by Wilbur Smith
If you’re white, Saffron thought.
“What about the extremists?” she asked.
“Now you’re talking. There is a Nazi party in South Africa. Their full name is the South African Gentile National Socialist Movement.”
“So they make their position on Jews fairly obvious from the start.”
“They do. And they have plenty of friends in the National Party, right to the top. But they aren’t the most significant fascist group, in terms of threat. That honor is reserved for a mob called the Ossewabrandwag. Let’s refer to them as the ‘OB,’ for simplicity’s sake, eh? They actively support Hitler and want him to win the war. Hitler’s returned the compliment. The Germans have sent at least one agent into South Africa, to our knowledge, and we’re sure he was helped by the OB.”
“Tell me about them,” she said.
“Their leader is a man called Johannes van Rensburg—Hans to his friends. He trained as a lawyer and served in government as the Justice Secretary before the war. He traveled to Germany on government business and was introduced to all the high-ups: Göring, Himmler, even Adolf himself. Fell for the whole thing, hook, line and sinker. He left the Nationalists, hopped across to the OB and rose all the way to the top.
“But our Hans is a sly old fox, hey? He doesn’t do any of the dirty work. He leaves that to the party’s hotheads. They call themselves the Stormjaers, or assault troops, and they’ve done all sorts of nasty stuff. They started riots in Jo’burg, attacking men in uniform and calling them traitors. They’ve carried out numerous acts of sabotage, blowing up railways, bringing down power cables, cutting telephone lines . . .”
Saffron refrained from telling McGilvray that she had been trained to do all those things, as he added, “We rounded up the worst of them, and the men who were masterminding their operations, and stuck them in a camp. It’s a place in the Free State called Koffiefontein. If you’re looking for somewhere nice to go on holiday, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“It sounds fascinating,” Saffron said. “Now, one last thing . . . what do they think about women?”
•••
Leo Marks had not come up with any fresh black-market goodies, so when Saffron and Amies met the next day, they had to make do with limp fish-paste sandwiches and a cup of tea each to sustain them.
Amies took one bite from his sandwich, wrinkled his face and reached for a cigarette, muttering, “Ugh! That tasted disgusting. And the smell . . . there’s no polite way to describe it.”
Saffron laughed. “You don’t have to worry about my delicate, ladylike sensibilities, sir.”
“Yes, but what about mine?” Amies took a lungful of smoke, expelled it slowly and then sighed. “Right, that’s better.” He took one more drag, stubbed the cigarette out, then turned his attention to Saffron and asked, “Can you please tell me how you intend to enter Occupied Europe, courtesy of the Third Reich?”
“The key is my cover story. To be honest, I’m not sure I could be a convincing Belgian, even after all the time I’ve spent among them here. But what if I posed as a South African, who had family ties with the Flemish part of Belgium?”
“Yes, that would explain any lack of local knowledge . . . and you might find an Afrikaans accent easier than a Flemish one.”
“Plus, it would account for where I’ve been for the past few years. Imagine if a young woman turns up at one of the fascist parties in the Low Countries. Suppose she can prove that she is a passionate follower of the pro-Nazi movement in South Africa, she’s got letters of introduction from the top men, and photographs with them, that sort of thing. Not to mention a South African birth certificate and a passport, and a Belgian passport too.”
“And you seriously believe you can lay your hands on all that?”
“You may have to help me with the South African passport, but the rest of it I think I can manage. But it would help if I went to South Africa to get it all. And if I did, then I could make my way to Europe from there. We get agents in and out via Lisbon, don’t we?”
Amies said nothing, but the fractional shrug of his shoulder was all Saffron needed to know.
“I need to know how you’re going to get this material. I want to be certain that it won’t risk a breach of security.”
“I’m going to work with the Interior Minister. He’s a . . .” He’s my cousin’s lover and everyone in Cape Town knows it . . . “A friend of the family. His closest aide is my cousin, Shasa Courtney. They’ve already set me up with someone at the South African High Commission to get the gen on the OB. And no, I didn’t say a word about why I needed to know.”
