The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  ‘I needed to know. Did you get the Kraut bastard?’

  Burton had a flash of tears and blood. That curious belching sound as the knife tore into Hochburg’s windpipe. An unanswered question.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  In the darkness, Burton could make out Dolan’s teeth as he grinned. He had too many of them, set like pillars in his mouth; a cannonball head; body as wide as two kegs roped together. The Welshman, an explosives expert, had been the original team leader before Ackerman visited the farm, something he bore with resentful good grace. At that moment he chuckled and gave Burton a triumphant thump round the shoulder. ‘Did you catch my handi -work? BOOM! Must have bagged at least twenty Krauts with that.’ He chuckled again.

  ‘There’ll be time for that later,’ said Burton uncomfortably. ‘For now, I want two flares. One at the top of the field. Another at the opposite end. You and Vacher get to it.’

  A mock salute. ‘Yessir.’

  Burton watched him hurry away. He had known soldiers like Dolan before, boys who had never seen real combat, who considered the 1939–40 conflict a disgrace. They thought war was a rough and tumble game. Bulldog with grenades. In the Legion the sous-officiers would have had him spitting teeth by the first night but now, with all the wars over, discipline was slipping.

  Following Hitler’s surprise attack on the Low Countries and France in the spring of 1940, the British Expeditionary Force had been encircled at Dunkirk. For a few brief hours it was hoped that the troops might be evacuated, then came the order from Führer headquarters to smash the British into the sea. Forty-five thousand were killed, almost quarter of a million taken as prisoners of war, with fewer than five thousand managing to escape. ‘The whole root, core and brain of our army destroyed’, as Churchill admitted after he was forced to resign as Prime Minister.

  In his place came Lord Halifax – cool-headed, pragmatic – who judged the public mood of dread and proposed a summit with the Führer to decide the future of Europe; there was no appetite for a protracted war, no repeat of 1914–18. Hitler agreed, declaring, ‘If there’s one nation that has nothing to gain from this conflict, and may even lose everything by it, that’s England’. Despite rumbles of protest, Halifax’s position was strengthened by the press and their ‘Bring ‘em Home’ campaign. All that summer, as Spitfires and Messerschmitts battled over Britain, headlines called for the return of the Dunkirk POWs in exchange for peace. Mothers and wives took to the streets outside Parliament demanding their men back. Less publicly, ambassadors from the conquered nations of Europe were arriving in London and urged the Prime Minister to negotiate a settlement that might restore their independence.

  In October Britain and Germany came to terms, signing a non-aggression pact and creating the Council of New Europe (the CONE in diplomatic-speak). The occupied countries – France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Denmark and Norway – would be granted their autonomy under newly elected right-wing governments, taking their place alongside Italy, Spain, Portugal, Sweden and Finland. It was also agreed that the Wehrmacht should maintain its foreign bases to ensure the stability of this new community. In the east, Britain promised to remain impartial if ever Germany needed to defend its borders against Soviet aggression. Most of the Dunkirk prisoners were home in time for Christmas. Hitler congratulated the British people on their common sense; sent them a Yuletide tree to stand in Trafalgar Square – a tradition that had continued in the years since.

  Other peace accords followed, guaranteeing the two countries’ neutrality towards each other and returning the African colonies Germany had been stripped of by the Versailles Treaty.

  The culmination was the Casablanca Conference of 1943 when the continent was divided – Churchill said ‘cleaved’ – between the two powers. Britain would retain its interests in East Africa (the only concession being the former German colony of Tanganyika); Germany would take the west, subsuming the territory of its newly independent European neighbours – one of Hitler’s founding principles for the Council of New Europe. Not all had gone quietly. War raged in Congo for over a year, while the Free French, under General de Gaulle, put up a final stand in Douala, Cameroon, before being driven into the Atlantic by the Afrika Korps.

  Since then a decade of peace and prosperity.

  When Burton got back to the jeeps Patrick was waiting for him. ‘If Dolan says one more thing I’ll gut him, I swear—’

  ‘I need you up top. See if you can spot the plane.’

