UNIT UK 18: Cultural Exchange

by ComsatAngel

A Polish officer from the Warsaw Pact is seconded to UNIT UK, Sarah disappears and someone or something waylays the 3rd Doctor.

UNIT UK 18: Cultural exchange

Captain Beresford's appendix let him know it was ready to come out, by incapacitating him the moment he came back to Aylesbury HQ from leave after the New Year. What a way to see 1976 in,eh?

This meant that Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart's plans were thrown out and he had to resort to me. The adjutant collared me in the garage workshops, checking vehicle parts, and said I needed to see the Brigadier, straight away.

'John,' he began informally, indicating that I should take a seat. 'I understand that the Slavic languages are all pretty similar?'

'Yes, sir. Different alphabets and written differently, but they can all understand each other's spoken word.'

'Hmm. Right.' And he tapped his moustache with one end of his swagger-stick. 'In that case, I am going to give you the brevet-rank of Captain. Temporary, and you revert back to Lieutenant once your assigment is over.'

Captain! I silently exulted. Even if only temporary, this had to be good for John.

'What is my assignment, sir?'

It isn't common knowledge that the Soviet Union has it's own UNIT branch, principally staffed with members of the GRU, Soviet Military Intelligence. Whatever operations the Russians carry out are reported in detail to Geneva, where nobody below the rank of Prime Minister or Brigadier get to see them. The Soviets also had a roving UNIT team on attachment in Eastern Europe, and a reciprocal arrangement with each of their Warsaw Pact allies that sends some of their officers to serve with the Russian UNIT team.

Despite being members of UNIT, the Russians are still Russians, and had never allowed any staff from beyond the Warsaw Pact to operate within the Soviet Union. Until now – they had asked for a temporary secondment from UNIT and a French officer was going to serve beyond the River Bug. Not quite trusting their own men, the Russians had sent a Polish officer to serve with UNIT. UNIT UK. Us.

'Yes, when you've finished making strange noises and blinking, John, it will be your responsibility to act as Kapitan Tadeusz Komorowski's guide, translator, escort, bodyguard and whatever else needs to be done.'

Sheer surprise gripped my vocal chords for a moment.

'A Warsaw Pact officer walking around UNIT! Sir, whoever thought this one up!'

The Brig looked at me with a chilly eye. Whoops, John lad, perhaps this was his idea.

'Don't be astoundingly dim, John. I'm not so naieve as to think he won't report back to Moscow on everything he sees here. In fact, I'm counting on it. A little more open-ness here might counterbalance some of this infernal proxy fighting the super-powers are waging in Africa and the Middle East.'

'Er, yes, sir. When does he arrive?'

'Tomorrow morning, scheduled Lot flight to Heathrow. Take a driver and meet him there. Oh, and John?'

'Yes sir?'

'Captain Beresford would have been doing this due to his innate tact and forebearing. Please don't put your size twelve boots in it!'

This truly was a case of being dropped right in it. I'd been trained to think of the Polish Army as the enemy, exactly the same as the Russians, just less of them. And now?

Firstly, know thy enemy. Who would know about the Polish armed forces?

'Sorry, I'm off to the Lesser Magellanic Cloud,' said the Doctor, busy squirelling away strange and outlandish bits of equipment in his laboratory. 'No time to chat.'

'No chat needed,' I replied, a touch of desperation in my voice. 'I just need a few pointers on Poland.'

Taking pity on me, the Doctor paused.

'I know a great deal about Poland. A feeling of solidarity, you might say!' and he grinned. 'Ah – sorry, in-joke, you won't appreciate that until 1981. I must be off, but if you remember this you can't go far wrong: the defining characteristics of the Poles are Romanticism, Nationalism and Catholicism.'

'What about Communism?' I asked, to the echoing croak of the TARDIS vanishing.

