The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  His friend ignored him.

  Burton took a deep swig and handed the bottle round. ‘Anybody have some food? I’m famished.’

  ‘I got some oranges,’ said Vacher. He retrieved them from the jeep. ‘They remind me of home.’ Vacher was the pup of the team with the alert eyes of a hunter and an expression that always seemed ashamed or apologetic. Physically he was as broad as Dolan, could almost be mistaken for his kid brother. Gorilla Dum and Gorilla Dee, Patrick called them; Vacher was Dee.

  The oranges were doled out, Patrick taking a single segment and nibbling it slowly. When he finished he reached into his tunic for his pipe – his ‘lucky pipe’ – and flicked his lighter. Patrick had owned it since the Great War, believed that as long as it was safe, so would he be. The familiar smell of the smoke buoyed Burton.

  Dolan rejoined them, his trousers smeared wet and green. Vacher handed him his share of the oranges. He wolfed them down. ‘There’s a chopper buzzing around way over to the south-east,’ he said, spitting pips. ‘Apart from that, nothing.’

  ‘So we’re safe?’ asked Nares. His voice carried that distinctive Rhodesian twang.

  ‘For now,’ replied Burton.

  They continued eating and drinking for a few minutes, everyone arching their backs. Vacher removed the magazine from his BK44 and checked the firing mechanism. The BK was the favoured weapon of the Nazis in Africa, manufactured in their millions in the SS factories of Muspel. It had been designed in the months following the invasion of Belgian Congo (as it was then still named) when soldiers found their traditional rifles jamming in the humidity. The BK44 had only seven moving parts, derived its name from its distinctively shaped magazine: Banane Kanone. Banana-gun.

  Burton reached for his map. He had to find a way out of Africa, back to Madeleine. That last night they had decided she should return to London, continue a pretence of normal life. Then back to the farm for Burton’s homecoming on the 18th. She would tell her husband everything after that.

  He spread the map over the bonnet of his jeep and began studying it. The others soon crowded around him. It was an old Naval Intelligence chart from 1943 with the original Belgian roads marked on it. Burton had added the new German highways in black; there was a mass of thick lines. He traced his finger along the paper until he tapped a point. ‘I say we’re here. Give or take a few miles.’

  Dolan leaned over and nodded. Then he ran his finger a few inches north-east to a spot marked Doruma. ‘I say we head for Sudan.’ Nares stared at the map. ‘It’s got to be less than a hundred and fifty miles. We can be there by dusk. Across the border and safe by midnight.’ He looked up expectantly at everyone.

  Nares and Vacher nodded.

  ‘I say British Nigeria,’ said Burton.

  A sharp intake of breath. ‘With respect, Major,’ said Dolan, ‘are you fucking crazy? It’s got to be—’

  ‘Twelve hundred miles. I know. Straight through Aquatoriana.’ Aquatoriana: formerly French Equatorial Africa, now the Nazis’ central-west province.

  ‘We’ll never make it. What about fuel? I don’t know if there’s enough even to get to Sudan.’

  ‘Fuel is a problem,’ admitted Burton. ‘But think about it: Doruma is the nearest crossing point. And with the Yu-Ba Minefield blocking the rest of the border – the most obvious. If you were the Lebbs where would you concentrate your efforts? It’ll be like stepping into the lions’ den.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Patrick reluctantly.

  ‘What about Rougier?’ asked Vacher. Lazlo Rougier was Ackerman’s contact in Stanleystadt, the man who had provided them with the jeeps and weapons. They had all memorised the address of his safe house in case of disaster. ‘Maybe he could help. Smuggle us down river somehow.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘The Lebbs were waiting for us back there.’

  ‘No,’ said Burton in a rush. ‘They chased us. You saw it yourself.’ He didn’t want to admit the alternative to himself.

  ‘Screaming Minnies? Spikes on the road? I tell you, boy, it was an ambush. Ackerman double-crossed us.’

  ‘So?’ said Vacher.

  ‘So if they knew about us, they know about Rougier. He’s probably had his nuts cut off and mailed to Himmler already.’

  Dolan said, ‘He’d be a fool to talk.’

  ‘Pain makes a fool of every man.’

