BRITISH COMICS
S.O.S. FOR STRANG THE TERRIBLE
First
episode taken from Adventure issue: 1239
THE MYSTERIOUS
THE CHALLENGE
All day long the drums had been
sounding on both sides of the
From his porch overlooking the
river, Donald Frobisher, the District Commissioner, watched anxiously. A small,
blue-eyed man, burnt to little more than bone and sinew by long years in
His guest rose, grinning as he did
so, and for the first time a real idea of his size could be gained. He was well
over six feet in height, with a chest and shoulders like a gorilla. With
heavily-muscled limbs which light tropical garb scarcely hid, Strang the Terrible
was the perfect figure of an athlete. Coupled with that magnificent body of his
was a fine head and features which told of unusual intelligence and resource.
There were many who considered Strang to be the strongest man in the world.
Certainly he had adventured in many countries, and he was never happier than
when away from civilization. He had been in Dar-es-Salaam on a cargo steamer
when word had reached him from Donald Frobisher, an old friend in the Colonial
service. Frobisher had begged him to break his journey and come up to Masombe,
where trouble was brewing. When Strang had learned how he might help, he had
answered the call at once.
The Masombe were a well-behaved
people, or had been so until one of their number named Dunda had returned from
Dunda swaggered about, insulting
and defying every white man he met, challenging him to physical combat, and
always winning. His influence on the tribesmen was so bad that there had been
something like open defiance of the government when Frobisher had thought to
send for Strang. “Come up here and put this big bully in his place,” he had
begged. “Only if he is beaten by a white man before his own people shall we
have any peace.”
Now the word had gone out
far and wide that a Briton had arrived to pit himself against the black
champion. Dunda had boasted that he would make the challenger grovel in the
dust, and had called upon the neighbouring tribesmen to come and see his
triumph. “I’m
going to enjoy this,” declared Strang,
stretching himself and hearing an ominous tearing across the back of his shirt.
“Huh, how I hate clothes and all the trappings with
which we civilised men surround ourselves! These blacks live much simpler,
saner lives.” Across the river the
natives were massed in their thousands around a clearing, and suddenly a great
voice was heard from across the water.
“White man, are
you ready? I, Dunda, the Eater of Elephants and Slayer of Lions, am waiting for
you! Why do you skulk in your hut when all these people are waiting to witness
your downfall? Are you afraid?” “That’s
Dunda,” muttered the District Commissioner. “We
had better get my boys to paddle us across. The crowd will grow impatient very
quickly.” Strang narrowed his eyes. Despite the glare of the
sun on the water, he could see a massive figure standing at the water’s
edge, an almost naked black figure made even taller by the ostrich feathers on
his head. “So that’s
Dunda!” Strang muttered. “Well,
I won’t keep him waiting. Here goes!”
With a tug and a shrug he had pulled the torn shirt over his head, his belt and
shorts had fallen to the floor, and it could be seen that he was wearing a
loincloth of leopard-skin. His muscles rippled and rolled under his skin as he
vaulted the verandah rail and landed on the river bank. The next moment he had
dived in head-first. “Come back, man, come back!”
roared Frobisher, suddenly pale with terror. “Strang—the crocodiles!”
Strang the Terrible was churning through the water with long, powerful strokes
which drove him faster than the fish which scattered before him. The sun
brought out the golden glint in his hair, and there was a sparkle in his eyes when
once he half-turned to wave a reassuring hand to his friend. The natives became
silent. Dunda stood with hands on hips, scowling and watching the crocodile
which had begun to move towards the swimmer. If Strang saw the animal cutting
across his path, he made no effort to avoid it. Frobisher shouted himself
hoarse, then jumped into a canoe and seized the paddle. He feared he would be
too late. The crocodile was a big, gnarled brute, and Strang encountered it when
he was only a dozen yards from the other bank. It came at him with open jaws,
confident that it had found a tasty meal. The natives held their breaths, then
gasped when the head of the swimmer suddenly vanished. Strang the Terrible had
dived.
He was gone from sight for
only a second, but when he came up he gripped in his raised hands the tapering
tail of the crocodile! High above his head he raised it, then with a swing
which made the water foam, he heaved the reptile into the air. Such was the
strength behind his throw that the crocodile landed ashore almost at the feet
of Dunda, who leapt back with a howl of fear. The recoil sent Strang below the
surface again, and he swam the rest of the way underwater, arriving on the bank
in time to give the shocked and startled crocodile a hearty kick as it fled for
the water. The assembled natives roared and stamped, rattling their spears on
their shields to show their admiration on this feat. By the time Dunda had
collected his wits and composure, Strang was standing before him with folded
arms, a wet, bronzed figure in the strong sunshine.