'Well, sir, Poles don't like the Russians,' explained Corporal Griskiewicz. He was the only UNIT member at Aylesbury who might be able to help me. 'My dad came over in the war, deserted from the Wehrmacht and joined the Polish First Armoured Division in Normandy. They hate the Germans, too. Which one they hate more depends on which day of the week, I think. Basically, worship the church, honour the army and the Devil take the Commies.'

I turned to go, leaving him at the desk in the Guard Room.

'Oh, one more thing, sir. Never try to out-drink a Pole. Boozers from the cradle, they are. They drink vodka the way we sup beer.'

I gave him a nod, and filed the information away for future use – critical stuff if I did but know it!

My driver next day was Private Ely, who has a phenomenal and slightly supernatural ability to navigate through dark, mist, unfamiliar terrain or airports. We discovered the tall, immaculately-uniformed Kapitan Komorowski with suitcase and briefcase in minutes, thanks to Ely's nose. Our guest had an incongrously chubby face that didn't fit with his slender frame, but his eyes were bright and sharp and took both us UNIT UK members in pretty quickly.

Salutes all round, and the Kapitan introduced himself in accented but excellent English.

'Kapitan Tadeusz Komorowski, temporarily on secondment to UNIT UK.'

I introduced Captain John Walmsley and Private Ely.

'Will it be possible to meet with The Brigadier?' asked the Kapitan straight away.

'Certainly, he asked you to report to him once we get to Aylesbury.'

The Kapitan got the comfy seat next to Ely and I rode in the back of the Landrover back to Aylesbury. My driver told me that the officer remained silent during the journey, watching the landscape pass by. First time out of his sinister Eastern European domain, I presume.

The sentries at the gate took their time allowing us through, the nosey rascals. Eventually I escorted the Kapitan to the Guard Room and we both signed in, to interested stares from the two squaddies on duty.

'If you'll follow me, I'll take you to see Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart,' and I led Komorowski off into the internal warren of stairs and corridors to the Brig's office. One knock later and I introduced the Kapitan, who snapped off a smart salute.

'Allow me to say, sir, it is a priviledge to meet you,' said the Pole, shaking the Brig's hand and sounding very sincere. 'You are a legend amongst our UNIT staff.'

'Oh! Oh, indeed,' replied the Brig, surprised and pleased, and not hiding it very well, bless him. 'Ah – L – Captain Walmsley is to be your escort and guide. Any questions you may have, he'll answer. If he can't then he'll find a person who can. You have the free run of Aylesbury, go anywhere you like, talk to whoever you want. John, show the Kapitan to his quarters.'

The quarters were typically spartan, tarted up with polishing, waxing, dusting, cleaning and some potted plants borrowed from the mess. I had toyed with the idea of a new coat of paint, but decided against it, since the room would reek of paint fumes for days.

'Here's a map of the layout at Aylesbury, Kapitan. This is my office, marked with a red circle. I'll let you get your things unpacked and you can meet me when you're done.'

He gave me a sharp nod and I departed, to sit and ponder in my office. What the hell, if the Brig wanted him to get open access, I'd better show willing and be diligent about it. The list of places Komorowski might want to see lay pencilled on my table; I didn't put a schedule against them, since he might want to see things in a different order. A trip to Swafham Prior would be useful, and Project Broom in their hidey-hole. Haylings House was just a load of technicians being technical, dull and with bad plumbing. Hopefully he wouldn't want to see Castlemuir, either, since it lay in the Hebrides.

Ten minutes after leaving him, the Kapitan knocked on my door and waited to get an "enter" from me. His eyes did a rapid circuit of the room, resting on the Nitro Express reclining in it's wall-rack for a second, without commenting.

'Okay, this is a list of the various utilities here at Aylesbury you might wish to visit. I didn't put a time or order to it, that's up to you. The mess, however, will be serving from twelve. If we miss that then it'll be whatever is being served in the canteen.'

Kapitan Komorowski gave a slow serious nod whilst looking at the various sites within the HQ.

'Is it possible to see the person known as The Doctor?' he asked.

