by Guy Saville
From the darkness, Vacher’s whistle.
Dolan reached for his pistol. He listened carefully. One whistle, two—
Nothing.
He strained to hear the sound of a struggle. In the distance accordion music and laughter drifted towards him; nearby, the Ziege’s engine as it ticked over. He peered through the bins but couldn’t see anything.
‘Vacher?’ he hissed. ‘Vacher?’
‘Hurry up,’ came the reply.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Just hurry!’
Dolan returned to the explosives. The cylinders had a timing mechanism operated by twisting it. A full twist meant twenty-eight minutes. He did a half turn on each one then placed them individually into the tubes. This type of set-up was called a ‘daisy chain’. One after the other the cylinders would fire and fall. If he had guessed the angle of the pipes right at least one should land in the fuel dump. When it did the phosphorous would bite into the barrels like acid through blancmange. Pity any poor bastard within two hundred yards of the blast.
He squeezed out from behind the bins and made sure the device wasn’t visible from the road. Then he went back to the jeep. Vacher was waiting for him, the front of his shirt soaked in blood. He clasped a dagger.
‘Jesus,’ said Dolan.
The Rhodesian motioned to the back of the jeep. Dolan turned to see a body on the ground. He was wearing a guard’s uniform.
‘I think he came for a piss,’ said Vacher. ‘I couldn’t move him on my own. Not without making it too obvious.’
Further down the street there was now only one guard outside the fuel depot. Dolan didn’t say another word. With Vacher’s help he hauled the corpse up and shoved it in the back of the jeep. His hands turned crimson as he worked.
‘We need something to cover the body,’ said Dolan.
‘I think there’s a tarpaulin in the front.’ Vacher went to retrieve it.
At that moment there was a scream of sirens.
Motorcycle outriders flew past. Seconds later a convoy of vehicles: a Ziege, three lorries laden with troops and, finally, an armoured Mercedes limousine, swastika flying from the front grille, windows blacked out, two more motorcycles protecting it at the rear.
The air turned to dust as the vehicles passed. Dolan followed the wail of the siren; it sounded as if it were heading towards the border crossing. He looked over at Vacher. Neither of them said what they were thinking.
They covered the body with the tarpaulin and climbed back into the jeep. Over by the fuel dump the solitary guard had come to a halt. Dolan could just make out his face. It was a mixture of irritation, curiosity and alarm.
‘We haven’t much time,’ said Dolan, putting the jeep in gear. He did a U-turn and headed back towards the border.
‘We’ll get across, won’t we?’ asked Vacher, his voice sounded uncertain again.
‘Trust me, soldier,’ replied Dolan. ‘Against us, the Krauts don’t have a chance.’ He had no idea why Ackerman had suddenly demoted him in favour of Cole, but it was good to be in command again. He’d show the old-timers how it was done.
In the rear of the vehicle, the smell of death began to fill the air.
Aquatoriana
14 September, 21:00
NIGHT had fallen. Patrick was flat on his belly, looking through the scope of his rifle.
‘What can you see?’ asked Burton, who lay next to him.
They were on a ridge overlooking a valley. Jungle, like a tumbling black ocean, stretched endlessly round them. In the hours after sundown it had rained heavily, an Old Testament cloud burst, now everything was drenched. The insects were caterwauling again.
‘Not much,’ replied Patrick. ‘This thing must have gotten knocked.’ He removed the night-vision helmet from his head, rattled it harder than was necessary, then jammed it on again. ‘Better.’
‘What now?’
‘Definitely an airfield: control tower, hangar, runway.’ He whistled. ‘Big runway. Couple of thousand feet at the least.’
‘So that’s where the Messerschmitt landed?’
‘You tell me.’
