationery, was a lock of long, brown hair and a neatly folded letter. His heart, which had throbbed with the steady rhythm of the jungle for so long, skidded to a halt. He instantly recognized the long brown hair as Jane’s—his beloved mate. He unfolded the note, his gnarled knuckles white with tension. The stationery bore Adolf Hitler’s personal insignia, including the embossed German eagle and the Führer’s name in stark black letters.

~
Dear Tarzan,

It gives me great pleasure to inform you that your beloved, Jane, is now a prisoner of the Third Reich. Your meddling with our rightful plans and the untimely death of Herr Zimmler at your savage hand have left me with no alternative but to see that she faces justice as a spy. She is a guest of the Snake Men, a foul and ancient cult with which you are well versed and will be sacrificed accordingly. Only your immediate and abject surrender to the cult will guarantee her release. I am not the vanquished begging favours, but the victor speaking in the name of revenge.

Yours sincerely,

Adolf Hitler

~

Tarzan, his powerful frame suddenly weakened by the shock of the letter, collapsed into a gilt-wood-upholstered chair. “Jane has been taken captive by the Nazis,” he whispered, the words sounding alien and unbelievable in the grand, quiet room.

“Bastards,” spat Percival, the expletive utterly uncharacteristic of the prim butler. He took the note from Tarzan’s unresisting hand and read it, his face paling as he absorbed the terrible truth. “What shall we do, my Lord?” he asked, the helplessness in his tone a stark contrast to his usual unflappable demeanour. The carefully constructed world of Greystoke Castle suddenly seemed a fragile thing, utterly impotent against the savagery of the Nazis.

“Contact Loxley immediately and tell him I am bound for Africa. The Snake Men frequent the coastal jungles of the West. I must go there immediately,” Tarzan instructed, his voice now a dangerous growl that held all the latent savagery of the jungle.

“Very well, my Lord.” Percival hurried off to do his master’s bidding, his movements uncharacteristically swift, for he understood the urgency of the situation.

Squatting high in the majestic branches of a large willow tree, his dark form a silent, sinister shadow, the snake man watched through his binoculars. He observed with a cold, malevolent pleasure as Tarzan, the jungle lord, was utterly deflated by the note he had delivered. A lesser man would have been tempted to put a bullet in the ape-man now, to end the threat once and for all. But the snake man was a creature of a higher, more sadistic order. He knew that Tarzan would suffer a thousandfold more if he stuck to the plan, leaving the jungle lord to wonder what further atrocities they were performing upon his beloved wife.

Tarzan, his mind a maelstrom of fear and fury, sipped at the bitter coffee. The thought of a sea voyage to Africa, once a simple passage, was now a long-winded, torturous affair. He would have to take one of the small convoys of ships leaving Tilbury Docks for Mombasa, a journey fraught with peril. Magnetic mines and U-boat patrols made the Channel a graveyard for careless ships. The thought of chugging along through the Bay of Biscay and rounding the Straits of Gibraltar was too much to bear, a slow, agonizing crawl, all the while knowing that Jane was in God knew what kind of peril.

Percival entered the room briskly, carrying the cumbersome, ancient phone. In Greystoke Castle, telephones were not found in every room but were instead located at a central point, such as a hall or an office. “Colonel Marriott,” he announced, his voice a low, formal note of urgency as he handed the receiver to Tarzan.

“Loxley, has Percival filled you in on the details?” Tarzan barked into the receiver, the question an unnecessary formality, for he knew Percival's efficiency.

“He has, and I'm so sorry to hear about Jane, Tarzan,” Loxley replied, his voice grave with sympathy. He knew the pain his friend was in, having long ago witnessed the depth of Tarzan’s devotion to his mate. “What’s your plan?”

“I must sail immediately,” Tarzan began, but his words were cut short by Loxley’s crisp, authoritative tone.

“That will not be necessary. I have a flying boat waiting at Poole Harbour to take us on the extended southern route to Lagos,” Loxley stated, his voice a balm of calm competence. “And I’m bringing some friends along who could prove very valuable.”

Tarzan listened intently as Loxley told him of the King’s support for the Special Air Service. Loxley had been given weapons, explosives, supplies, heavily armed jeeps, and a flying boat to intercept the Nazi scourge amassing around Palandrya.

“We can take a detour and land on the waters of Jad-ben-Otho, that great and empty morass to the south, where the Snake Men lurk,” Loxley explained, his plan already in motion.

Tarzan felt the raging anger within him begin to subside, replaced by a cold, deadly resolve. "Then we return to Africa," he declared, his voice low and firm. "To rescue Jane, and to erase those Nazi bastards from the face of the world, forever."