'Not right now, I'm afraid. He's gone – er, travelling. We never know quite how long he'll be gone on his journeys, but we can check his lab out. If TARDIS is there, then he'll have returned.'

My Slavic chum brightened noticeably at the mention of "TARDIS".

'Oh, yes, this TARDIS I am also keen to see.'

It might be a disappointment then, I said to myself.

'Very well, would you please show me around the headquarters?'

The pair of us trawled over Aylesbury from top to bottom, meeting most of the staff and attached personnel. Lieutenants Nick Munroe and Eden seemed to dog our footsteps more often than normal chance accounted for. Eventually I reacted outside the Armoury.

'Lieutenant Munroe, can I help you at all?' I finally countered. Emphasis on the "Lieutenant". Oh Lord I loved hammering that point home with unsubtle intensity.

'Yes sir!' he replied, acting in his Fatuous Buffoon persona. 'In the spirit of friendly inter-UNIT co-operation, I wondered if the Kapitan might not appreciate a bottle of whisky as a token of mutual appreciation.'

'Run and fetch it,' I growled. 'Sorry, Kapitan. Your presence here is so unusual people are hanging around to see you.'

He gave a sober nod.

'What is "Hanging Around"?' he asked, after reflecting for a second.

Ah yes English idiom, not to mention army slang. I foresaw problems.

'It means – loitering. Waiting with no good reason.'

The good Kapitan seemed interested in the Armoury's contents, craning his neck and examining the arsenal with a great deal of interest. Sergeant Whittaker, on duty there, regarded our guest with a great deal of suspicion.

'Is it possible to test-fire these weapons?' asked Komorowski. Sergeant Whittaker's eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

'Yes. S'arnt Whittaker? Have a full selection of small arms with ammo out at the range in ten minutes.' A malicious after-thought made me add: 'And include the anti-dino gun.'

En route to the upper floor and direct access to the firing range, who did we come across but young Sarah, looking appealing in a suit, trousers and winning smile.

'Hello there, John. Have you seen the Doctor?'

'Not since yesterday,' I admitted. 'He was due to go off somewhere – somewhere – actually I can't remember properly. To do with Magellan, anyway.'

'Well, in that case I'm going back to my apartment. A working girl needs to work and I've got two articles to submit. Cosmo and the New Statesman.'

I gave a strangled squawk of alarm: Cosmo is a girls mag and the Statesman is a trendy-left rag that loves to kick the establishment.

'Oh, don't go on so, you old woman!' scolded Sarah. 'One's about winter fashions and the other about women in journalism.'

She eyed the officer at my side.

'Who's your unusually-dressed friend? I don't remember seeing him before.'

'Sarah, this is Kapitan Tadeusz Komorowski of the Polish Army, currently on attachment to UNIT UK. Kapitan Komorowski, this is Sarah Jane Smith, UNIT's archivist and the Doctor's current personal assistant.'

The Kapitan swept into action, bowing, clicking his heels together and kissing the back of Sarah's hand, making her giggle in embarassment. I hope it was embarassment.

'Oh, John, bring more like this one! Very gallant, Kapitan!'

'It is the duty of a Polish officer to be tres gallant, Miss Smith,' replied Komorowski deadpan, the romantic dog. He wasn't going to get anywhere near Marie, my girlfriend.

The Range Safety Officer turned out to be a saturnine Nick Munroe, who had substituted himself for whoever was on the duty roster.

'Sto lat!' he said, producing a bottle of whisky for Komorowski. 'Flag's up, Captain Walmsley, you may commence firing whenever.'

The firing range at Aylesbury actually had two parts, the much longer second range for the heavier weapons, the graduated first part for small arms. Nick had thoughtfully set up target silhouettes at varying distances on the first range.

Kapitan Komorowski fumbled with the SLR at first.

'Big rifle, bigger than I am used to,' he apologised. I handed him a pair of ear protectors.

'It's not as compact as the AK 47, no. However, it does a lot more damage out to a greater range. Generally, anyone hit by an SLR lies down and dies.'

