The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  ‘Who’s going to kill us first?’ said Patrick. ‘You, him, them?’

  ‘Cover us till the plane’s out. Then get on board.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Age before chancers,’ said Burton, already heading back to the Gotha. He checked the fuel: 420 litres. A portion of the roof caved in, jackboots appeared through the hole. 421, 422, 423, 424, 425—

  It would have to do. Burton turned off the fuel pump, the hose still in his hand.

  ‘Now, Nares!’

  The tail-rudder flicked back and forth. Then, tick-tick-tick.

  Nothing happened.

  Burton felt his chest deflate.

  Tick-tick-tick …

  This time the engine roared to life!

  Exhaust fumes billowed out. The sound of the engines was deafening inside the hangar. It dropped an octave and the aircraft jerked forward, rolled out of the building. Patrick signalled to Nares to turn right. There was a burst of gunfire as the plane emerged from the hangar. Patrick responded.

  Burton turned the pump back on. Aviation fuel gushed out all over the floor, the vapour burning his eyes. He left it pumping and sprinted to Patrick. ‘Go! Then cover me.’

  Patrick raced after the Gotha.

  At the far end of the field, in the direction the plane was headed, Burton could see a group of soldiers erecting some kind of barricade. It looked like a pyramid of tyres. They doused it in petrol and set it aflame.

  Burton raised his banana-gun to his shoulder, taking out several men. Gunfire pelted him from the opposite direction. He turned and fired. Then back towards the plane. Patrick had made the door. He threw in his rifle and heaved himself in after it. Seconds later he reappeared, beckoning for Burton to follow.

  Burton fired off a few more rounds – and ran, his legs pumping ferociously. Shots zipped past him. He felt a scorching slash across his neck, then hot liquid spread beneath his collar.

  At the door of the aircraft Patrick urged him onwards, his face contorted with the effort. He was trying to say something. He ducked inside the cabin. Burton expected him to reappear at any moment. But he didn’t.

  Instead the plane’s engines began to power up.

  Burton chased after it, cursing Nares with what little breath he had left. He’d never catch it. His only hope was that Patrick would order the pilot to stop.

  Things fuck up, boy, and you’re on your own. I’ll leave you without a second thought. Every man for himself. Patrick’s words in prison. A bayonet driven through hope. The plane was picking up speed.

  ‘Nares, you bastard! Wait! Patrick!’

  Burton’s cries were drowned out by the propellers as the Gotha pulled away.

  FOR the hope of the ungodly passeth, as the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but a day … Burton had tried to forget everything his parents taught him, but sometimes fragments would return, appearing like unbidden phantoms when his heart reeled.

  The hope of the ungodly …

  He stumbled and came to a halt, blood weeping from his neck, rifle limp at his side. He should have been honest with Patrick, told him about Hochburg, the fruitless revenge he had taken. If his friend had understood, maybe he wouldn’t have abandoned him.

  Burton began to churn over what-next: get back to the jeep, keep heading west. He’d be faster on his own anyway. The Gotha was never going to clear the barricade – it hadn’t picked up enough speed – maybe he could escape in the confusion as it hit the flaming tyres.

  A fresh volley of bullets chewed the ground near him.

  Burton was on the move again, heading for the jungle. Its tangled darkness offered the best hope of escape. More gunfire. It chased him across the runway till he dived behind some rusty oil drums for cover. Shells slammed into steel inches above his head, each hollow thud making him flinch. The urge to curl up and never move again was almost irresistible. Burton glanced over to see if the Gotha had made it. He hoped it had already careered into the barrier.

  It was slowing.

  Patrick was hanging out of the door scanning the runway for him. Burton shot to his feet and waved euphorically. He was met by a torrent of bullets and tracer fire and ducked out of sight again. But Patrick had seen him. He made a swivelling motion with his hand: we’re turning round.

  Burton laughed, all teeth and spit.

  He got to his knees, forced his breathing steady and began to fire at the soldiers on the other side of the runway. Aimed, deliberate shots. Now the lights were in his favour. One kill, two kill; steady and relentless to give the plane time to manoeuvre.

  The Gotha completed its turn. It began to throttle up once more and moved down the airstrip – away from the barricade. In the opposite direction the landing lights of the Me-362 were burning brighter in the sky.

  Burton waited till the Gotha was parallel with him, then he broke cover. Ran with all the blood in his body. The force of the propellers whipped grit into his mouth.

  ‘Move!’ shouted Patrick, his voice as insistent as any drill instructor. ‘Move!’ He had his hand out, straining for Burton’s.

