War Cry

by Wilbur Smith

  “I don’t care about that!” Gerhard shouted “I . . .” He fell silent, unable to say the words. I want Berti to be alive.

  “Try to look on the positive side, sir,” Götz said, sounding a little more like a human being. “There was time to bury your comrade before the Russians arrived. He is lying in peace, which is more than can be said for a lot of good German men. And the Russians didn’t take him alive. That’s a true mercy, sir, from what I’ve heard.”

  Gerhard sighed. “I apologize if I was short with you, Corporal. You’re right, that is a mercy. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Gerhard drove to a bar in Taganrog, where men from the Wehrmacht forces attached to Army Group South had once gathered to celebrate their triumphs, but nowadays sought nothing more than a brief release from the hell of the Eastern Front. He procured a bottle of schnapps and settled down to drink it in Berti’s honor.

  “To you, old friend,” he said, raising his glass and downing it in one.

  He was pouring another drink when a young army officer approached him, a captain. The man came up close to Gerhard’s bar stool and stood belligerently, unsteady on his feet, red-faced, sweaty, obviously drunk.

  “Herr Oberst,” he said. “Is it true you were at Stalingrad?”

  Gerhard looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Not now, captain. I’m mourning the death of a close friend.”

  The man shuffled closer, so that Gerhard could smell the alcohol on his stinking breath. “I said, were . . . you . . . at . . . Stalingrad?”

  “Yes, I was. Now go.”

  “And you ran away . . . you and the other Luftwaffe cowards.”

  “I’m giving you one last chance. Walk away . . . now.”

  “What, like you did? You flew away, you shithead pansy fly boys . . . and left an army of good German men to die. You deserted . . . You disobeyed a Führer-order . . .”

  Another army officer hurried across and grabbed the captain’s sleeve. “Come on, Hansi, leave the colonel alone . . .”

  The captain brushed him away. He was lost in his anger, his eyes bulging as he raged at Gerhard, “And now they’re all gone! All those brave men! And you deserted them . . . you filthy, goddamned coward!”

  “Please, Herr Oberstleutnant,” the second soldier pleaded. “He’s not in his right mind. His brother was at Stalingrad, taken prisoner by the Reds.”

  Gerhard poured another glass of schnapps, downed it, then he got up from his stool, looked the captain in the eye and said, “Screw you . . . and screw your goddamned Führer too. I was at Stalingrad from the first bombing raid on the twenty-third of August through to the last flight out of Gumrak when the Ivans were so close we could see them coming onto the airfield as we took off. I saw it all, you drunken shit. I saw an entire army, and most of my own men thrown away . . . and for what?” He looked around the bar, daring anyone to answer him. “For what? We never even captured the city. We never had control of the river, which was the whole point of the exercise, wasn’t it? I mean, that’s what the man said, standing safe and sound in a bierkeller in Munich.”

  Men looked at one another. Gerhard’s words echoed the thoughts that many of them shared. But what in God’s name had possessed him to speak them aloud?

  Gerhard was past caring. “It was all a waste. It achieved nothing, except for turning men into savages, dressed in rags, half-mad with starvation . . . the wounded with no dressings, no morphine . . . the men who could still fight throwing away their guns because they didn’t have any bullets. So . . . Hansi, is it?”

  The captain nodded.

  “Well, Hansi, I don’t know what your brother looked like the last time you saw him. But I can promise you wouldn’t recognize him now. I’ll bet he doesn’t recognize himself. And I’ll tell you something else, they could have sent every plane in the Luftwaffe to Stalingrad and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference. So don’t blame me. Blame the lunatic who refused to retreat and the generals who wouldn’t defy him. I was there one hundred and forty-six days. I counted them. And I flew one hundred and seventy-three sorties. I did my duty and so did my men. Don’t you damn well blame me.”

  Silence had fallen on the bar. It was as if everyone was waiting for the Gestapo, or SD, or even the chained dogs to appear in their midst and drag the colonel away for words that amounted to treason. But no one came. No arrest was made.