'It has no automatic fire?' he asked, pointing the muzzle carefully at the skies.

'Certainly not!' I replied, amusedly. 'British soldiers are trained to hit with accurate aimed fire, not hose the countryside with bullets.'

The Kapitan loosed off a full magazine, seemingly impressed by the impressive bang that an SLR makes.

'Good grouping at fifty yards, poor after that,' declared Nick, spotting the silhouettes via binoculars.

'What is this?' asked the Kapitan, pointing at a light machine gun.

'An L4. It's the old wartime Bren gun, firing rimless ammo.'

He gave the targets a hard time with that, too, sawing one of the wooden silhouettes in two. Next came the GPMG, which he declared similar to the PK – a Warsaw Pact light machine gun, I believe.

'Ah – that is a Sterling sub-machine gun. We have two silenced models, and that's one of them. Set the selector to single-shot or you shoot the silencer apart.'

He only fired a few rounds with that particular toy, ear protectors off, to hear the muted "pop" it made.

'Double-barrel shotgun?' he asked, hefting the Nitro Express with both hands.

'NO!' I warned. 'That, Kapitan, is an elephant gun. I've brought two rounds for it. I warn you, it kicks like an angry horse, and keep your ear protectors on. Only fire one shot.'

He didn't pay attention and fired both barrels at once, which caused the gun barrels to end up pointing at the skies, his staggering backwards and swearing in Polish, and the target silhouette to disintegrate from the waist upwards.

'Hit!' laughed Nick from his bench, not needing the bins to verify.

'Holy Virgin!' exclaimed the Pole. 'What do you need such a weapon for! Ah, ah, ah, my shoulder.'

'I got it to kill dinosaurs,' I mumbled, hoping to move on to the LAW. 'That's a LAW, "Light Anti-Armour Weapon." '

'Eh? Oh, the invisible dinosaurs of London. Yes, we heard about them. No trace now remains of them, correct?'

'They're on film and various television recordings, and if we go to Kensington I can show you more proof. The LAW?'

After showing him how to fire the portable rocket launcher, he blasted away at the nearest target. Typically, the rocket swerved away to one side and missed by a dozen yards.

'Not very accurate,' I explained.

Kapitan Komorowski's shoulder hurt too much for him to continue after that, so Nick rang Sergeant Whittaker for weapons collection.

'Nicely in time for dinner in the mess, if you care to join us?' I asked. The Kapitan pursed his lips and nodded.

Rarely has the mess at Aylesbury been so pristine. The table shone with layers of polish, the silver service gleamed after energetic buffing, and the best china was in evidence. An arrangement of cut, dried flowers graced the middle of the table, and a Polish flag, from god only knows where, had been tacked to one wall. Sharp-eyed chap that he was, Komorowski spotted the flag instantly, pursed his lips and nodded in appreciation.

When an unusually large number of officers had assembled, the Brig stood to make a formal introduction, meaning we all needed to stand, too.

'I'd like to welcome Kapitan Tasdesuz Komorowski, on temporary secondment to UNIT UK. Gentlemen, I expect nothing less than complete co-operation with Kapitan Komorowski. With respect to other members of our organisation, we run a transparent operation here at Aylesbury, so if he asks you a question, you anwer it to the best of your ability, or I'll know the reason why. Gentlemen – a toast to the Kapitan, to Poland and to UNIT.'

Glasses raised all round, whereupon we all sat and began to dine. By the time coffee came my fellow officers were beginning to ask questions of Kapitan Komorowski, so I jumped in first to prevent any mis-understandings.

'Kapitan, in UNIT it's a convention that the first time a person introduces themselves they mention their parent unit. I would be "Captain John Walmsley, late of the Queen's Lancashire Regiment." Doubtless my brothers in arms would be about to ask you which regiment of the Polish Army you hail from.'

Komorowski nodded and looked serious. Then again he nearly always looked serious.

'I come from the Sixth Pomeranian Airborne Division.'