Mr. Sewell, the Greystoke gamekeeper, kept to the cover of the bushes. The man he was stalking was still atop the willow tree. Sewell, a brute of a man with a bald head, had been making his morning rounds when the glare of a binocular lens caught his eye. He had initially thought it was a nosy journalist or an uninvited member of the public intruding on Tarzan’s privacy, and he had skirted around to get a better look. But now, as he watched the slick-haired man slide out of the tree with such a feline grace, he was not so sure. He pulled back the shotgun hammers in readiness.

The intruder with the topaz eyes turned with the swiftness of a jungle cat when he heard the weapon ‘click’ behind him. Sewell raised the shotgun and smiled. "Now then," he said. But these were his last words. A hunting knife from the intruder's belt was already plunged deep into his chest. As Sewell fell to the ground, the Snake Man thrust a second blade into his throat.

The assailant smiled his ghastly smile as he looked down at the dying man. He failed to notice Sewell’s son, a boy of no more than sixteen, standing in the bushes, his face a mask of grief and fury. The shotgun burst into life in the boy's hands, and the man with the topaz eyes staggered backward, falling dead beside the boy’s father. A ragged hole the size of Tarzan's fist gaped where his heart had been.

The sound of the shotgun blast reached Tarzan’s ears as he dressed. In a split second, he was vaulting over the first-floor balcony and climbing down the thick foliage of the castle ivy, before running across the velvet lawn towards the sound.

The sight of young Paul, the gamekeeper’s son, crying uncontrollably over his father's body, made Tarzan’s anger rise. He looked down at the two dead men—his friend and a stranger—as Paul babbled on about what had happened, apologizing for killing the man, his mind unhinged with grief.

Tarzan looked down at the intruder, whose topaz eyes stared vacantly at the cloudless sky. His eye colour was typical of the natives of the Jad-ben-Otho region. The pieces of the puzzle snapped together with a terrible certainty.

Percival finally caught up to his master, his usually impeccable form now winded. “My God, my Lord—what has happened?” he said, his gaze fixed on the chaotic scene.

“Snake Men,” Tarzan spat, the word a curse. “Not only do they have Jane, but they know the whereabouts of Greystoke. They could have a hundred assassins in this country, and I would be clueless as to their presence. If this one delivered the letter, then they are in league with Hitler.” Tarzan thought for a moment, his mind working with a savage speed. “Inform Mia, Jack, and Sungi. Tell them they will be joining me on the trip to Africa. They will be safer with me than alone here. And Percival…close the castle and go to your sister in Cumbria until I return. Do you understand?”

The butler nodded sombrely. “As is your wish, my Lord. I shall at once make ready for your departure and send word to the local constabulary; they will, of course, need to be informed of the foul deed.”

Tarzan turned his gaze to the grieving boy, and a sadness not unlike a physical ache welled within his powerful frame. “What, then, will become of the young Paul? His mother is dead.”

“I will make all arrangements for his father's burial, and then Paul may accompany me. It would be my honour to take care of him while you are away.” There was a sudden, uncharacteristic glint in Percival’s old eyes. “Make them pay, my Lord.”

“Oh,” said Tarzan, his voice a low growl from between gritted teeth. “You can count on that.”

Poole Harbour had been transformed into a bustling military hub, a base for seaplane training and Coastal Command's anti-submarine operations, with Sandbanks now a fortified area against potential invasion. Loxley watched over a large, four-engine seaplane that was being loaded with crated jeeps and other hardware for the mission.

As a young man in the 1930s, Marriott had exhibited both a spirit of adventure and a rebellious waywardness. An inveterate gambler with a fondness for drink and nightlife, he balked at the hard work required for a conventional path in life. As a result, he was unable to see out his studies or establish himself in a profession. Thrown out of Cambridge University after his first year, he initially tried his hand as an artist and an architect. His intrepid nature then steered him into becoming a mountaineer and a reservist in the Scots Guards, taking on the lofty ambition of becoming the first man to scale Mount Everest. When the Second World War broke out, Marriott was in America, working as a cowboy in an interlude to his mountaineering training. He promptly returned to Britain and re-joined the Scots Guards, but quickly rose through the ranks of the Special Operations Executive.

As he watched the servicemen laughing and joking as they loaded the weapons, his thoughts turned to Jane. She had clearly been taken on the orders of the German High Command, her ultimate value as a hostage understood. The Germans were determined to push further into the interior. Now, with the death of Zimmler, there was an element of cold revenge in their motives.

The arrival of a chugging vehicle by the dockside broke Loxley’s trance. The bus, protected with wooden boards and painted khaki for camouflage, transported a dozen grim-faced soldiers along with their equipment—his team—most of them fresh out of prison.

~ To be continued….

If you were captivated by this glimpse into Tarzan's world, show your enthusiasm! Your engagement helps bring the jungle to life!

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"We stand forever indebted to Edgar Rice Burroughs, whose boundless imagination first brought the call of the jungle to our souls." C.K. SMITH

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Copyright Notice: Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. (ERB, Inc.) holds trademarks on the name "Tarzan". This derivative work is copyrighted by C.K. SMITH©2025, but the copyright only covers the new, original material, images, and characters, and not the parts from the public domain source.