Amies lit another cigarette and thought through the proposition. “I think your plan has a lot to be said for it. I can also think of a thousand different reasons why it should all go horribly wrong, but that’s the case with every operation we undertake. Whatever we do, though, it can’t be a matter of you batting your eyelashes and asking chums for a favor. It must go through proper channels. That way everyone’s backside is covered. And for any of it to happen, Gubbins has to give us his approval. He won’t do that unless we get all our ducks in a row.
“So, let’s imagine that you pitch up in Lisbon. Let’s also suppose that it all goes swimmingly. You present yourself to the German Consulate and they believe your story. The next thing you know, you’re arriving in Belgium in fine style. If you play your cards right, you won’t have to meet the local Nazis. They’ll come and meet you at the airport with a brass band and a red carpet. The question is: which Belgian Nazis do we want you to meet? Do you have any thoughts on the subject? You seem to have everything else sorted out.”
Saffron gave an embarrassed shake of the head. “I’m afraid not, sir. The Belgians at Eaton Square don’t say much about the fascists back home. I catch the occasional muttered curse about some traitor or another who’s behaving appallingly, but it’s not a subject they openly discuss with me.”
“I’m not surprised. Doesn’t do them much good to admit that a few of their fellow countrymen greeted the Germans like long-lost brothers.”
“I dare say it would have been just the same here.”
“I’m certain it would.”
“What should I know that the people in Eaton Square haven’t been telling me?”
“As usual in Belgium, there’s two of everything: a French fascist party and a Flemish one. Your South African girl is going to have a natural affinity with the Flemish, so let’s concentrate on them.”
As Amies outlined the situation in Belgium, the parallels with South Africa became clear. Once again there was a conventional party, the Vlaams Nationaal Verbond, or VNV, and various more extreme offshoots.
As Amies explained, “Two of the most senior VNV members left the party to found a Flemish version of the SS. They have the same uniforms, ranks and nasty habits as the Jerry version, and happily take all the dirty work that Himmler cares to give them. Rounding up Jews for exile in the East is one of their favorite tasks.
“Finally there’s a bunch called DeVlag, who are funded by the SS. They’re not a political party as such, but they have a fierce rivalry with the other Belgian fascists, if only to see who can suck up to the Germans most assiduously. You do realize that you are going to have to do that too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But do you realize what that means? If you go into this, it has to be heart and soul. From now on, you will convince yourself that you love National Socialism and everything it stands for. You will stand in front of Nazis and agree heartily with every vile, hateful word they say. And then you will reply with more hateful thoughts of your own. That will win their trust . . . and without that you’ve got no chance.”
“I know how much this matters, sir. Whatever I have to do, or say, it’s worth it.”
Amis softened. “You’re doing a brave thing, Saffron. Now, let’s think about this false identity of yours. You’ll never get past the German authorities if you’re carrying Belgian documents issued by the government-in-ex
ile, so we’ll need Eaton Square to supply a blank passport, of the sort issued before the war. To establish your false identity as realistically as possible, this passport should bear the name and date of birth of an actual South African woman of about your age, with a genuine birth certificate.”
“I can hardly steal another girl’s identity. What if she objects?”
“She won’t. We need to find someone who has the misfortune to be dead. If her parents are also deceased, so much the better.” He rubbed his hands together, energetically. “Right then, no time to waste. We’d better get down to work.”
“Hang on, Berti, hang on!” Gerhard shouted. “It’s less than five kilometers . . . you can make it.”
Gerhard looked down at the stricken Messerschmitt, trailing a plume of black, oily smoke as it staggered across the snow-covered wasteland toward Pitomnik.
Schrumpp did not reply. He was employing his fading strength to keep his plane from crashing to the rock-hard, frozen ground that was now a hundred meters or so below him. He was badly wounded. The burst of heavy machine-gun fire that had torn through the underside of his 109’s wings and fuselage had ripped into his right leg.