'Oh, you ought to get on well with Sergeant Benton, then,' interrupted Lieutenant Eden. 'He's ex-airborne, One Para.'

'What is "One Para"?' asked the Pole.

'First Battalion, The Parachute Regiment,' I explained. ' "First" equates to "One" and "Para" – well, that's obvious.'

Next question came courtesy of Captain March.

'Why has the Soviet Union wanted an exchange of officers? It's not something they've ever done before.'

Komorowski shrugged.

'I cannot say for certain, but rumour has it that an "incident" took place at Magnitogorsk, which has impelled my Socialist brothers to seek advice from further afield.'

It may have been my imagination, perhaps, but his pronunciation of "Socialist brothers" seemed to have a silent sneer to it.

'You refer to the Russians as your "brothers",' I asked, feeling mischievous. 'What about the Germans?'

'I do not like the Germans,' replied the Kapitan, coldly.

'Ah, but is that our Germans or your Germans?' asked Eden, meaning the West or East Germans.

'I do not like the Germans,' repeated the Kapitan in English, adding in a Polish undertone 'fat arrogant dumb dastards'. That's pretty close to what he said, me being able to understand most of it.

'Ahem! Did I mention my ability to speak Russian!' I blurted, before Komorowski could put his foot in it again. I repeated the sentence in Russian. The Kapitan looked at me in surprise and alarm.

'Is this man Russian!' he asked, pointing at me, looking at the Brigadier.

'From Wigan,' said Nick. 'With love but no Russia.'

'Captain Walmsley is from Lancashire. He does have a particular aptitude for Russian,' explained the Brig.

'He speaks Russian like a Russian. Like a Leningrader.' I got a very suspicious look from the Kapitan. Clearly he didn't trust me, if he ever did in the first place.

After lunch we explored the vehicle workshops, where the Kapitan expressed an interest in the Fox armoured cars we have. One was out of commission with all four wheels off, up on blocks for the fitters to do repair work.

'You might not be able to fit in one,' I warned him. 'I can't get into these or the Scorpions.'

By dint of athletic slithering and the Kapitan's innate litheness, he did get into the Fox, managing to sit in the drivers seat and peer out like a hamster in a cage. Something I'd never manage to do, I ruefully reflected when he clambered out again.

'Armoured Personnel Carriers?' he half-asked, half-stated, pointing at the new pre-fab that housed the three FV432's.

'Sort of,' I nodded. 'That's what they were originally. After Exercise Bannockburn we discovered a need for indirect-fire weapons, so two of these are adapted to mount 81 millimetre mortars. They sit in the passenger compartment and fire through a large circular hatch. Our best crew can have six bombs in the air and be on the move again from a standing start within thirty seconds.'

Komorowski nodded, seriously.

'What is "Exercise Bannockburn"?'

'Well, if you ask Lieutenant Munroe, you'll find out all you could ever wish to know.'

I explained a bit further, that what I next wanted to acquire were some Spartans, a vehicle based on the Scorpion chassis that fired wire-guided anti-tank missiles.

'Fat chance we have, unless or until the next emergency comes and we turn up trumps. Whitehall and the MoD only ever seem to be ready to give us equipment when we save the world, or the country at least.'

The Kapitan clambered into and over the FV432's, and pursed his lips in appreciation at the ingeniously-designed driver's seat, which telescopes into position. He hunched over in the Sardine Can, the personnel-carrying vehicle.

'Plenty of space,' he said. 'No, I am not joking,' he continued, seeing my questioning glance. 'Our vehicles are very cramped. Nor do we have padding on our seats. Or straps.'

'Luxurious NATO appointments, eh? No, it's to stop the passengers getting bashed silly going cross-country.'

Not that we got much chance to do that. The Brigadier struggled with Buckinghamshire County Council on a regular basis to acquire more land for Aylesbury. Partly that was my fault; with three Scorpions, three Foxes and two large mortars we needed much larger shooting ranges, which had taken months of negotiations.