Chapter Two: Return to Greystoke

The Spirit of Ecstasy looked out over the peaceful British countryside, a far cry from the devastation London had suffered overnight. Her form, leaning forward with arms outstretched and trailing cloth, seemed to mock the very wings of the Luftwaffe planes that had so recently brought ruin. The chrome mascot stood proudly upon the bonnet of Tarzan's Rolls-Royce as it whisked its occupants north, to the safety of Greystoke Castle.

Sungi and Jack stared out at the endless fields of cereals, vast stretches of land now surrendered to the war effort. Country houses, once peaceful and serene, had been commandeered for encampments and training bases as the nation braced for conflict.

"Are we nearly there?" Jack asked, his voice filled with an eagerness that belied his recent sorrow.

A faint smile touched Tarzan's lips. He remembered being young and impetuous, a boy driven by a similar hunger for adventure. "Yes," he replied, his voice a low rumble. "We shall soon reach Nottingham. The land of Robin Hood... and Tarzan."

Sungi looked confused, her brow furrowed. "Who is this Robin Hood?" she asked.

"A bandit of the forest with a merry band of companions," Tarzan replied, a wistful note in his voice. "He is much like Fumo Liyongo, the legendary Swahili warrior, an outlaw and rebel who fought to protect the downtrodden."

"Does he live close to you?" Sungi asked innocently.

A deep laugh rumbled from Tarzan's chest, filling the car. "No, little one. He trod these lands some six hundred years ago. But tales of his exploits still play upon the lips of the natives."

Mia leaned forward in the cab and took Sungi's hand, her blonde bob falling across a pretty face. "We will teach you all about him," she offered, her green eyes sparking as she glanced up at the Ape Man seated beside her. "He is nearly as famous as Tarzan."

Tarzan's eyes met hers. The familiar feeling, one he had to bury deeply, returned. Since his liberation from the jungle, he had met many women—the madam of a well-known Parisian brothel, Le Sphinx, had even personally selected a score of girls for him, all of whom he had respectfully declined. Yet until this moment, Jane had been the only one to so move his heart. Loxley, it seemed, was under the same spell.

Jack broke the unspoken tension, his voice a shout of excitement as he spotted an imposing sandstone building perched upon a hillside. "Is that it? Is it Greystoke Castle?"

Tarzan sighed, his heart swelling with a familiar happiness at the sight of his ancestral dwelling. "Yes, Jack," he said, "we are nearly home." His eyes lingered upon the pleasing square structure, its four tall corner towers with decorative gables reaching for the sky. "But first," he announced to the chauffeur, "we must take a detour to see an old friend." With that, he directed the man to the lake.

Greystoke Lake was a roughly triangular body of water situated south of the castle. The Rolls-Royce pulled up alongside a brick boathouse designed to resemble a classical bridge, located on the southern shore. The area around the lake was landscaped to create an open, sweeping view from the castle, with the stable block also visible from the lake.

Tarzan leapt from the car and strode purposefully toward the cool, clear water. Removing his jacket and boots, he walked into the lake without a backward glance. Mia, Jack, and Sungi watched in silent surprise as his head disappeared from view. After a few seconds, the surface was still again, not a ripple to be seen.

"What's he doing?" Jack asked, his voice a whisper of confusion.

"It looks as if he has gone for a swim," Mia offered, though her own brow was furrowed with bewilderment.

Time went on, and nothing surfaced. A quiet dread began to settle over the three of them.

"Is he alright?" Sungi asked, her small voice trembling with concern for her saviour.

Then, something stirred the glassy surface, rising from the depths below. Tarzan's head broke through the water, his thick, black hair plastered to his wet, gleaming body. In his arms was an enormous pike—a water wolf with a flattened snout and jaws lined with a formidable array of needle-sharp, backward-pointing teeth, a creature built for the kill. Each marking upon its mottled green and gold body, like watery fingerprints, told a unique tale of battles fought and prey devoured.

"This is Laslow," Tarzan announced after spitting a satisfying plume of water from his mouth. "He is my friend. We have tussled together many times, and he is a formidable warrior. Come, you can meet him," he said, his eagerness a bright contrast to the solemnity of their journey through war-torn England.

Just as the three of them drew close to the bank, the great fish buckled and thrashed, a final effort to return to his watery home. Tarzan eased his grip, and the pike splashed back beneath the surface.

"Well," Tarzan said, placing his hands on his hips and a sly grin upon his lips. "You had better come in and find him."

The three travellers looked at one another, then burst into loud laughter as they shed most of their clothes and joined Tarzan in the cool water. They felt heady with the madness of abandoning all decorum, swimming without modesty, and for a fleeting moment, becoming immune to the burdens of civilized life.