“Here I am,
Dunda,” he said in a loud voice. “What
do you want with me?”
THE HIDDEN SPECTATOR
The black champion was a brutal
looking man, but there was no denying the size of his muscles. It was obvious
that the manner of the white man’s arrival and the incident with the crocodile
had badly shaken him. Showing his large teeth, he suddenly turned and pointed
to a boulder which had been rolled into the clearing. “Let me see you do this!”
he growled, and gripped the rock on either side as he straddled before it.
Again the crowd was silent. Donald Frobisher was stepping ashore from the
canoe, sweat running down his face. Even yet he found it hard to believe that
Strang was unharmed.
Dunda’s great muscles bulged more
than ever. They seemed about to burst through the skin. Gradually he took the
strain on his arms and straightened up, lifting the rock from the ground. For a
moment he held it knee-high, then uttered a loud grunt as he swung it above his
head. His eyes were blazing with triumph. A bellow went up from the assembled
tribesmen, and again they hammered on their shields. “Father of the Elephants!”
they shouted. “Dunda is the Father of the Elephants!” “Let me see you do that!”
gasped their champion, tossing the boulder down perilously near Strang’s toes.
Strang the Terrible shrugged. He gripped the boulder as the black man had done,
then with one quick, supple heave he raised it above his head. The muscles of
his back had danced for a moment, then became still. It had all taken place so
quickly that the crowd found themselves blinking. It was fully five seconds
before they howled applause. Dunda showed his teeth in a fearsome snarl, and
there was a savage glint in his eyes. “Lifting is not everything!” he growled,
and clapped his hands. Four men proceeded to fix two poles into the ground.
Across them they laid a bamboo rod. When they placed these to their liking, the
rod was about seven feet from the ground. Strang realised that he was going to
be asked to jump over it. All the Masombe tribe were long-legged and remarkable
jumpers. Dunda evidently inherited this tribal ability. He began to grin with
triumph as he watched the white man’s face. To the left of the clearing where
the tribes were assembled was a steep hill, and halfway up this was a clump of
bushes. If anyone had been looking in that direction they would have detected a
movement and have glimpsed a pale golden skin. A man was hidden there, watching
the contest below with eager interest. He was not a native of the district,
neither was he European. He wore a loose tunic to the knees, girded at the
waist with a belt of plaited leather. His hair was fair and his eyes blue. His
features were more Arabic than Negroid. As he lay there his gaze rarely left
Strang. He saw Dunda mockingly wave the white man towards the seven-feet jump.
It was obvious that the jeering black did not expect his rival to be able to
clear it. Strang walked up to the rod and examined it, then he went back a few
paces and made a short run, stopping at the last moment and shaking his head.
The crowd laughed with glee, and Dunda roared: “What keeps you, white man? It
won’t bite. Go on, jump it—if you can!” Strang turned away from the rod, and
suddenly bent towards the boulder which had been used for the lifting test.
Before anyone realised what he was going to do, he had hoisted it into his
arms, swung about and run at the seven-feet leap. He gathered speed with every
stride, then he seemed to soar aloft. He cleared the rod with ease and landed
on the other side with the boulder still clasped to him. The startled silence
which followed was broken by a bellow from the District Commissioner:
“Magnificent! Stupendous! Let us see you do that, Dunda!”
Up on the hillside the
golden-skinned stranger began to mutter under his breath. His fingers dug into
his palms with excitement. As for Dunda he stared in sullen silence. He
realised that he could never imitate this amazing feat and his anger rose.
Screaming something in his own tongue, he snatched a hidden knife from his
loincloth and hurled himself at Strang. Everyone leapt to their feet. Donald
Frobisher dropped a hand to his revolver, but there was no necessity for him to
draw it. Strang the Terrible tossed the boulder to one side, and with the same
forward movement drove out a clenched fist to meet the oncoming negro. It
caught Dunda on the side of his broad jaw. The assembled thousands saw the
defeated black turn a complete somersault before landing on his back five yards
away. There he lay motionless, blood trickling from his open mouth. Before
uproar could break out, the District Commissioner raised his hand and cried:
“People of the Masombe, let there be no more trouble between us! You have seen
that Dunda has lied to you, and that there are white men who are more than his
equal. Do not let your pride in the strength of one man lead you into
foolishness. Go to your homes, and tell what you have witnessed!” Silently the
tribesmen turned about and began to shuffle from the clearing, casting awed
glances at the mighty white champion who was now strolling back to the canoe.