We left the APC's and strolled towards the allotment where the catering staff were growing their own vegetables and herbs.

'You are really not Russian?' asked Komorowski suddenly, after casting a cautious glance to left and right.

'No. I know I speak Russian like a native, but that's because I travelled in TARDIS with the Doctor to Trevilho, in Northern Russia. TARDIS, you see, equips you to understand local language – is something the matter?'

Kapitan Komorowski exhibited all the signs of a man choking on a fish-bone.

'You – you are Ivan Izvestilniuk! The mysterious vanishing Ukranian with his white-haired friend – Doktor Ivan Kuznetz! Holy Mother why didn't I realise before!' and he called himself several naughty things in Polish. Stopping dead he looked at me in bewilderment. 'But that happened in 1969 – seven years ago. You could only have been a teenager then, except your description is the same as you are today. How is this possible?'

Okay, the Kapitan had been briefed on the invasion and siege of Trevilho, a town that encountered criminally-insane alien prisoners – the Cadaverites. It's a long story.

'Believe me, Kapitan, with the Doctor and TARDIS, anything is possible where time is concerned.' I sighed. 'I suppose you think this is all a load of nonsense?'

He shook his head with furious denial.

'Not at all! I know the Kremlin takes any mention of the Doctor very seriously. I think he has been in the Soviet Union several times previously to Trevilho, but as a lowly – captain, I don't get to find out.'

'Well, I can tell you. During the October Revolution and at Stalingrad.'

Doubtless the good Kapitan wondered how one man could intervene in events fifty-nine and thirty-four years in the past.

In typical English fashion, bad weather stopped play, so the pair of us adjourned indoors, to my office. The Nitro now graced the gun-rack again.

'Take a seat, Kapitan. Well, you've seen the grounds and the buildings and most of the staff at Aylesbury. I suggest that we travel to Project Broom and Swafham Prior tomorrow. Are you familiar with either of those places?'

He nodded sombrely; yes he had, and he would very much like to see the black museum at Swafham Prior.

'Top. We'll go there tomorrow morning, Project Broom in the afternoon.'

He asked about Maiden's Point. Would it be possible to travel there?

Maiden's Point is an isolated spot on the North Yorkshire coast, where a small UNIT garrison keeps watch over a deserted Royal Navy station and half a mile of beach. The reason is a colony of haemovores that live undersea off the Point. According to the Doctor, who ought to know, they are present in the twentieth century by accident. Normally they don't bother us on dry land, and we leave them well alone, too. A nice state of truce.

'You can, yes. I warn you that nothing happens there, but it has a very creepy atmosphere to it.'

'The creatures from the sea, they watch you?'

'Maybe, maybe not. It does feel as if something were sneaking up on you all the time. Yet nothing ever happens.'

Komorowski made a dismissive gesture. Perhaps he wouldn't bother with Maiden's Point.

Dinner in the mess had just as many curious officers present as did lunch.

'Getting along well?' asked the Brig of Komorowski.

'Oh, yes, sir. Captain Walmsley is very accomodating. He has answered all my questions most completely.'

The Brig gave me an appreciative nod. Thanks Tadeusz.

'And Lieutenant Munroe has given me a bottle of whisky to drink UNIT health, also, which I will do, sir.'

The Brig's eye came to rest on Nick, who beamed happily.

'Excellent idea, Nick. Any more questions, Kapitan?'

Komorowski chewed his food ruminatively.

'Actually, sir, I do. What use does UNIT have for an antique motor car and a delta-wing hovercraft?'

Those were the Doctor's preferred modes of transport.

'Ah, now they belong to our Special Scientific Advisor, the Doctor. He tinkers around with them incessantly, just like the TARDIS. He not around, John?'

'No, sir. Gone off on a jaunt to somewhere outlandish.'

The Brig sighed.

'Always doing that, without warning. Really, the man can be most infuriating. You must have a chat with him when he returns, Kapitan. Fascinating chap, but infuriating.'