Jack and Sungi disappeared confidently beneath the surface, both keen to be the first to find Laslow. They soon reappeared in the middle of the lake, splashing water at one another, chilled by the biting cold but exhilarated by the experience.

Mia, a seasoned synchronized swimmer, followed Tarzan into the hollow by the bridge, the deepest and darkest part of the lake. There they played like otters, their bodies twisting and turning to catch one another, then darting away in escape. And then it happened. Mia curled her long legs about Tarzan’s waist, holding him tightly against her, the translucent fabric of her flimsy blouse clinging to her form.

Tarzan’s heart quickened as he held her close, the feeling of her firm body welcome to his touch. Like a mermaid mesmerizing her victim, she kissed him. She was an enchanting beauty, an alluring illusion, built to lure ships onto rocks or cause sailors to leap into the water to their deaths. The desire to mate was strong, yet Tarzan managed to stop himself at the last moment, the thought of his beloved Jane now at the forefront of his mind.

The two of them broke the surface, an awkward longing still tugging powerfully at their hearts as they breathed deeply. Tarzan's jungle instincts urged him to carry her to his favourite tree, a huge oak that stood at the edge of his estate, where he and Jane had often lain naked and coupled under the long summer nights. He knew that life with Mia nearby was going to prove very difficult indeed.

The sound of children’s laughter brought them both crashing back to the moment. In the shallows, Sungi was mauling the enormous pike with help from Jack. Laslow sat still in her arms, seemingly pleased to have made new friends. Tarzan nodded his approval and smiled proudly. They had both found a profound natural experience, a magic that most people had long forgotten.

Unbeknownst to Tarzan, lurking in a tree, the Snake Man's topaz eyes watched them, silently observing their every move through binoculars. I have you now, Tarzan, he thought, his gaze fixed upon the happy family. Revenge would soon be his; of that, he was certain.

~

King George VI sat in the Palace War Room, a fortified concrete box located deep beneath the streets of London. The war was aging him; his eyes, dark and tired, reflected the heavy toll it was taking. He licked his thick lips thoughtfully, his presence in the heavily bombed city having solidified his image as a figure of British determination. A deep furrow creased his brow as he read a dispatch from Colonel Loxley Marriott, who sat patiently across from him.

With a heavy sigh, the King dropped the secret papers onto the desk. “This is a nightmare, Colonel,” he stated. “We pushed Mussolini out of Ethiopia, and his incursions into Libya and Egypt were also defeated—but now this…”

Loxley nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty, but we have it on good authority that Hitler has sent the Afrika Korps, commanded by General Rommel, to bolster his ally’s efforts. The German counter-offensive is trying to push us back to the Egyptian frontier.”

The King’s gaze was direct. “Do you believe this is a war we can win?”

“Possibly,” Loxley offered cautiously.

“Why not definitely, Colonel?” the King asked, agitated.

“Churchill ordered most of Wavell’s troops to Greece,” Loxley explained. “I believe this will interrupt our offensive against the Italians and Hitler.”

“So, you think Churchill was wrong to do this?”

Loxley appeared uncomfortable. “That is not for me to say, Your Majesty. But given that we have found out Hitler has a battalion outside the walls of Palandrya, I believe we must concentrate our efforts and ensure he does not get a solid foothold in sub-Saharan Africa. If he does, the war is lost.”

The King rose and paced the small room as he considered this. “It’s a shame Tarzan disposed of Zimmler on the train before we could interrogate him. That man knew the Führer’s plan in depth.”

An almost imperceptible grin tugged at Loxley’s lips as he recalled his friend's impromptu actions. “I share your frustration, but without Tarzan’s connections, we would never have found out about the train and its cargo. But I do have an idea of how Tarzan could help scupper Hitler's plan.”

The King raised an interested eyebrow. “How so?”

Loxley’s eyes seemed to sparkle with enthusiasm, despite the lack of support his idea had received from British High Command. “I propose we form a new unit, a small, elite group of men to conduct small-scale raids behind enemy lines. They would be parachuted into wherever we need them, starting with Palandrya for their first operations.”

“A new unit, you say.” The King stared at him dubiously. “Tell me more.”

“This unit would perform aggressive, clandestine raids, such as blowing up bridges and factories,” Loxley explained. “It would be a freewheeling force that challenges the traditional, rigid class divisions within the British Army.” He knew Bomber Command would resent loaning aircraft for these missions, believing it was not the proper way for British soldiers to behave.

“Interesting…” the King said, returning to his heavy, leather seat and taking a sip of his tea. “And Tarzan—how does he fit into all this?”

“He would play an instrumental part in ensuring this unit was successful in Africa, effectively joining me to lead the operations into the sub-Saharan territories.” Loxley was certain this was the only way to defeat the Axis.