Dunda lay where he had fallen, and none went near him to comfort or assist him.
His day was over. When he came to his senses he would find that all respect for
him had vanished. No longer would his fellow tribesmen listen to his boasting.
From the thicket on the hillside
the light-skinned stranger watched Donald Frobisher shake Strang by the hand.
He saw them paddle back to the bungalow on the other side, and his gaze
followed the bronzed figure of Strang until it vanished indoors. For a long
time the man lay in that thicket, until every tribesman had vanished from
sight. Even Dunda himself had risen and limped away. Only when he was sure that
he was not watched did the stranger go down-stream to where rushes grew in
dense profusion. There he cut three big bundles of dry rushes and bound these
together with plaited grasses. Using this as a raft he propelled himself to the
other bank of the river. The sun had gone down before the golden-skinned man
came to the garden round the District Commissioner’s bungalow.
Dinner was being served, and he
could see the two white men on the verandah. The Commissioner was in high
spirits, and Strang was eating heartily. Household servants were moving about
the grounds, and the stranger hid in an irrigation-ditch until the evening wore
on and they went to their compound. Then only the two white men were left. For
more than three hours they sat there in the cool of the night, talking over old
times. The man in the garden did not stir. For most of the time he stared at
Strang. He seemed to be trying to nerve himself to go forward and speak, but he
did not do so. He was still crouching in the ditch when the two men rose, yawned
and said good-night to each other. On one side of the bungalow there was a
sleeping-porch, screened against mosquitoes. It was here that the
golden-skinned stranger presently saw Strang stretch out on a camp-bed to
sleep. The District Commissioner preferred to sleep inside. Time passed, and
Strang no longer stirred. His breathing was slow and regular when the man in
the ditch rose with a purposeful air. He meant to waken the big Briton and ask
him a favour. Even as he rose, however, there was a movement on the other side
of the garden, and he saw a black shape crawling across a patch of moonlight.
At first he could not see clearly what it was, but as it neared the steps
leading to the sleeping-porch, he saw that it was a huge negro, naked but for a
loincloth, with a knife clenched between his big, yellow teeth. Just for a
moment his face was visible in the moonlight, and the hidden onlooker
recognised Dunda.
Breathing quickly, the stranger
rose to his feet and darted forward. Dunda was too intent upon creeping up the
steps to heed movement behind him. He had transferred his knife to his hand,
and his eyes were on the upturned throat of Strang the Terrible. His intention
was obvious. He meant to avenge himself for the humiliation which he had
suffered before the eyes of his tribe.
A CALL FOR HELP
Strang was startled out of his
sleep by a bull-like roar, and by a crashing on the verandah steps. The
bungalow shook with the violence of the struggle. Two figures rolled over and
over just below the porch. Strang vaulted the rail and landed beside them as
Frobisher came out of the building. One of the struggling pair was Dunda. In
his hand he held an ugly knife with which he vainly tried to slash the lithe,
golden-skinned figure who clung to his back. Dunda had been attacked from
behind, and for a few moments even his vast strength was unable to shake off
his attacker. It was only a question of time however. Within half a minute he
would have torn himself loose and would have ripped the other man to shreds. It
did not take Strang more than a second to size up the situation, then he swung
the edge of his hand viciously at the back of Dunda’s neck. Thud! It was a
rabbit-punch with more than the usual force behind it. Dunda went limp and
rolled back across the legs of his panting opponent, whom Strang now hoisted to
his feet. “What’s going on here?” Strang demanded sternly, and forgot that he
spoke in English.
The light-skinned man was almost
exhausted. “He—he came to kill you!” he gasped, and he pronounced the Swahili
words with an unusual accent. “I was waiting to speak to you, and he came
crawling over that wall. He was on the steps with the knife when I leapt on
him.” “Then you saved my life,” declared Strang, also speaking in the same
Swahili dialect. “Did you hear that, Frobisher? Dunda came here to slit my
throat.” The D.C. had come down the
steps from the verandah. Two native policemen had come running from their
quarters at the sound of the commotion. They now looked inquiringly at
Frobisher, and he signed for them to take the black giant away. “Handcuff him
and see that he does not escape,” the D.C. told them. Then he added to Strang:
“This means that we can put him out of the way for a good many years to come.