  ‘Me and Vacher have worked for Ackerman before. He’s always played us straight. Paid well. You’re talking shit, old man.’

  ‘He checked out,’ agreed Burton, intervening to head off a brawl. ‘Everyone I asked agreed he was legitimate.’

  ‘Maybe everyone was wrong,’ replied Patrick.

  Dolan ignored the comment. ‘Who cares if we were set up, all that matters is getting out of here. I say we head for Sudan.’ In ‘we’ he seemed to include Vacher; the Rhodesian offered no dissent.

  Burton could see there was little point arguing. ‘It will be crawling with Germans.’

  ‘Then we fight our way out!’ boomed Dolan. His eyes glinted at the thought, as if killing a few Nazis could change the world.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ said Patrick, shaking his head.

  ‘You got a problem, old man?’

  ‘You want to get yourself killed?’ Patrick sucked on his pipe. ‘No problem at all.’

  ‘Typical Yank: too scared to fight.’

  A sigh. ‘We’re not all isolationists, you know.’

  ‘Enough of you are. If you hadn’t been such a chickenshit country, we could have taken on the Krauts. Given Adolf a good hiding.’

  During his brief premiership, Churchill had repeatedly tried to coax the United States into the war. President Roosevelt was sympathetic to the British cause – but there was no popular support for it. The America First Committee urged the nation not to fight. There were enough problems at home, fixing the country’s ruined economy, without embarking on European adventures. Congress agreed, ratifying the 1940 Neutrality Act. It had defined American foreign policy ever since.

  ‘And where were you at Dunkirk?’ asked Patrick. ‘Still at school, mommy wiping your ass.’

  ‘Where are you now?’ Dolan’s cheeks burned. ‘Ready to piss yourself. I always said we didn’t need you. You’re too old. Too old and a coward.’

  He’s going to kill him, thought Burton. What would Patrick care now? One snap of the neck and Dolan would be dead.

  Instead Patrick laughed – a short rumble of mirth – and said nothing. Next time Burton glanced at him he was gazing upwards, letting the misty sun warm his face.

  ‘Okay,’ said Burton, keen to move the subject on. ‘We split into groups. You two head for Sudan. Me, Patrick and Nares for Nigeria.’

  ‘I want to go with them.’ Nares was pointing at Dolan and Vacher as if they were the only sane men in a tribe of lunatics. ‘Sudan is closer.’

  ‘Trust me: you don’t.’

  ‘Trust me, I bloody well do!’ Nares had already moved towards the others.

  ‘Listen, we need you. Nigeria is too far for us to drive alone, especially if—’ he hesitated ‘—especially if one of us gets wounded. We need a team of three. Rotate the driving.’

  ‘I’m sorry but it’s not my problem.’

  ‘You weren’t so sorry when I saved your neck on the airfield.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have even got out of the plane.’

  Dolan said, ‘I’d think about that statement if I were you. Think about it very carefully.’ He took a step away from the airman. Burton guessed what was going through his mind: liability.

  Burton continued, ‘Nares, this is a military operation. Which gives me senior rank. I’m not asking for you to come with us. I’m telling you.’

  Nares looked at Dolan for support.

  ‘The major’s right. You’d probably be better off with him.’

  The airman’s fate was sealed.

  ‘That’s it then,’ said Dolan. He seemed eager to be on the road again. ‘See you back in Blighty.’

  ‘Wait,�
�� said Patrick. ‘We need cover stories. In case we’re captured.’ It was standard escape and evasion procedure. ‘If they catch the muzzle-monkey here—’ he jerked his head towards Dolan ‘—I don’t want him ratting us out.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘First click of the cell door and I guarantee you’ll tell them everything. Right down to our boot sizes.’

  Dolan went for his pistol – but Burton was faster. He stepped in between the two men.

  ‘If it comes to it, you can lie about our foot sizes. But Patrick’s right. We do need a cover story.’

  Dolan’s hand retreated from his gun, though he gave the older man a punch-in-the-teeth glare.

  ‘Sudan and Aquatoriana are out,’ said Burton. ‘So that leaves east or south.’

  Vacher chewed on his thumbnail. ‘East doesn’t make much sense, unless we want to go swimming. I reckon south.’