“This is indeed an interesting concept, one which I fully support.” For the first time, the King smiled. “And what do you propose we call this elite unit, Colonel?”

“The SAS, Your Majesty—the Special Air Service.”

The smile on the King’s face now reached his eyes. “I will talk to Churchill immediately. I'm sure the War Cabinet will agree with my decision and conclude that your unit will provide much-needed support to our ground forces' efforts to push back the Nazi menace.”

Loxley stood and shook the King’s hand firmly. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, and Colonel,” the King interjected. “I assume that Tarzan will be following orders from now on, and not taking on the might of the German war machine alone?”

“Very good, Your Majesty,” Loxley said, a small grin forming on his face. “I’ll ensure he toes the line from now on.” But he didn't believe a word of it.

To be continued….

If you were captivated by this glimpse into Tarzan's world, show your enthusiasm! Your engagement helps bring the jungle to life!

C.K. SMITH books can be found on AMAZON >

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"We stand forever indebted to Edgar Rice Burroughs, whose boundless imagination first brought the call of the jungle to our souls." C.K. SMITH

ERB Official Website

Copyright Notice: Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. (ERB, Inc.) holds trademarks on the name "Tarzan". This derivative work is copyrighted by C.K. SMITH©2025, but the copyright only covers the new, original material and characters, and not the parts from the public domain source.




Chapter One: The Ape-Man on the Iron Beast

Weaving through the picturesque Swiss Alps, the train undulated carefully down the icy tracks. A dramatic sunset painted the snow-tipped peaks that dominated the horizon. Cool, fresh air whipped through the carriage's open window, ruffling the crouching man's long, black hair into a tangled mane. His slate-grey eyes missed nothing, and his nose twitched, catching a subtle stench from the rattling goods car—a smell so faint no one else would have noticed.

In this cheating, murdering, lying world of the civilized man, he felt like an outsider. Yet, the flimsy, paper-chain puppets who frequented it were robbed of any real spirit. Their fight was a fractured façade, lingering over an abyss of fear. In the jungle, things were simpler; everything feared him. From Terkoz, the great bull ape, to Numa, the lion, there was no pretence of friendship. They could sense that his species was born outside of nature: a freak who could take the very jungle and make a weapon of it.

Tarzan, the Ape-Man, gazed at the distant mountains, a profound and unfamiliar emotion stirring within his breast. A nameless ache, a nascent longing, was the closest he could come to naming this strange feeling, one that had arrived in the wake of the Porter family. This tenacious band of missionaries had pushed with relentless zeal into the heart of his jungle. It was their daughter, Jane, who had proven instrumental in his so-called salvation from a life he now considered barbaric. First, she had convinced her father of his very existence, then swayed him to take pity on the wild man, and finally, led him away from the familiar embrace of the jungle to the bewildering sophistication of Paris, there to be scrubbed clean and educated in the ways of civilization.

With Jane, the pleasures of the flesh unleashed the beating of a million drums within Tarzan's heart. The relentless pursuit of this intoxicating state finally led him out of the jungle: first as an exhibit, then as an equal, and now as an earl. But his disappointment with civilization came swiftly, the realization that the fire of a million guns was the unfortunate price of their togetherness.

A boy, perhaps ten years old, burst into the baggage car where Tarzan squatted. He had heard the child's clumsy footfall since he left his seat, three carriages away. The boy froze in his tracks when he found he was not alone. Eyes as blue as mountain lakes peered from under a threadbare, maroon cap, which matched his hand-me-down jacket and tatty shorts.

The child thought the heavily tanned adult resembled one of the great apes at the zoological garden, the way he seemed comfortable on his haunches.

"Are you a man?" the boy asked inquisitively.

"Indeed, like you," Tarzan replied, glancing over his shoulder, his body never moving. The black suit he wore sat awkwardly on the hard angles of his muscle-laced frame. To some men, he was still considered a sideshow curiosity.

The boy frowned, as if he wasn't quite sure of the validity of the answer. "Then, why do you squat like an ape?"

Tarzan laughed. There were so many years of pain in that story, best left to history. "When a storm rages over the African plains for days, one must be comfortable, but ready for a visit from death."

The boy nodded instinctively, agreeing like a seasoned bushman. "Yes, I can imagine," he declared. "The snakes and the cats would be all around. Death must be everywhere."

Tarzan smiled, impressed with the boy's self-confidence. He slowly expanded to his full height, stretching out his shoulder blades like wings as he stood. "What's your name?" he asked, extending the gnarly bone hammer that was his fist.

"Ballard… Jack Ballard," the boy stuttered, thrusting his skinny hand into the shovel-like appendage. "And you're Tarzan. I recognized you from the newspapers. I was just checking. But I know it's you." His voice carried a nervous, heady tone.

"Very perceptive, young man." Tarzan's smile was suddenly wiped from his face. His attention was riveted to a man who had appeared at the window of the carriage door. Tarzan looked down at the boy. "Stay behind me and run whenever you get a chance. Don't hesitate, understand?"