From there the talk turned to different operations we'd been on, and naturally Komorowski ended up being asked exactly what he'd done.

'Not a great deal,' he admitted. 'Mostly dealing with the White Wyrack.' Seeing our looks of incomprehension, he continued. 'You know? The giant creature that lives in factory chimmneys? Not as common as it used to be, but an unpleasant surprise when it does appear.'

Right. Giant creature infesting factories. Must be an Eastern European thing.

'No vampires? Or werewolves?' asked Eden, to a disapproving look from the Pole.

'No vampires. Vampires are creatures of myth.' He caught me staring at him and coughed. 'Mostly from myth.'

'Gentlemen,' announced the Brig. 'I am off to bed. I have an early departure for Geneva tomorrow. Kapitan, I'll ask about Magnitogorsk, see what the answer is. Goodnight.'

He left, to a chorus of goodnights. Kapitan Komorowski followed on the Brig's coat-tails, which meant he avoided any replies about werewolves.

The next day was busy for myself and our secondee, travelling to Swafham Prior and the black museum of collected alien artefacts in the morning, off to Project Broom and their forested habitat in the afternoon, only getting back to Aylesbury in the evening, long after the mess had finished.

'Canteen, then,' I commiserated. 'Let's see what the dog's dinner is tonight.'

Left-over macaroni cheese with bacon and mushrooms. A bit dried-out but lots of it. Corporal Dene, sole squaddy in charge of the canteen, wanted to get rid, so we both got plates ladled high with the last of it.

'Good night, sir, Dobrie Outra, Kapitan,' he said, whisking down the canteen shutters from the other side of the counter, causing us both to look surprised.

'I am very full now,' announced the Kapitan after rapidly polishing off a huge pile of pasta. 'But very thirsty.'

Ah. No tea. Major failing on the part of Walmsley. Bowed head, fall on sword.

'Would you care to share a drink of Bison Vodka?' he asked. 'I have two glasses.'

'In the spirit of inter-UNIT co-operation, yes I would.'

His spartan room had few personal touches to it, which is not surprising, since he couldn't have carried many in his baggage. A framed, formal portrait photograph of a woman – presumably his wife - , a laquered army crest on a wooden stand, and a battered wooden crucifix.

'Oh,' I remarked, looking at the cross. Komorowski looked at me whilst pouring out the vodka. I remembered the Doctor's statement "Romanticism, Nationalism and Catholicism", before making a fool of myself by saying anything silly.

'We have a visiting chaplain,' I said, sipping the fiery brew. 'However, he's Church of England and you'll want a priest, won't you? I'll check tomorrow for the nearest RC church.'

'Most hospitable,' he thanked. 'Tomorrow, would it be possible to follow you at work?'

No Maiden's Point, then. Good!

'You can, but it isn't terribly exciting stuff.' I threw back a last nightcap and said goodnight.

Next morning, Kapitan Komorowski ventured into my office, and sat in a chair whilst I shuffled paper. I gave him the breakdown of UNIT transport based at Aylesbury: a dozen Landrovers, twenty Bedfords, a Landrover wireless truck, Nick's air-portable truck, three FV432s, three Scorpions, three Fox armoured cars, a Bell and a Wessex helicopter, two cars for the Brig and – most recent official additions to vehicle strength – the Doctor's vintage lemon-yellow roadster, Bessie, and the silver jet-cum-hovercraft. The Kapitan smiled at Bessie's description. I didn't. The damn thing had the acceleration of a sports car and could do well over a hundred miles per hour.

'No artillery or Main Battle Tank?' asked the Kapitan, an intelligent question.

'No. UNIT UK is principally a rapid-reaction force, we need to be quick and fleet of foot. All our vehicles are fast. Big guns or big tanks would only slow us down. If needed, we can call on the regulars for heavier metal. 322 Squadron have a flight of Phantoms earmarked for airstrike-support if we need them.'