  Burton had a sudden moment of horror – of a bullet splitting his ankle, forcing him to the dirt, the plane leaving, no second chance. Madeleine waiting for him on the porch for ever, Alice and his own orphaned child at her knee.

  Patrick grasped hold of his hand. Abruptly, Burton was inside the fuselage. Patrick shoved him out of the way and resumed his position by the door, his rifle hungry for more targets. In the cockpit Nares was yelling. Burton made his way up to him, checked the wound on his neck: it was a scratch, nothing more. Bullets ricocheted either side of them, the skin of the aircraft already punctured with holes.

  ‘There’s another plane,’ screamed Nares. ‘Coming straight for us.’

  The Messerschmitt’s lights were growing in the cockpit.

  Burton strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat. ‘We can make it.’ His voice was coarse.

  Nares throttled harder. He kept glancing down at the control panel. Both his hands were on the stick, ready to yank back as soon as they had enough lift. He was trying to guide the Gotha to the right of the runway to avoid the other plane.

  The Gotha tore past the hangar and control tower. Burton could feel the air swelling beneath the wings. There was a blast of gunfire, bullets zinging through the cockpit. It was a miracle that neither of them was hit. He heard his father’s bitter voice: there are no more miracles, son. Then a second burst. Another miracle, except this time something hot splattered Burton’s arms.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Nares. He spoke as if straining his bowels. Burton looked at him. A dark patch was spreading across the airman’s stomach, blood pumped from his thigh. His face was sweaty and lolling.

  The nose of the aircraft was fighting to take off.

  ‘What do I do?’ said Burton.

  ‘I can manage the stick. You do the pedals. Push hard when I say so.’

  Burton put his feet on them. In the back he heard Patrick slam the fuselage door shut. The Me-362 was almost upon them.

  ‘Now!’ said Nares, it sounded as if all the breath in him had escaped his lungs. He pulled on the control column, grimacing as he did so. Burton depressed the pedals. The only thing he could see was the fighter plane in front. It was so close it blocked out the night. The engines were screaming.

  The Messerschmitt touched down – flashed past them – and clipped the Gotha’s wing.

  For an instant nothing happened. There was no explosion, no fire, just a muffled clap. Burton felt them escaping the ground. Then a bump so hard it was like a brick had been broken into his chest. The Gotha spun violently to the right. Through the cockpit he was aware of the jungle. Then runway.

  Jungle. Runway. Jungle.

  The tendons in his neck were straining as if they would snap. The plane surged into the trees. There was the sound of screaming metal and something – a wing, an engine – was ripped off. He glimpsed Nares struggle to control the stick but his hands were jelly.

&nb
sp; The Gotha continued forward, cutting into the jungle like a corkscrew. Finally it shuddered to a halt.

  Burton’s vision was blurred. On the periphery he sensed the burning wreckage of the Me-362. Or maybe it was just the tyres at the end of the runway. His stomach felt jolted loose, arms limp, fingers teeming with pins and needles. He attempted to move but couldn’t. He knew nothing was broken but it was as if part of him had been left behind and needed to catch up.

  Burton lifted his head. Nares’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish tossed on the quayside. Great belches of blood oozed from it. Burton saw Hochburg again.

  ‘Can … you … move?’ He didn’t know who had spoken. Then he realised it was himself. ‘Nares … can you move?’

  The airman didn’t speak but feebly struggled to unstrap himself.

  Movement was coming back to Burton’s body. He shrugged off the seat harness and stood. The world was lopsided, reeked of kerosene and blood. He reached to unbuckle the pilot, tried to swivel him round. Nares screamed. Burton’s hands came away like a butcher’s.

  ‘Patrick! I need your help!’

  His old friend emerged from the fuselage. There was a vicious gash across his nose, the blood tracing his wrinkles. His eyes look focused.

  ‘I can’t move Nares,’ explained Burton.

  ‘Leave him. We have to go. The Lebbs are coming.’

  Nares opened his mouth to complain. Nothing but a gurgle of blood came out.

  The fuzziness was clearing from Burton’s thoughts. He could hear a drip-drip-drip from Nares.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do for him,’ said Patrick.

  ‘We have to try.’ He struggled to move the airman’s legs again.

  Patrick reached for his pistol and aimed it at Nares’s head.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Burton. ‘We—’

  A single shot. The cockpit window was misted in blood and brain. Nares’s body jerked several times. Then was still.

  Burton looked on in frozen horror.