Jack glanced at the angry-looking gentleman storming into the baggage car, and then up at Tarzan. "I understand, sir."

"What are you doing back here?" the portly man demanded, his voice a bluster of indignation. "Does the conductor know you are loitering among people's baggage, engaged in God knows what dubious activities?"

Tarzan's keen gaze scrutinized the man's chubby, well-fed face. He was clearly in his early fifties, his suit impeccably tailored, its lapel sporting an enamelled metal badge depicting a white disc with a black swastika. The insidious Nazi scourge, alas, continued to flourish.

The boy cowered behind Tarzan, frozen to the spot, despite the jungle lord’s prior instruction to run to safety at the first opportunity.

"I am not a common thief," Tarzan stated curtly, his voice low but firm. "I am here to meet you."

"Meet me?" the man sputtered incredulously, his eyes wide. "Who are you, pray tell?"

"Someone who has intercepted your secret mission," Tarzan replied, his words carrying the weight of an accusation. "I am Tarzan. Word of your plunder has reached my ears."

The blood drained from the man's jowly face, leaving it a sickly grey. "I know not of what you speak!" he blustered, attempting a show of indignation that betrayed his rising fear. "This is an absolute outrage!"

"You are Heinrich Luitpold Zimmler," Tarzan stated, his voice a cold blade cutting through the air. "Now, open the goods car immediately."

Heinrich, struggling to compose himself, pushed his round glasses higher upon his nose, a fleeting sneer twisting his lips. "This is most unusual, indeed," he drawled, feigning contemplation. "Let me see. Where did I put that key?" He began to pat himself down with exaggerated, theatrical slowness. His hand finally closed upon the cold metal of the concealed Luger pistol as he pretended to draw the key from his breast pocket.

A hateful smile crept over the Nazi’s face. "You might be fast, Tarzan, but are you quicker than a bullet?"

Tarzan laughed at the excuse for a man. "No, I'm not. Are you?"

"Not only do you smell like a monkey, but you are also as stupid as one," Heinrich shot back. "You will make a nice hunting trophy for the Führer." He kept the muzzle of the gun trained on them as he carefully unlocked the goods car door. "Get in!" he shouted.

Tarzan shielded the boy with his heavy frame as he backed into the darkness. The smell of the gorilla specimens fuelled his anger. Hitler was fascinated by the ‘missing link’ debate and wanted more examples for his macabre collection.

"You people are a scourge upon the face of the world," Tarzan rumbled, his voice a low, ominous whisper. "One that will soon be wiped from it forever."

Heinrich raised the Luger, pointing it directly at Tarzan's head. "Goodbye, monkey man..."

A sharp, sudden jab in his back from a walking stick gun stopped the assailant cold. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," a steady, unwavering voice uttered. "Drop the weapon – slowly."

Heinrich’s lip curled in a snarl of impotent rage. With a sharp tut of frustration, he did as he was told. "You'll never make it off this train alive," he hissed.

Colonel Loxley Marriott, an unassuming man with dark, narrow eyes and black hair styled in a neat fringe, the finest shot the British Army had ever produced, stared at the Nazi with cold disdain. "I assure you, we will. And so will you. To face justice in London – at the end of a rope."

Tarzan nodded his thanks to his friend and ushered the boy out of the goods car. But then, a faint, disquieting sound caught his keen ear. From beneath a large tarpaulin came the unmistakable whimper of a child crying.

Among the sickeningly high piles of stolen ivory, a crude metal cage sat almost hidden. Inside, a young girl squatted, her small form hunched. Her only provisions were a chunk of stale bread and an empty water bowl. From her shaved head and the ornate necklace adorning her throat, Tarzan immediately recognized her as a Waziri, one of his own people by adoption. He knew their king well, and was, in turn, deeply respected by him.

Jack watched in wonder as Tarzan joined them in the baggage carriage. There was something about his presence that made the boy shiver. An emptiness filled Tarzan’s eyes. Before the Colonel could handcuff the Nazi, Tarzan thrust forward, grabbing Heinrich’s neck in his shovel-like grasp. He marched the struggling man forward, his feet twitching, unable to touch the wooden floor. The carriage door smashed open, the force of the blow splintering the polished frame. Heinrich’s terrified scream followed him down the ravine of ice that flanked the train.

"Nazis," Tarzan lamented, his voice devoid of its usual calm. "More ruthless than the most savage beast of the jungle. I want to meet their leader."

Colonel Marriott shook his head. Their orders were compromised, but as usual, Tarzan had stripped away the thin veneer of civilization, dealing with things in his own direct, matter-of-fact way.

Jack ran forward and gently grabbed the young Waziri girl. Her legs were bent, her posture crooked from the hours spent caged like an animal. The boy helped her stand, amazed by her indomitable will, and mesmerized by her beauty and the light in her smile, even in these darkest of circumstances.