  Instead, Gerhard picked up his bottle, shoved it at Hansi and said, “Here, drink to your poor bastard brother.”

  He headed toward the door, men getting out of his path as if fearing to be seen anywhere near him. Now that his temper had settled, Gerhard was thinking more clearly about what he had said. There were plenty of men whose faith in the Führer was undimmed. If anything they felt more bound to stand by him when things were going badly. That was the proof of their devotion. But even so, would anyone speak out about what they had seen and heard? As he looked at the men around him, he knew what they were thinking.

  He was a senior officer, covered in medals. Maybe he had said things he shouldn’t. But a man could easily find himself in trouble for making an issue of it. Why get involved, if you didn’t have to?

  Gerhard was almost in touching distance of the door. He was about to walk out onto the street. He thought he’d made it. Then a tall, thin man in an immaculately cleaned and pressed uniform, with full colonel’s tabs on his shoulders, rose from his seat at a nearby table.

  “A word, if you please, Oberstleutnant,” he said, barely raising his voice.

  Gerhard stopped and waited as the colonel made his way toward him. “Your name, please,” the colonel said.

  “Oberstleutnant Gerhard von Meerbach.”

  “Your unit?”

  “That’s hard to say, sir. The fighter group I commanded no longer exists. I am on a temporary attachment, awaiting a new posting.”

  “I see.”

  “If you need to get hold of me, I’m sure that General von Richthofen’s headquarters will be able to help you. Might I ask who you are, sir?”

  The colonel ignored the question. He replied, “You have not heard the last of this incident, Oberstleutnant. You may rest assured of that.”

  Men who had been looking at the confrontation by the bar door turned their eyes back to their own drinks. No one looked at Gerhard as he left. No one caught the colonel’s eye as he returned to his table. They thanked God that they had not been the ones to open their mouths in the way the Luftwaffe officer had done. And they pitied him for being so foolish.

  Saffron sailed for South Africa in one of the “Winston Specials,” as the convoys taking troops south along the west coast of Africa on their way to the campaigns in the desert and the Far East were known. One blazing hot morning in mid-January 1943, she disembarked at Cape Town and was met at the foot of the gangway by her cousin Centaine Courtney.

  Many of the troops who had been traveling on the same ship, and whose voyage had been enlivened by the presence of a beautiful young woman on board, had gathered at the rails to watch as they docked below the looming mass of Table Mountain.

  “Bloody hell, there’s two of them,” one of them remarked with a low whistle of appreciation as the cousins embraced at the foot of the gangway.

  Centaine was forty-three years old, having been born on the first day of the twentieth century, but she was wearing the years spectacularly well. She was as slim as she had been when she first set foot on African soil, more than a quarter of a century earlier. Her wavy, dark hair was thick and glossy, and there was hardly a line beneath her huge, lustrous black eyes.

  “You look lovely, as always, Cousin Centaine,” Saffron said.

  “As do you, my darling, but I think you should stop calling me Cousin Centaine. You’re not a child any more, and it makes me feel less like a cousin than an ancient maiden aunt!”

  Saffron laughed. “No one would ever mistake you for that.”

  They walked toward Centaine’s car, a splendid convertible, painted midnight blue, with
sweeping, aerodynamic lines and creamy beige leather upholstery. Centaine was able to afford a chauffeur, but always liked to drive herself, unless there was a good reason not to. The two women put Saffron’s cases in the boot, then Centaine slipped behind the wheel and Saffron took the seat next to her. The engine started up with a deep, rumbling growl.

  “Mmm . . .” sighed Saffron appreciatively. “This is a splendid car, Centaine. What is it?”

  “A Cadillac Series 62. I had it shipped from America.”

  “Well, it’s gorgeous. I love the sound of that engine. I bet it’s incredibly powerful . . .” Saffron noticed the quizzical look her cousin was giving her. “Sorry! That’s what comes from working as a driver for a year. One starts to take an interest in that sort of thing.”