  ‘I told you already: I’m too old to climb trees.’

  ‘It’s either you or Dolan.’

  The American humphed. ‘Time?’ he asked.

  Burton checked his watch again: ‘02:19.’

  ‘We should be able to hear them by now,’ Patrick said, clambering upwards.

  ‘I know.’

  Patrick disappeared into the foliage. ‘I never did trust Ackerman,’ he called back after him through the leaves. ‘Now the job’s done we’re just an expense.’

  Burton stood for a few seconds longer, ear cocked to the sky, then climbed back into the Ziege next to Lapinski.

  ‘I heard Major Whaler,’ said the driver. ‘What if he’s right?’

  Burton sighed. His feet ached in his boots; at least he was wearing socks. ‘Be not faithless, but believing.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘John, Chapter 20. Forget it. Ackerman will play us straight.’

  ‘But what if they don’t show?’

  ‘Then I’m lucky I’ve got you.’

  Lapinski gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘It’s going to be a very long drive back home. Don’t worry, five minutes from now you’ll be bellyaching about the turbulence.’

  They fell into silence, Burton listening for the faint hum of propellers to the south. The flight was a regular Central African Airways one that flew freight from Salisbury in Southern Rhodesia to Khartoum each week. No Nazi operator would give the blip on his radar screen a second glance. Or so Ackerman had reassured them.

  Lapinksi spoke again. Burton guessed he was jittery. ‘I’m going to teach Elizabeth to drive. Buy her a car. That will impress her folks, don’t you think?’

  ‘Especially if you buy British.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of anything else. A little Austin.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll welcome you to the family,’ Burton said, trying not to sound insincere. He knew the driver had only taken the job for the money, trusting a fat wallet to sway the prejudices of his sweetheart’s parents. Poland no longer existed, Warsaw razed to the ground. An ex-corporal from an ex-country wasn’t exactly what they had in mind for their little girl.

  ‘I hope so, Major. She’s all I ever wanted.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Burton, thinking of Madeleine. Next moment, he held his finger to his lips: ‘You hear that?’

  Lapinski listened, then shook his head.

  Burton leaned out of the window, cupped his ear. He was sure he had caught the distant hum of propellers, but now all he could hear was the sound of insects. Das Heimchenchor, his father used to call it. Burton wondered what they were saying to each other, what songs they sang. In this part of the jungle they would be oecanthinae: tree crickets.

  At the far end of the runway a fountain of red light erupted. Dolan had lit the first flare.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t guide the Krauts to us,’ said Lapinski.

  Burton didn’t reply, his ears still sifting the soundtrack of the night. When he was a boy Hochburg used to tell him tales about the crickets. How they had citadels hidden in the undergrowth, waged wars like men, bred warriors and princesses. And how one day – if Burton was sehr artig and didn’t disturb him when he was praying with his mother – he’d teach him the crickets’ secret language. Like so many of Hochburg’s promises it never came to anything, but sometimes he would make strange chirping noises; then laugh at him.

  Hochburg and his stories.

  Burton shifted on his seat, hotter than ever, the SS uniform cloying
against his chest; all he wanted to do was rip it off. He thumped the dashboard. ‘Where’s that fucking plane?’

  As if to answer him the burr of propellers was suddenly heavy in the sky. How had he missed it? It was coming in from the south-west. Growing louder and more welcome by the second.

  Burton and Lapinski abandoned the jeep and ran to the tree line. Dolan was already waiting. There was another flare of light as Vacher lit the second beacon. Burton glimpsed the silhouette of the young soldier as he hurried back towards them. A decade ago a night-time pick-up would have been impossible – even with flares. But Ackerman had supplied the pilots with the same equipment as Patrick. It was cascade tube, state-of-the-art, German manufactured of course.

  ‘There she is!’ boomed Dolan. He began to sing in Welsh, ‘Lord, lead me through the wilderness …’ For once Burton didn’t tell him to keep it down.