At that moment, the conductor came storming into the baggage car, his face a mask of indignation. "What the devil is going on back here?" he bellowed, his gaze sweeping over the unlikely patrons. "And what happened to the door?" he cried in utter dismay at the splintered, ruined frame.

The jungle man paused for a bare instant, a low, guttural chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Tarzan cares not for doors," he declared, his voice carrying the untamed wisdom of the wild, "only for justice…"

The conductor’s jaw dropped, agape at the sheer effrontery of the savage's flippant remark. Before he could gather his wits to summon the full might of railway security, Colonel Marriott, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward to pacify the irate official.

“Fear not, my good man, the damage shall be paid for,” Loxley stated with an air of understated authority, producing an identity card from his jacket pocket. He flipped it open with a practiced flick of the wrist, presenting it directly before the conductor's astonished nose. “We are of His Majesty’s British Special Operations Executive, acting upon the direct orders of King George the Sixth, himself.”

“Oh, I—I beg your pardon, sir,” the conductor stammered, his demeanour undergoing an instantaneous and remarkable transformation. This rabble would soon be off his train, and that was the sole burden upon his mind. “If the King of England desires the destruction of carriage doors, then so be it,” he managed, a false, conciliatory smile stretching his lips. “I shall inform my superiors that The Palace will be in touch. Now, pray, return to your appointed seats.”

Loxley slipped the card back into his jacket, granting the now-meek conductor a curt, dismissive nod that ended the discussion.

Once they were alone in the carriage, Tarzan, with a fluid grace born of the jungle, squatted down to address the young girl. "What is your name, child?" he inquired, his deep voice softened with an unaccustomed tenderness.

"Sungi," she whispered, her voice a mere thread of sound.

"You are Waziri, are you not?" Tarzan pressed, his keen eyes discerning the familiar tribal markings despite her distress.

"Yes," she affirmed, her gaze darting between the figures. "I was seized while travelling with my family.” Her eyes, wide with fear and bewilderment, settled upon each stranger in turn. “Where am I?”

"You are far from the jungle, little one, cast into the heart of Europe." Tarzan observed the shocked realization that dawned upon her delicate features. "The men who took you," he continued, his tone hardening, "how many were there?"

Sungi, her brow furrowed in concentration, pondered for a moment. "It was a vast war party," she recounted, her voice still tremulous but firming with recollection, "hundreds of savage warriors. They were sheltering outside the ancient walls of Palandrya."

"An army?" Tarzan's voice, usually a resonant bass, was now a whisper of horror. He cast a swift glance upward at Loxley, who raised a knowing eyebrow.

"So, it’s true," Loxley offered, his tone grim. "Hitler seeks to establish a hidden base, a foothold for conquering Sub-Saharan Africa."

Tarzan merely nodded, his gaze returning with renewed intensity to the girl. "Were any others of your family seized and carried away into captivity?"

"I don’t think so," she murmured, the memory of her kin bringing fresh tears to her young eyes. "My brother, he fled swiftly to warn the others." A shudder passed through her small frame. "I told them nothing, I swear! The vile man whom you cast from the train, he inflicted pain upon me, but I betrayed no secrets of our tribe, nor where we make our dwelling. He confined me in the dark, where you found me."

"Fear not, Sungi, for now you’re safe within our keeping." Tarzan smiled warmly, a rare, gentle expression upon his rugged features, as young Jack, with a thoughtfulness beyond his years, divested himself of his jacket and draped it tenderly about Sungi's shivering shoulders. She was frozen to the bone in her brightly patterned fabric wrap. "You shall journey with us across the great waters, to my own dwelling place in distant England. We shall send word to your tribe, and they shall know that you are a cherished guest of Tarzan, until such time as you may return to the beloved jungle."

Sungi's eyes, previously clouded by fear, now widened with a profound happiness, reflecting a newfound hope. She turned her gaze to Jack, a question forming on her lips. "Are you the son of Tarzan?" she inquired, her voice filled with a child's innocent wonder.

Jack, caught off guard, shifted his weight awkwardly, his eyes dropping to his feet. "N-No," he stammered. "I’m an orphan. My parents were killed by the very same savage warriors who captured you – the Nazis, as they are known. I am bound for an orphanage in Bern, a great city in Switzerland, the very land through which we speed."

Tarzan's keen gaze rested upon Jack for a moment, his primal mind processing the boy's words with swift, instinctive logic. "With whom, then, do you journey?" he inquired, his deep voice holding a note of direct inquiry.

"Mia is my escort," Jack replied, his youthful voice tinged with melancholy. "She was our maid... before my parents were killed." He clarified further, "My father was English and served in the diplomatic corps. My mother came from the Swiss mountains. I possess no other kin, so Mia graciously offered to help me."