The plane that screamed over them earlier had been on a routine patrol. A seek-and-destroy sortie, guessed Burton, to find insurgent camps. Despite the Nazi occupation of Aquatoriana, soldiers of the former French colony continued to fight a guerrilla war: attacking German bases, harrying newly built outposts. On the occasions when Halifax was asked to assist the French the Prime Minster always gave the same excuse: would we have tolerated Nazi intervention in India? No, it was an internal security matter for the Germans. The aircraft itself was a Messerschmitt Me-362, the Nazi’s latest jet-fighter capable of thirteen hundred kilometres an hour; the fastest ever built. They watched it soar over the horizon – the sunset glinting on its wings – before the plane dipped beneath the tree line.
‘Did it crash?’ said Nares. There was something almost jubilant about his tone.
‘We’d have seen the pilot eject,’ replied Burton. ‘There’d have been an explosion. No, it landed somewhere.’
‘Then we should head the opposite way.’
Burton had glanced down at the jeep’s fuel gauge and ignored him.
From their viewpoint on the ridge Patrick handed Burton the night goggles and rifle. Through the goggles the impenetrable blackness of the jungle was suddenly grey like the picture on a cheap television set. It took him a few moments to orientate himself – then he spied the airfield.
‘I couldn’t see any gas,’ said Patrick.
Burton scanned the scene below him, ignored the dampness that was spreading through his clothes as he lay on the ground. ‘Near the barracks. There’s some kind of filling station.’
‘It’s got to be aviation fuel.’
‘No. I can see a tanker and separate pumps for planes, opposite the hangar. Look for yourself.’ He handed back the equipment.
Patrick squinted through the scope again. ‘It’s too risky. There might be a hundred men in those barracks.’
‘It looks smalty enough,’ said Burton.
‘So did the last airstrip.’
‘We’re running on empty. We don’t have a choice.’
Patrick said nothing but the air prickled around him.
‘If we wait till the middle of the night,’ continued Burton, trying to reassure, ‘nobody will ever know we were there.’
‘There’s always one insomniac.’
Burton drew his finger across his throat.
‘And when they find the body? When they see our tyre tracks heading west?’
‘Ten years ago you would have—’
Patrick cut him short. ‘Ten years ago everything didn’t ache so much. Ten years ago I had nothing to get home for.’
There was a disturbance in the undergrowth. Both men spun round, weapons ready.
It was Nares.
‘I told you to stay with the jeep,’ said Burton.
‘You were a long time, I got worried. What have you found?’
Patrick passed him the night-vision equipment.
‘I don’t see the 362,’ said the airman, settling himself next to the others.
‘It must have already refuelled and taken off again,’ said Burton. ‘It’s probably halfway to Muspel by now.’
‘I don’t like the look of those barracks.’
‘We’ve already had that conversation.’ Burton stood up. ‘Maybe you two should have stayed with Dolan. We either risk it or we walk home.’
‘Jesus on Friday,’ said Patrick, also standing. ‘Guess we don’t have a choice.’
‘Interesting,’ said Nares. ‘Very interesting.’
Burton tried to keep the impatience from his voice. ‘What?’
‘Inside the hangar. A Gotha. Look.’
Burton took the scope again. Peeping out of the hangar was a stumpy plane with a single propeller. ‘So?’
‘I can fly a Gotha.’
Burton looked over at Patrick, then both men turned to Nares.
‘You know how to fly?’
‘A Gotha’s a kite. Everyone can.’
‘What range does it have?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe seven, eight hundred miles. We could be in Nigeria by morning.’
‘Or blown from the sky,’ said Patrick. ‘One of them Messerschmitts sees us, we’ll never outrun it.’
Nigeria by morning. Burton saw Madeleine, the farm and quince trees. He knew BOAC flew from Lagos to London.
‘What about those barracks you were trembling over?’ continued Patrick to Nares.
‘It’s got to be better than sitting in the back of that bloody jeep for the next week.’
‘Stealing fuel is one thing. Stealing a fucking plane, that’s another. They just gonna lend it to us?’
‘Think about Hannah,’ said Burton. ‘You could be with her by the end of the month.’
‘No thanks to you.’ Patrick rubbed his knuckles. ‘Quick and safe, you said.’