Then there were the stocks of spare parts for the vehicles, not to mention the diesel fuel that the MoD hoarded like vintage wine. And, of course, paperwork in endless amounts.

'Oh – two birds with one stone, we can go catch Sarah with these tabulated tables and see if the Doctor's back yet. Oh – "managing to achieve two aims with one action",' I enlarged, seeing the Kapitan frowning.

Sarah wasn't down in the laboratory, as she normally would be, hammering away deftly on a typewriter. Bum. She normally did the incredibly fiddly tables of spare parts ordered, delivered, returned or accepted, diesel consumption, miles travelled, this that and the other.

'Not arrived yet?' asked Komorowski.

'No, but she intended to. That's her electric typewriter. It weighs a ton so she doesn't carry it back and forth between here and London more than she has to.'

I rang the Guard Room, who confirmed that Sarah hadn't returned to Aylesbury since checking-out the day before yesterday. A couple of officers were also trying to catch her, to get back paperwork which she had promised to type for them.

Naughty Sarah. Her accreditation would be imperilled if she carried on like this.

The Pole wasn't paying much attention. Instead he stared at a blue police box in the corner of the lab.

'How did that get in here?'

I strode over to stand in front of it.

'Kapitan Komorowski, meet TARDIS!'

The other officer looked at me as if I'd declared I was the re-incarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte whilst wearing a ballet tu-tu and waders.

'Really, it is.' How to convince him? I picked up a retort stand, taking care to make sure the Doctor wasn't lurking around. 'Watch!'

I put plenty of vim into the swing and hit the door flat on, sending a violent shock up my arm. Komorowski came closer and inspected the "wooden" door.

'No effect,' he murmured. 'Would it be possible to try myself?'

Rubbing my now-painful arm, I gave him the steel rod. He picked on one corner of the TARDIS and hit it.

'Ow! Holy Virgin!' he yelped, dropping the rod and waving his hand before scrutinising the blue box.

'Still no trace. How is that possible?' he asked me. 'Captain!'

I'd got a fire-axe from the wall mounting and motioned him backwards. The axe went smack at the door, bouncing back dangerously without taking so much as a splinter off the woodwork. Komorowski took charge of the axe, hitting the small "glass" windows repeatedly, until his hands hurt too much to carry on.

'How is this possible? This cannot be real wood or glass, can it?'

'No,' I agreed. 'It's possibly not actual physical material at all. The Doctor's not too chatty about technology as advanced as this. Oh – what's that?'

A low humming noise came from the front door of the TARDIS, it swung open and there stood the Doctor, leaning against the door. My initial fear of getting a right royal chewing-out for abusing his spaceship vanished when I saw the state he was in: his clothes torn and burnt, hair scorched, skin scratched and bruised.

'I wonder – would you mind not – not hitting the TARDIS like that, Jamie?' he muttered, taking a step forward and collapsing. I retained enough presence of mind to catch him before he hit the floor.

'Medical Officer attend to Doctor's laboratory, immediately!' barked Komorowski into a wall-phone, having got there before the Doctor even fell.

Harry Sullivan looked unusually serious and grim, once he'd seen to the Doctor.

'Complete rest and isolation. I'll have the Brigadier put a guard on the door to prevent any unwanted visitors.'

'What happened to him?' asked Komorowski.

Harry sighed, pulling taut the stethoscope he held.

'Third degree burns, extensive bruising, broken ribs on his left side, internal bleeding. Also mental trauma. He kept saying "Trap" and "ambush". Basically, he's been seriously assaulted.'

That made sense. There was little that could get into TARDIS in a frontal assault – to attack the Doctor you'd need to trick him outside it.

'I've given him a mild sedative. Knowing his constitution like I do, we're best leaving him to heal himself. No going in to quiz him, either, John!'

He looked puzzled.

'I tried to get in touch with Sarah at home, to tell her what's happened, but she's not answering her phone. You've not seen her today?'

That left Tadeusz and I looking at each other. What the hell had happened?