  ‘Agreed,’ replied Burton. ‘To Stanleystadt. If they know about Rougier it will make sense.’

  There were nods all around, everyone except Nares who hung his head.

  Then they stood watching each other. No one spoke. The mist had thinned; in its place the morning heat pressed upon them. It was like a physical presence emerging from the forest, determined to squeeze every last drop of sweat out of them. Somewhere a monkey screamed.

  Patrick nodded to Vacher, gave Dolan the sweetest effluent smile, and headed behind one of the huts to urinate. Burton followed the other two to their Ziege, closed the door behind Dolan as he climbed in behind the wheel; his burned hand was turning a whitish-pink. Would they get through? Maybe. They might be stepping foot on British soil by the end of the week while he was lost and fuelless a thousand miles from sanctuary. For a moment he was tempted to give them a message for Maddie.

  Dolan started the engine.

  ‘Will we still get paid?’ asked Vacher.

  ‘I think things have rather moved on from that, Pieter. Remember, if you get caught: Stanleystadt.’ He hesitated, searching for some parting words. ‘I feel as if I should say something.’

  ‘Save it, Major,’ said Dolan. ‘You’ve got a long drive.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Burton. He didn’t offer his hand.

  ‘You too.’

  Burton stepped away as the jeep rolled forward and joined the road. Moments later, with Patrick up front and Nares in the back, Burton’s own vehicle followed. They drove in tandem for twenty minutes till the road forked. Dolan headed north, Burton turned the wheel west towards Aquatoriana.

  And twelve hundred miles of unbroken Nazi territory.

  Mupe Airstrip, Kongo

  14 September, 11:00

  ‘WHAT shall we do with him?’ asked the two SS troopers.

  Gruppenführer Derbus Kepplar stared at the corpse they were holding. They had found it by the side of the road. Half its face was missing, the other half a trough for hungry insects. From the structure of its skull it looked like a Category Four: a fucking Polack.

  ‘Was there any identification on him? Papers?’

  ‘Just this. We found it in his pocket.’

  One of the men handed over a photograph. Kepplar studied it: a young woman, northern European, a Two/Three. Good cheekbones, adequate teeth. A wife or sweetheart no doubt. If the British tolerated such couplings no wonder their empire was rotting from within.

  Kepplar tore the photo in quarters and tossed it aside. He looked back at the corpse’s mangled face, then its black clothing and felt his stomach convulse.

  ‘Strip him,’ said Kepplar. ‘No Slav deserves to wear our uniform. Then hang him out for the vultures. Let this be a warning to all our enemies.’

  The SS men dumped the body and gleefully went to find some rope.

  Kepplar’s first reaction to the news about Hochburg was relief. Relief that his leave would be cancelled. For over a year he had been finding excuses not to return home till finally there were none left. Even Hochburg considered it was time for him to see his family again. A three-week stint in Germania seemed inevitable. Three weeks in his beautiful apartment on Tiergartenstrasse with his beautiful wife and their three beautiful children. Devoted blue eyes marvelling at his every move. At night he would dream of torching the building with his family in it. The only joy he ever took back home was watching Reichminister Speer’s new metropolis rise towards the heavens or strolling down the Avenue of Victory.

  Now events had saved him.

  Kepplar was a One/Two, muscular with shaved blond hair and had been the genetic propagator of his children’s eyes. Half his right ear was missing.

  He had made the Mupe airfield his temporary command centre. On the roof technicians were establishing radio links; in the control room below, a map of Kongo was spread out over two tables, the positions of the roadblocks marked with black pins. Pursuit vehicles were already tearing through the jungle in all directions. Kepplar had to admit, however, that securing an area the size of Ostland was an impossibility, no matter what Germania was demanding. His best hope was that the assassins would try to cross into Sudan. That’s where he would concentrate his efforts, east of the Yuba-Bangalia Minefield. Three truckloads of his finest troops were preparing to leave for the border, along with his own Ziege and motorcycle outriders.

  An adjutant hurried into the room and addressed Kepplar. ‘Herr Gruppenführer, the Spanish consul has arrived from Stanleystadt.’