“Got a slight scratch,” Schrumpp had muttered, but Gerhard dreaded to think what the wound was really like.
They had been out on a ground-attack mission, a futile gesture in support of the last remnants of a Panzer division that was trying to hold an entire Russian army at bay without artillery, armored support or even ammunition. Two months had passed since the Soviets had carried out a pincer movement that had smashed through the Romanian, Hungarian and Italian forces arrayed to the north and south of Stalingrad. The Russians had only taken a couple of days to surround the city, trapping the Sixth Army in what its soldiers called der Kessel: the cauldron.
The Führer had refused to allow the German army’s commander General Paulus to retreat. They and the Luftwaffe pilots supporting them had been left to fight, starve and die where they stood. All through December, the Russians had toyed with their helpless prey. Stalin had massed seven armies around the city and bided his time, knowing that every day that passed left the Germans hungrier, colder and more desperately short of weaponry, fuel and bullets than before. The city itself had never been entirely conquered. Yet the unrelenting slaughter continued as the ruins of shelled and bombed-out buildings became miniature battlegrounds, piling up its own casualties as the battle lines ebbed and flowed, while all the time the conclusion of this carnage came closer, as grimly inexorable as the march of death itself.
And then, on January 9, 1943, a huge barrage of exploding artillery shells and screaming “Katyusha” rockets heralded the start of the final Russian assault. Those few Wehrmacht soldiers who were able to fire a gun did their best to resist, but the struggle was becoming as pitiful as it was desperate.
By sheer survival, Gerhard had found himself promoted to the rank of Oberstleutnant, or lieutenant colonel. He was notionally in command of an entire fighter group, even if it consisted of no more than a dozen patched-up fighters from squadrons that no longer existed. In that group, he and Schrumpp, now officially the captain of one of those non-existent squadrons, were the last survivors of the men who had flown over Poland in September 1939. Neither of them could remember when they last had a proper meal or a night’s sleep. They were unshaven, red-eyed, emaciated shadows of their former selves. Yet they had survived.
Until now.
They were in sight of the airfield. The runways were pockmarked with shell holes and bomb craters. Along one side of the field ran a huge scrapyard, filled with the wreckage of German tanks, trucks, half-tracks and guns that had been destroyed in the fighting. Amidst them were strewn the planes, hundreds of them, that had been smashed by the incessant Russian attacks. There lay two metal corpses that dwarfed all the others, a pair of giant, four-engined Focke-Wulf Condors, the cream of the Luftwaffe fleet. One was broken-backed. The other was missing a wing. And every time Gerhard flew over them they seemed more and more like the symbols of Germany’s impending ruin.
But this was nothing compared to the anarchy around the other three sides of the airfield. On any given day, when the weather was not so bad that all planes were grounded, a few lucky men, two hundred at most, managed to get aboard one of the Heinkel bombers that were being used to transport them back to a field hospital in German-held territory. The aircraft had to run a gauntlet of Russian anti-aircraft guns and then pray they weren’t jumped by enemy fighters before they could reach their destination. There was a chance of escape that way, and the airfield had become a magnet for the wounded men of Stalingrad. They hobbled, crawled or were carried to its perimeter. Their faces were a waxy gray-white with cold and malnutrition. If frostbite had taken hold of their cheeks and lips and noses, their complexion turned blue-black, as if their barely living bodies were already starting to putrefy. In many cases they were, for there were no medicines to treat gangrenous wounds, nor bandages, other than strips of cloth ripped from dead men’s uniforms.
These zombie soldiers had formed an encampment around Pitomnik. Every time a bomber or transport aircraft landed, those of the injured who were capable of movement—or those who were feigning injury—surged over the broken-down fences, through the hangers and dispersal areas and toward the tarmac where the plane was coming to a halt. Platoons of military police, the Feldgendarmerie, known as “chained dogs” because of the small metal shields they wore on chains around their necks, had been deployed to control the men. They carried out their task with threats, punches and rifle butts, and, when the press of desperate men threatened to overrun the aircraft, with volleys of gunfire.