‘I’ll get you out of here, Chef. Just like I did at Dunkirk.’
Patrick’s face remained impassive for a moment, then he sighed an affirmative. An old, tired sigh. Burton gave him a brief smile in the darkness, then squeezed his eye tight to the scope again. He traced every inch of the airfield. There was a single guard, patrolling the perimeter as if on a Sunday afternoon stroll. In the tower another figure sat with his jackboots up, chewing. The Gotha was unprotected.
‘Now you’re sure you can fly this thing?’ he said to Nares.
The airman nodded.
‘Okay, let’s get down there. Take a closer look.’
They waited till after midnight, leaving the Ziege hidden in the undergrowth half a mile away as they trudged the final distance. For the first time Burton was glad still to be in his SS uniform – he was invisible, a black phantom in a black landscape. His feet ached in his boots.
By the time they made it to the airfield the moon had risen. The whole place looked asleep, even the perimeter guard Burton spied earlier had vanished. There were no lights anywhere except for a single lamp in the control tower. Burton guessed this would be an easy posting for the sons of Nazi bigwigs doing their national service. Vitamin B boys they called them. No counter-insurgency in western Kongo for these lads. Just a year in some far-flung outpost: stints on guard duty, illicit copies of Stag Party at night, boredom. The worst they’d face was a bout of dysentery.
Burton motioned for Patrick to check the barracks while he and Nares headed for the tower. When they reached it they had a better view of the Gotha; there were no guards or ground personnel.
‘Is she flight-worthy?’ whispered Burton.
‘I can’t tell from here. I think so.’
‘Get over to her, get her ready for take-off. And, Nares, keep it quiet.’
The airman slunk away as Burton mounted the stairs to the tower. They were made of wood, each step creaking as he trod on them. At the top he peeked in through the window. There was a lone radio operator sat by a console, flicking through a magazine. Burton could see the sweat roll down his neck.
The radio crackled to life. ‘Mendiao Control, do you read?’
The operator reached for the microphone to reply.
‘Stop!’ said Burton, entering the room.
The operator spun round and put his hand to his heart. ‘Sturmbannführer. You startled me.’ Then a crease of confusion as he recognised the uniform but not the face.
Goshi. The dambe side-blow to the head. Burton’s fist connected with the operator’s temple. He crumpled instantly. Burton raised his hand to strike again … and lowered it. The German was just a kid, his cheeks covered in blond fluff. He let the operator slide back in his chair.
‘Mendiao, do you read? Requesting runway lights. Over.’
Burton wiped the sweat from his face, grabbed the microphone, spoke in German: ‘This is … er … Men-di-ao. Runway lights … inoperable. Please do not attempt to land.’
‘I’m starting my final approach.’
‘Negative. Do not attempt to land.’
Static.
Burton pressed the broadcast button again. ‘Are you receiving? Repeat: do not attempt to land.’
When he got static for a second time Burton flung down the radio and rushed to the stairs. At the bottom he ran into Patrick. ‘The barracks?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Twenty to thirty men, all asleep, but it’s too many. Maybe if we had cyanide gas. I barricaded the door but it won’t hold them long.’
They darted towards the hangar and the Gotha. At the foot of the plane was a body. Burton bent down to examine it: it was an engineer, the back of his head sticky with blood. He was breathing deeply as though fast asleep.
‘Maybe there’s more to Nares after all,’ said Patrick.
They hauled themselves up through the hatch in the fuselage of the aircraft. Nares was already in the cockpit, checking the instrument panel. His hands trembled.
‘The only thing I could find was a wrench,’ he said. ‘I killed him.’
‘You’ve given him a bad hangover,’ said Burton. ‘That’s all.’
‘You sure he’s not dead?’
‘Give me the wrench and I can make sure.’
Nares offered a weak smile and turned back to the controls. He checked a few more switches, then tapped a dial.
‘What is it?’ asked Burton.