  ‘Good,’ said Kepplar. ‘Now get me a line through to Sudan. It’s imperative I speak to the British.’ He left the control room and went to greet Señor Aguilar, the Spanish consul. Aguilar was leaning against the bodywork of his Mercedes. He was as fat as Göring, with a carrot-juice complexion.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ said Kepplar, giving him a rigid salute.

  ‘Heil! Kepplar, my old friend, what is it that brings me from my bed to the middle of the fucking jungle at this hour in the morning?’

  They both spoke in German, the lingua franca in this part of Africa.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? The Governor General has been assassinated.’

  Aguilar’s face turned to the colour of sour milk. Kepplar guessed what he was thinking: who’s going to pay for all my whores and silk suits now? The Mercedes had been a gift from Hochburg.

  ‘That’s why I’ve asked you here,’ continued Kepplar. ‘Germania wants independent verification of the facts. What’s happened is an act of war. Did you bring a photographer?’

  ‘Of course.’ Aguilar clicked his fingers and a man with a Hasselblad and camera bag appeared.

  ‘Please, come with me,’ said Kepplar and he led the men towards the burned-out remains of the plane.

  The morning air was already hot enough to soften leather. Kepplar felt his face prickle; it was covered in constellations of scarlet spots. The heat and humidity of the jungle wreaked continual havoc with his skin, no matter how much peppermint oil he rubbed into it.

  A fire crew had doused the flames of the explosion but there was still an intense heat radiating from the centre of the wreckage. Kepplar led Aguilar and the photographer to the rear of the plane where the tailfin was still visible.

  ‘As if I don’t have enough to deal with,’ lamented the Gruppenführer. ‘Insurgents in the west, labour shortages – and now this!’

  Aguilar looked at the charred CAA livery. ‘Rhodesians? Are these your assassins?’

  ‘Get your man to photograph everything,’ replied Kepplar. ‘From every last angle.’ The photographer set to work. ‘As far as we can tell,’ continued Kepplar, ‘there were two teams. A single assassin who posed as an officer of the SS and flew into Kondolele last night. And a support squad, four men, waiting for him in the jungle. They destroyed half of the Schädelplatz in the process.’

  ‘Tut-tut. I always said the Führer should have pressed for Rhodesia when they re-drew the map. Or at least the north. It’s good mining country, would have kept the British at arm’s length.’

  The photographer’s flash popped.

  ‘It’
s our belief that the British are behind this.’

  Aguilar raised his eyebrows.

  ‘The plane’s Rhodesian.’ Kepplar consulted his notebook. ‘A commercial flight from Salisbury. But the killers themselves were mercenaries in the pay of London.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare! I know Hochburg feared they’d try something like this. But I never once believed him. The British are too weak, haven’t got the belly to fight any more. All they want is peace.’

  Kepplar handed Aguilar a document wallet. ‘I suggest you look at this.’

  Aguilar opened the wallet and took out three ID cards. ‘Dolan,’ he said, reading the first card. ‘Lieutenant, Welsh Guards. Born, 1928. Vacher – a Rhodesian. Lapinski—’

  ‘A fucking Slav,’ said Kepplar as if there were shit on his tongue. ‘My men took him out. We have nothing on the other two. But we suspect they are also British.’

  ‘Where did you get these?’ demanded Aguilar.

  ‘One of my blackshirts was brave enough to recover them from the plane,’ said Kepplar.

  Aguilar looked at the smouldering wreckage, then back at the pristine document cards. Spain had never fought in the war. Later, its long-standing neutrality made it a helpful arbitrator. As Hochburg used to tell Kepplar, the Spaniards offer the right kind of impartiality. The Führer was in agreement – making them the host nation at the Casablanca Conference; henceforth Morocco was a Spanish colony.

  ‘I understand, my old friend,’ said Aguilar. ‘Understand perfectly.’

  ‘Thank you, Señor. I know the Governor would have appreciated your loyalty.’

  Aguilar licked his lips. ‘You don’t know who will replace him yet, do you? Perhaps yourself?’

  ‘It is a job I would be unworthy of. But these are still early days. The German people, Africa, are in mourning.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The photographer had finished his work. They walked back to the Mercedes. ‘I will write a report for Madrid at once,’ said Aguilar. ‘One they can pass on to the Council of New Europe, along with the documents and photographs. London should not be allowed to get away with this outrage.’