Gerhard saw that there was a fight going on at this very moment. A Junkers 52 transport plane was sitting on the taxiway, preparing to take off. But its doors were open and men were getting aboard while the chained dogs kept the horde of injured men at bay.
“Berti, do you see that Ju 52?” Gerhard called over the radio. “We’re going to get you on that plane. I swear it. I’m going to get you out of this shithole. But you have to make a landing. That’s an order!”
In his headphones Gerhard heard Schrumpp reply, “Jawohl, mein Führer,” and now he smiled, because if his friend still had his sense of humor, he might have enough life in him to land his plane.
He’d have to do it alone because there were no emergency crews and fire tender waiting to greet them. Those days were long gone. It was every man for himself.
“This is what we’re going to do,” Gerhard said. It was vital that Schrumpp believed there was still hope. “First, you are going to land. I’ll be coming in behind you. If you mess up when you’re landing, I’ll crash straight into you and we’ll both be dead. But you won’t mess it up. You’ll land. I’ll land. I’ll come and get you out of your plane and I’ll take you to that Heinkel and order the pilot to let you come aboard. He will say, ‘Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant, at once!’ And he and I will shout at everyone who can hear us, and you’ll be put on that plane and the next thing you know you’ll be in hospital with some pretty nurse tending to your every need, thinking how much better off you are than your poor bastard friend who’s still stuck in Stalingrad. Got that?”
There was no answer. The runway was getting closer. Schrumpp’s plane was almost scraping the wings and tailfins that stood up from the scrapheap.
“Perhaps you could start by lowering your landing gear, old man. That always helps,” Gerhard suggested.
To his amazement, the undercarriage of Schrumpp’s 109 began to descend from the wings. But the ground was getting closer and the wheels were still almost horizontal.
For God’s sake get them down!
Gerhard tried to stay calm. He had to have his wits about him if he was to land close enough to Schrumpp to be able to rescue him, without getting caught up in the debris of a crash-landing.
It took a few seconds for a 109 to lower its wheels, but time seemed to be running in two speeds at once: the undercarriage deployment had
slowed to a crawl while the ground was rushing toward both incoming Messerchmitts at ten times the normal speed.
And then those two streams became one as Schrumpp’s wheel came down and an instant later touched the ground. Gerhard saw the aircraft in front of him slew, but stay upright as he landed in its slipstream, realizing that this made his speed much higher than it would have been, if he’d landed in clean air. He raced up behind Schrumpp’s plane so that his propeller was almost churning up its tail, then, like a racing driver making an overtaking maneuver, he managed to slingshot past without the two sets of wings colliding.
It was all about stopping the plane and throwing open the canopy above his head. Gerhard unclipped his harness, clambered out onto the wing, jumped down and he was running across the fifty meters of tarmac between his plane and Schrumpp’s.
He could see tongues of flame escaping from the engine cowling and licking at the fuselage. There was barely any fuel left in the tanks, but there was enough to ignite a fire that would set the whole aircraft ablaze.
Gerhard reached the 109, his fatigue and malnutrition leaving him exhausted, even after that short sprint. It took all his strength to pull himself onto the wing and wrench open the canopy. Schrumpp was collapsed over his controls in the cockpit. The landing had taken every scrap of energy out of him.
Gerhard looked down into the footwell beneath the control panel and swallowed hard at what he saw. From below the shin it was only skin and bone. It would have to be amputated.
He’ll probably never fly again, Gerhard thought. And then, Lucky bastard.
But if he didn’t get that amputation, Schrumpp would die. Blood was pulsing out of his leg and pooling on the cockpit floor.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Gerhard said, freeing Schrumpp from his harness. He reached into the cockpit, between his friend’s back and his seat, and managed to get his hands under Schrumpp’s armpits.