  “Well, if I remember all the salesman’s bumph correctly, it’s a V-8 and it produces a hundred and thirty-five horsepower. Does that help?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Saffron said. She could tell that a more interesting topic of conversation was required. “Do tell me all about Tara. Is she completely divine? Shasa’s clearly quite potty about her.”

  As Centaine drove the car onto the road that led toward the lush pastures and vineyards of her estate at Weltevreden, she smiled, almost wistfully, and said, “You know, I can remember Tara when she was a little girl with a straw hat on her head, decorated with pretty ribbons, running toward her father, holding up her skirt to stop herself from tripping over, and shrieking with excitement at the top of her voice.”

  Saffron said nothing. It sounded as if it should be a happy memory, but there was pain in her cousin’s voice, not too far beneath the surface. Then Centaine cheered up as she said, “But now Tara’s grown up. She’s beautiful to look at, of course. Gorgeous gray eyes, a perfect, oval face like a Raphael Madonna and a tall, slender figure, just like yours. But she’s lovely as a person, too. It would be very easy to take advantage, marrying into this family. You know, insist on the best of everything, always driving your husband round the bend asking for more, more, more.”

  “But Tara’s not like that?”

  “No, quite the opposite. She spends half her life in the Cape Flats, where the worst slums are, setting up soup kitchens and clinics for the poor and needy. Any other girl would spend Shasa’s money on dresses and new curtains. She puts it all into her charity ventures.”

  “How wonderful,” Saffron said, meaning it. “Makes me feel ashamed I don’t do more.”

  “You’re doing plenty . . . but in a different way. And each is as important as the other.”

  “I hope so. The war effort has to be about more than beating Hitler. We must make something better than before, for everyone. But anyway . . . do tell me about Tara.”

  “She’s kept her maiden name. The children will all be Courtneys, but she’s still Tara Malcomess.”

  “How modern! I’m amazed she can manage all her charity work when she’s got a young son. Does she leave him with a nanny?”

  “A little bit more, now that Sean’s less portable. When he was a newborn, though, she charged around the slums with him on her hip. All the women loved it. You never saw a baby boy more doted on than him.”

  They were leaving the city now. “I thought I’d take you by the scenic route,” Centaine said, turning onto a road that twisted and turned along the flanks of Table Mountain.

  A deep, warm feeling of contentment suffused Saffron, the cares of the world falling away as they passed into a forest of blue gum trees, their slender trunks, wrapped in peeling pale gray bark, rising one hundred and fifty feet around them, and dappling the road with the cool, dark shadows from their narrow canopies of evergreen foliage.

  As she was closing her eyes, Centaine asked her, “So, dearest Saffron, what really brings you to South Africa?”

  Suddenly she was wide awake again. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to tell you.”

  “Come now, we’re family. You know your secret is safe with me.”

  “Being family makes no difference, I’m afraid. The point of a secret is that it’s secret from everyone.”

  “Even from your sweet old maiden aunt, Centaine?” she wheedled.

  “Even from you,” Saffron said, intrigued by the change of tone.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I think you should know that I’m rather good at holding out against interrogation. I’m really not going to blab.”

  “Damn!” Centaine slapped a hand against the steering wheel. “That bloody boy!”

  Centaine was one of life’s winners and Saffron was amused to see her on the losing side for once. “I presume you mean Shasa,” she said.

  “Yes. The sneaky weasel bet me that you wouldn’t talk and, like an idiot, I accepted.”

  “What were the stakes?”

  Centaine huffed crossly. “The loser has to say, ‘I apologize. You were right and I was wrong.’”

  “Ouch! That’s going to hurt.”

  “In front of the whole table at dinner, what’s more,” Centaine added.

  “Gosh, I’m almost tempted to tell you, to spare you the punishment.”

  “Oh, would you do that? You dear, sweet girl, I—”

  “No, I can’t. But I was just a teeny bit tempted.”

  “Bah, you’re just as bad as he is.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly be that bad!” Saffron grinned, knowing full well that she occupied a high position on the list of the people Centaine Courtney loved most, a list on which Shasa occupied top spot.