Tarzan rose to his full, imposing height and gazed down upon the two young children. "If it be your will, Jack," he pronounced, his voice resonating with an uncharacteristic offer, "I can give you another life, a different destiny."

The boy, his face a study in utter amazement, stared back, his eyes wide with a burgeoning intrigue. "What do you mean, sir?" he whispered, scarcely daring to hope.

"Come with me to my ancestral dwelling in England," Tarzan offered, the words carrying the weight of a solemn promise. "To Greystoke Castle. There, you shall be presented as my son and shall aid Sungi until the day arrives when we may return her to the heart of Africa, to reunite her with her own people."

"Do you truly mean it, sir?" Jack exclaimed, his voice ringing with an almost delirious excitement. He felt an overwhelming urge to pinch himself, to check if this wondrous turn of events was reality, yet he yearned for the dream, if dream it was, to linger forever.

"Tarzan means every word. Fate, it seems, has brought us together upon this iron beast. Now, lead me to Mia. It falls to me to explain our design for your future."

Jack, with a newfound confidence, crooked his arm through Sungi's, offering gentle support to help her. Then, with a lightness born of hope, he hastened them all toward his own carriage.

As Tarzan followed the boy, his mind—a complex tapestry of primal instincts and civilized thought—was in a state of uncharacteristic deliberation. The offer he had just extended to Jack was not born of mere impulse, but of a deep-seated empathy he rarely revealed. He saw in Jack's solitude a reflection of his own past, a child cast adrift from his family by a cruel fate. The boy’s gentle care for Sungi had further stirred this feeling, a silent testament to a noble heart hidden beneath a shell of grief.

After the baggage carriage was empty, a camouflaged figure slowly stirred on the top luggage rack. He had been listening carefully to his quarry. Curled up, he had looked like a brown canvas duffel bag. Slipping down from his hiding place, he removed his disguise, throwing it through the broken door into the icy wind. This revealed his modern, gentlemanly attire. He was part of an ancient cult, a group that called itself the Snake Men. They worshipped the python deity Danh-gbi, and Tarzan was their sworn enemy. The man combed back his grease-slicked hair in the reflection of the carriage door’s window. His topaz-brown eyes were pale, clear, and shone with a gold colour that reflected light and appeared luminous. Checking his revolver, he followed his target. Finally, the time had come to kill Tarzan once and for all.

The train car Tarzan entered was of a grander sort: a private compartment furnished with plush velvet seats and mahogany panelling. A young woman, perhaps twenty-five years old, rose from her seat as they entered. She was beautiful, with an ethereal quality reminiscent of a forest nymph, and a nervous energy that belied her serene expression. This was Mia.

Her eyes, a striking shade of green, widened in surprise and then narrowed with a flash of suspicion as she took in the imposing figure of the Ape-Man.

"Mia," Jack said, his voice now vibrant with a new hope. "This is Tarzan. He has a proposal for us."

Mia's gaze darted from the boy to Tarzan, and a flicker of fear crossed her face. "A proposal?" she echoed, her voice trembling slightly.

Tarzan, sensing her apprehension, spoke in a low, even tone. "Do not be alarmed, Miss. I have no ill intent." He gestured to Jack and Sungi, who were now huddled together on a seat. "I have offered Jack a new life. A home at my ancestral estate in England, Greystoke Castle. You, Miss Mia, are welcome to join us as their companion and governess. My own Jane, my beloved mate, is in Paris. She will be overjoyed to receive you all when she returns."

Mia's suspicion melted away, replaced by a profound disbelief. "You... you mean to take us in?" she stammered, her gaze searching his for any hint of deception.

"Tarzan's word is as solid as the ancient trees of my jungle home," he replied, a hint of his primal nature surfacing in the powerful resonance of his voice. "I have seen the kindness in Jack's heart, the courage in his spirit. He needs a family, a place to belong. As do you, it seems."

The last words were spoken with a gentle understanding that caught Mia off guard. She looked at Jack, then at Sungi, her eyes welling with tears of relief. The burden she had carried, the responsibility for Jack in a world gone mad with war, was suddenly and miraculously lifted.

"I... I don't know what to say," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

"Say only that you accept," Tarzan said, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. "For Greystoke Castle awaits, and a new life beckons."

And so, within the confines of the rattling train, a new family was forged. A man of the jungle, a grieving orphan boy, a frightened native girl, and a courageous young woman, all bound together by a shared fate and the promise of a brighter future. As the train hurtled through the Swiss countryside, the sun painting the snow-capped peaks in hues of crimson and gold, they embarked upon the greatest adventure of all: the journey home.

Copyright Notice: Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. (ERB, Inc.) holds trademarks on the name "Tarzan". This derivative work is copyrighted by C.K. SMITH©2025, but the copyright only covers the new, original material, images, and characters, and not the parts from the public domain source.