  The plane was already on its final approach: a Vickers Viscount, its four propellers a grey blur against the sky, wheels low enough to skim the canopy.

  The tree above them swayed and rustled and Patrick jumped to the ground, his own night-vision gear still wrapped around his head.

  Burton beamed reassurance at him.

  ‘We got Lebbs,’ said Patrick. His tone conveyed no expression. ‘A whole convoy. At least a dozen vehicles, some with MG48s.’

  Burton’s grin vanished. Dolan scowled at Patrick like it was his fault.

  ‘Are they on our track?’ said Burton. ‘How long?’

  Behind them the plane touched down, its wheels groaning as they hit the compacted earth of the runway. Instantly the engines began to power down to give the aircraft enough room to stop.

  ‘If they didn’t know we were here before, they do now,’ said Patrick. ‘Two minutes tops.’

  ‘What if they send up a patrol?’ Lapinski had asked the same question a hundred times during the training. ‘We’ll never outrun a jet-fighter.’

  ‘They can’t shoot down a commercial flight,’ replied Burton for the hundred and first. ‘Not without proof it’s us.’ This time his voice carried less conviction. ‘Two minutes is plenty.’

  The Vickers had slowed to a running pace, its rear hatch open. An airman emerged, descending with all the enthusiasm of a swimmer entering crocodile-infested waters. The Vickers trundled on towards the far end of the runway to turn around. Burton could make out the blue CAA logo on its tailfin. The airman beckoned towards them.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Burton. Nobody needed telling twice. They left the cover of the trees, Vacher joining them as they crossed the runway. Dolan kept glancing behind, his machine gun ready. He seemed disappointed when no Nazis emerged.

  Even though the wind from the propellers was too far away to be felt, the airman was hunched up against it. ‘Nares,’ he introduced himself. ‘You all set?’

  Burton nodded.

  ‘Good. Cos I don’t want to spend a second longer on the ground than I have to.’

  ‘That’s why I love flyboys,’ said Patrick.

  Nares asked, ‘Is the area secure?’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ replied Burton.

  The airman’s mouth turned queasy.

  At the opposite end of the runway the Vickers had completed its turn and was ready for take-off. The pilots revved the throttle. Nares led the group towards the plane, not bothering to check if they were following him. They had three hundred yards to go. If the Nazis were closing in, the roar of the propellers drowned out their approach.

  Burton glanced backwards. The runway was empty. So were the trees.

  Ahead, another airman emerged from the plane and encouraged them on. Every wave of his hand said one thing. Home.

  A surge of jubilation flooded through Burton. He was going to keep his promise to Madeleine. Five plus five plus ten: they’d never have to worry about anything again. Next to him, Patrick was running with the vigour of a free man, sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, pistol in his hand; he seemed younger.

  They were fifty yards from the Vickers.

  ‘Told you so,’ Burton mouthed to his old friend; all his fears had been unfounded. He tore off his swastika armband and threw it to the wind.

  The plane exploded.

  Saltmeade Farm, Suffolk, England

  28 August, 20:35

  THEY both had secrets to tell that evening.

  Burton and Madeleine were sitting in an arbour at the back of the farmhouse. They had bought the place earlier in the year after finally admitting their affair was something deeper: they wanted to be together. Madeleine, with her pluck and inner quiet, had given Burton a contentment he hadn’t felt since childhood. In front of them was a lawn dotted with weeds, beyond that sloping orchards. Although the sun was setting the air was still warm from the day’s cloudless heat. Whenever they moved, the arbour creaked beneath them as though it might splinter.

  Just as Burton was about to speak, Madeleine broke the silence. Although her English was flawless she still carried an accent that spoke of Vienna and persecution.

  ‘I’ve decided,’ she said. ‘I’m going to tell him. When I get back.’ She sighed before adding, ‘I’m so happy here.’