I’m sorry this happened to you here, however. I ought to have suspected
something and had you guarded.” Strang looked curiously at the golden-skinned
stranger, then took him gently by an elbow and led him into the bungalow. “It
seems that I was already guarded! Who are you, and why were you waiting to
speak to me?” The man glanced nervously about the room, then straight at the
powerful figure clad in the leopard-skin. “Strong! Strong!” he muttered. “That
is why I wished to speak to you. You are strong enough.” Strong enough for
what?” demanded the puzzled Briton. “Who are you, and where are you from?”
For reply the stranger turned and
pointed to the west. It was obvious that he found difficulty in pronouncing the
Swahili words. Sometimes he failed to remember the right word and they had
trouble in guessing what he meant. “Over there, far away, are the mountains of
Udz. My people live there—light-skinned people like me.” The District
Commissioner started to say something, but the man hurried on: “We are called
the Karams. I am Lah, the son of the chief, but they killed my father when they
came.” “When who came?” asked Strang. The man’s eyes opened wide in horror.
“The Ru-men—the black Ru-men! The men of iron, the monsters without feeling!
They came and conquered. They killed my father and made me prisoner, but I have
escaped. I have travelled far, looking for someone light-skinned who is strong
enough to beat even the black men of iron who make slaves of my countrymen. As
soon as I saw you testing your strength against that black giant I knew I had
found the one I sought. Frobisher and Strang exchanged glances. “Let’s get this
straight,” said the District Commissioner. “Are you telling us that a
light-skinned race like yourself live in the Mountains of Udz? Do they wear the
same dress as you? Are they as civilised as you?” “Yes, yes, we have a
city—houses, streets, fine buildings. We were very happy, far from all other
peoples, but the men of iron—the Ru-men—have changed it all. Now my people are
slaves.” “You mean you’ve been invaded by another tribe—a black tribe?” Lah
screwed up his face as though trying to find the words with which to express
himself. “They are black, but they are not a tribe. There are not many of them,
but they are strong and hard—so strong and so hard that not even swords will
cut them. They are like that man who came here to kill you, but they have no
hair. They do not speak. Only Uj speaks. Strang frowned. “Who is Uj?” “He is
their leader. He lives in my father’s palace. He rules us. Each day many of my
people die. Each day the Ru-men kill many of them. They are not human, they
have no pity. Before long we Karams will die out unless help comes. That is why
I beg you to come and help me. Only one as strong as you can stand against the
Ru-men.” Lah had turned to Strang and seemed about to drop on his knees to
plead his cause. Strang checked him, and began to ask questions. It was not
easy to understand things clearly, but the facts appeared to be that a white or
golden-skinned race with an advanced state of civilization lived in the
unexplored
“What beats me is how a few of
these black giants could beat a whole tribe!” exclaimed Frobisher. “How big are
they? Are they real giants?” Lah shook his head. “The same size as the big
black man who came to kill your friend, but without hair. It would be useless
to hit them with the fist. They would not drop.” “Could you find your way back
to your city in the mountains?” asked Strang, and there was a note in his voice
which made his friend look at him sharply. “Yes, we would have to travel for
many days, but I know the way,” Lah replied. “Will you come?” His face glowed
with hope. Strang slapped him on the back, rocking him to his heels. “I will!
You saved my life, and I’m not the sort to overlook such a service as that.
Besides, it means adventure in a new setting! It means getting away from
civilization. Lah, I’ll come with you as soon as you like!” “Strang, think
well,” muttered Donald Frobisher. “That district if totally unexplored.” “All
the better!” There was a boyish grin in Strang’s eyes. “The unknown always
appealed to me. Yes. I’ll come with you, Lah, and see this white-skinned race
for myself. I want to find out what you mean by black men of iron!”
For the time since he had met the
two Briton, Lah gave a smile of pleasure. “Thank you,” he murmured gratefully.
“My people are indeed in great need of your help.” Although Frobisher was still
uneasy at the thought of Strang journeying into this unexplored territory,
Strang himself insisted on making the necessary arrangements there and then, so
that they could set off first thing in the morning.
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007