The airman hesitated. ‘Nothing. I’m ready.’
Burton leaned forward to check the panel himself. It meant as much to him as a wall of hieroglyphics.
Patrick shifted from foot to foot. ‘Is he sure he knows what he’s doing?’ he said to Burton.
‘He is,’ said Nares. ‘Ready when you are.’
There was only room for two in the cockpit. Burton strapped himself in next to the pilot while Patrick sat behind in the hold.
‘Nigeria by morning,’ said Burton.
Nares pressed the ignition switch. There was a rapid tick-tick-tick followed by a heaving sound, like a clockwork mule waking from its slumber. Then falling back to sleep once more.
Nares jabbed the switch again. Then a third time, more violently.
Tick-tick-tick. Nothing.
Nares tapped the dial that had caused him concern. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘No fuel.’
‘Just the news I was hoping for,’ said Patrick behind them.
‘The tanker,’ said Burton, already climbing out of his seat. ‘The one opposite the hangar.’ He turned to Nares. ‘Me and Patrick will get it. You make sure the plane is ready to refuel.’
They jumped out of the Gotha.
Burton looked round the empty hangar: felt a pang of dismay.
‘You should have hit him harder,’ he called back to Nares. There was no sign of the unconscious engineer, just a trail of blood spots leading towards the door.
Burton and Patrick double-timed over to the tanker and started her up, the roar of the engine excruciatingly loud as it echoed round the sleeping aerodrome. They drove back towards the hangar and started to refuel the plane.
‘How soon?’ said Patrick as the kerosene pumped through the hoses.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Nares.
‘You’re the pilot.’
‘Am I a Kraut? It’s a German plane.’
Burton watched the numbers on the counter churn over: 10 litres, 20, 30. It was like waiting for fruit to grow. He tried to calculate the fuel in gallons … but failed. The Germans had encouraged the British to convert to the metric system to simplify trade with the rest of Europe. But whereas the Dunkirk Fiasco had been borne with grim acceptance, the merest hint of metrification provoked outrage. Litres meant nothing to him – and that was how he preferred it.
50. 100. 150. 200. 250 …
‘Come on!’ said Patrick.
Suddenly bright light.
The huge Klieg lamps that illuminated the airfield burst into life. After so much gloom Burton felt as if his retinas were being squeezed between hot fingers. The world shimmered red,
green, blue. Patrick and Nares were also shielding their eyes. Next, the runway lights were coming on.
Patrick grabbed his sniper rifle and moved to the hangar door. He took a shot at one of the lights above. It shattered in a cascade of sparks.
A trail of machine gun fire raked the ground nearby. Warning shots, thought Burton. The Lebbs don’t want to hit the fuel tanker. He looked at the gauge: 300 litres.
‘How much do we need?’ he shouted at Nares.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Guess!’
‘Five hundred litres. But we could be free-falling the last bit.’
Another round of fire. Somewhere a vehicle was starting up and in the distance another sound. Something familiar, a faraway scream –
350 litres.
– the sound of a Messerschmitt coming in to land.
A harsh, metallic voice rang out. ‘Put down your weapons. Come out with your hands raised.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘You are surrounded.’
‘Nares, inside the plane. Get her ready to go,’ said Burton. ‘Then wait for my command.’
Nares scrambled on board, quick as a squirrel. The tanker continued to pump fuel.
360 litres.
Above them Burton heard boots clanging on the roof. He ran to the hangar door. There were troops fanning out on the edge of the runway, a half-track with mounted MG48 gun. Patrick had taken out four more of the arc lights, leaving two-thirds of the field in darkness. Clouds of insects swarmed around the remaining lamps.
‘Something’s coming in from the left,’ said Patrick. Far off on the horizon Burton saw flashing red pinpoints.
‘Can we shut down the runway lights?’
‘How?’
Tick-tick-tick. Nares was trying to start the plane.
Burton turned to the cockpit, gesturing for him to stop. ‘The fuel’s still running!’ he shouted.