  When Burton made no response, Madeleine turned to face him. She was wearing tailored slacks and a jersey. Her dark hair was tied in a loose ponytail, smelt of honeysuckle and breezy sweat. ‘You don’t look very pleased. I thought that’s what you wanted.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then why the face?’

  Burton reached out for her hand and took hold of it. She had beautiful fingers – long, delicate, with nails always in a French manicure. They looked so fragile compared to his, so unblemished; Burton’s hands were pockmarked with scars. Instinctively their fingers curled into each other’s. Burton squeezed gently but still didn’t speak. He felt elation at her words but also trepidation at what he must tell.

  ‘Promise me we’ll always live here,’ she said. ‘This place is perfect. So quiet after London. Listen: you can actually hear the sun setting.’

  Burton cocked his ear to the sky. ‘All I can hear is old man Friar chugging away on his tractor somewhere.’

  Madeleine gave him a playful dig in the ribs. ‘Komiker. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Are you really going to leave him?’ asked Burton.

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘We can’t keep sneaking about like this. Besides, Alice is getting to the age where she understands. What if she says something? Better I tell him than he finds out.’ She raised his hand to her lips. ‘I want to be with you.’

  They sat in silence for several moments, Madeleine waiting for a response.

  Finally he said, ‘I’ve got to go away.’

  Madeleine smiled – that wide-eyed, girlish smile she used when teasing him. ‘Go where?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  She smiled again. ‘Oh, you know how much I like your surprises! What is it this time? More cakes? Silk underwear?’

  ‘It’s not that kind of surprise. It will only be for a few weeks.’

  Madeleine stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll be back by the end of September.’

  She snatched her hand back and stood up. ‘You promised, Burton. You promised!’

  ‘You’ll wake Alice.’

  ‘No more, you said. You were giving up that life.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then what are you doing?’

  ‘This is different.’

  ‘And you tell me this now. Just when I want to leave him.’

  Neither of them ever mentioned her husband’s name any more: it was too awkward, too unsettling. He was simply referred to as him.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with that. Of course I want you to leave him. How many times have I asked you? Do it when you get back to London. Then come and live here.’

  ‘On my own.’

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ he said in a defensive voice. ‘I’ll be home in a few weeks.
’

  ‘And if you’re not?’

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘No, Burton. I’m not going to do it.’ Her hands curled into fists. ‘I’m not going to walk out to find myself alone. Not again.’

  ‘Please. Will you listen to me? I’m not saying that.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice when I left Vienna. This time I do. Besides, there’s Alice.’

  ‘We need the money.’

  ‘That’s the type of thing my father used to say. Look where it got him.’ She sat down again and put her face in her hands. A curl of hair came loose from her scalp. Burton watched it bounce up and down before tucking it behind her ear.

  Madeleine looked up. ‘Burton, I’m pregnant.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for the right time to tell you all day. But there was Alice, there was the house …’

  ‘You can’t be.’ Burton suddenly felt like a boy soldier again on that first Legion march. Unsteady in the sand, tripping on the crests of dunes, tumbling in a cloud of dust and confusion. ‘You’re just saying that.’

  ‘Four months. I was going to tell you last time but wanted to make sure first.’

  ‘Is it mine?’

  A stab of such profound pain creased Madeleine’s face that Burton felt it in his own heart.

  ‘He hasn’t touched me in months,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  The last time Madeleine visited they had gone for one of their strolls and ended up making love beneath an ancient oak. Burton could see the spot now. He remembered the roughness of the ground, the creamy, taut flesh of her thighs: she brought the world alive for him. As they lay there afterwards, semi-naked on the grass, Madeleine joked, ‘I won’t be doing this come January.’ Burton had laughed and traced the meniscus of her belly, thinking it looked a little swollen. He had put it down to her insatiable sweet tooth, never once suspecting she might be carrying a child. His child.

  ‘We’ll definitely need the money,’ Burton said.

  ‘No, we won’t.’

  ‘How will we live? We’re not going to get rich on quinces this year. Meantime the place is falling apart.’