  They approached the gateway to the estate and passed underneath the ornate pediment, decorated with a frieze of dancing nymphs bearing bunches of grapes and topped by the carved inscription: WELTEVREDEN 1790.

  “Well satisfied,” purred Saffron, translating the name. “How perfect.”

  In the last, deep golden rays of the setting sun, they drove through the vineyards and past the polo field, where she and Shasa had first tested one another’s mettle, charging head-on at one another—“down the throat,” as the saying went—their ponies at full gallop until, at the last second, Shasa had pulled to one side. Even then, as a girl of thirteen, she knew he had only done it to save her from being hurt. He would never have given way to another boy.

  With a start she realized it was almost ten years since that first meeting. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet Weltevreden was the still the same paradise as before. The main house, built in the style of a French chateau, was as beautiful and imposing as ever. And there, at the door, was Shasa himself, a fully grown man now, with a patch over one eye, but still immediately recognizable.

  The patch makes him look rather dashing, thought Saffron, and then, almost before Centaine had brought the car to a halt, she was leaping from the passenger seat, as excitable as her thirteen-year-old self, screaming, “Shasa!” and almost throwing herself into his arms.

  He caught her, hugged her, kissed her and then set her down in front of him. “So, I see that you haven’t grown up at all,” he said. “Still the same little brat.”

  “Whereas you are now a broken-down old man,” she replied. “I like the patch. All you need is a parrot and a peg leg.”

  “For goodness’ sakes, you two,” Centaine said with maternal severity, though her heart was bursting with joy at seeing these two cousins slipping into their old relationship. They were both only children of single parents and they had adopted one another as honorary siblings, which included the right to tease one another mercilessly.

  “Shasa, darling, mind your manners,” Centaine added. “Don’t you think you should be making introductions?”

  “Oh yes . . . Saffron, this is my wife, Tara Malcomess. And Tara, here’s my cousin, Saffron Courtney.”

  •••

  Tara was hardly the nervous type, but the pending arrival of Saffron Courtney had caused flutters of apprehension in her stomach. She had heard so much about this paragon of beauty, brains and courage. How could she compete? And how could she not feel that she was letting Shasa d
own by being so inferior to his cousin?

  But then she saw the whirlwind of arms and legs and flying hair leaping from the car and yelling at the top of her voice, and Tara thought, Oh, she’s a perfectly normal girl, just like me. And when she heard the two of them pulling one another’s legs in the way they did, she knew that Shasa did not think of Saffron as anything other than a beloved, bratty kid sister, and that it would not occur to him to judge Tara alongside her.

  When she was introduced to Saffron, Tara kissed her on both cheeks and gave her a little hug, and, to her delight, found that she was hugged back.

  Saffron said, “Centaine told me how gorgeous you are and she was quite right. You are much, much too beautiful for Shasa!” They were both laughing and Saffron was linking their arms and walking with her into the house, saying, “I’m dying to see your baby. Clever you, popping out a Courtney heir at the first time of asking. That’ll make you popular! And Centaine said you do amazing work down in the Cape Flats. You must tell me all about it.”

  Behind them, Shasa called out, “Wait for me!” and was about to hurry after the two young women when Centaine caught his arm and said, “Wait. Let them be. Your wife and your cousin are two alpha females. If they bond as friends, they will be the strength of this family for decades to come. But if they should be enemies, woe betide us all.”

  Shasa frowned. “They don’t seem like enemies. They look as though they’re getting on splendidly.”

  “Yes, they are. It could not have started better. So leave them alone to work out their relationship for themselves.”

  “Well, you know best, Mama . . . Or do you?” A grin spread across Shasa’s face as a thought occurred to him. “You haven’t said a word about our bet. Which means that I won. Admit it—I won!”

  Centaine struggled but managed to get the words out: “Yes . . . you won. She wouldn’t say a word.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, she and her people have barely told Blaine and me anything, either. I’ll do my best to find out more after dinner. But don’t hold out too much hope.”