  In the distance came the sound of men breaking through the undergrowth.

  Patrick pulled at Burton’s shoulder. ‘Move!’

  Burton stood fast.

  ‘Move yourself, Cole!’ said Patrick again, pulling more roughly this time. ‘Or I swear I’ll leave you.’

  Burton did as directed but it was as if he were in a dream. At the fuselage door he stole a look backwards, hoping to convince himself Nares was still alive. The cockpit window was smeared red. Patrick shoved him out of the door, and they disappeared into the jungle.

  Doruma, Kongo-Sudan border

  14 September, 21:15

  ‘HOW much longer?’ asked Vacher.

  ‘Couple of minutes. No more,’ replied Dolan, even though he calculated the charges should have already fired. He kept replaying the moment when he twisted the timer on the explosive, wondered if he had turned it too far.

  They were sitting in the Ziege, engine purring, a hundred yards from the border crossing. The windows were up, doors locked. With every passing second there were more Waffen-SS troops; the town like a basin filling with black ink.

  ‘What if they don’t explode?’ asked Vacher.

  ‘In three years that’s never happened,’ said Dolan. He decided it was best not to mention year four at that precise moment.

  ‘But what if they don’t? The major was right, this place is crawling with Krauts.’

  ‘You’re starting to sound like Lapinski.’

  ‘Poor bloke,’ said Vacher. ‘If we get back I’m going to see his popsey—’

  ‘When we get back.’

  There was a knock at the window.

  Dolan saw a leather-gloved hand rapping on the glass. He wound down the window and an SS officer peered in. He had pale acned skin, reeked of peppermint; one of his ears was missing. There was another officer behind him examining the bodywork of the jeep.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the one-eared officer.

  From the tinsel on his sleeve Dolan could see that he was a Gruppenführer. Since when were fucking major generals on traffic patrol? He kept his voice jaunty but respectful. ‘Waiting for a friend of ours,’ he said in German. ‘Then back off to barracks. We’re on leave tonight.’

  ‘All leave has been cancelled,’ said the Gruppenführer. ‘Surely you know that?’

  Vacher leaned over. ‘What’s going on?’

  The Gruppenführer raised an eyebrow. It made him look like a puppet. ‘Where have you two been? The Governor General has been assassinated.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Take your pick. Insurgents from the west. Angolan rebels. The British.’ He looked at Vacher. ‘Rhodesians. Our enemies are everywhere.’

  ‘Fuckers,’ said Dolan.

  ‘They won’t escape,’ said the Gruppenführer. He leaned in closer. ‘Now this friend of yours. Where did you say he is?’

  Dolan found his most lascivious grin. ‘At a whorehouse. He was supposed to be done ten minutes ago. Guess he wants his money’s worth. You know what these Polish girls are like.’

  ‘Polluters of our German blood. Your papers. You too,’ he said, motioning at Vacher. His face was expressionless.

  Vacher reached into his tunic. For a split-second, Dolan thought he was going to draw his pistol and shoot the SS officer dead, but the Rhodesian simply handed over his documents. Dolan hesitated, then did the same. Ackerman had assured them they were as good as the real thing. He’d also assured them they would be home by now, rolling diamonds in their hands.

  The Gruppenführer flicked through them. Further up the road another officer was briefing the border guards. Their number had doubled in the last half hour. There were other troops patrolling the streets. Eyes everywhere. On the billboard above them, the SS soldier’s grin suddenly seemed demonic.

  The one-eared officer continued flicking through their papers; he seemed to be weighing up something.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ said Vacher.

  Dolan gestured at him to shut up.

  The Gruppenführer snapped the documents shut and handed them back over. ‘Everything is in order.’

  Inside, Dolan felt like a knot had been loosened.

  Then another question: ‘What’s in the back of your vehicle?’

  ‘Just some tarpaulins.’ Dolan struggled to keep his voice calm. ‘Maybe a few bottles of Primus if we have any left. You and your colleague want one?’

  The Gruppenführer clicked his finger. The other SS officer moved to the back and opened the jeep.

  Dolan shifted his foot to the clutch and depressed it. Very slowly his hand drifted to the gear stick. He put the engine in first. Once again he replayed turning the timer on the charges. Surely it was fourteen minutes by now? Next to him Vacher gripped his weapon.

  The officer at the back was riffling through the tarpaulin. He called his superior over.

  ‘Let’s go!’ hissed Vacher.

  With his free hand Dolan gripped the wheel. He began dipping the accelerator.

  The doors slammed shut.

  ‘I hope your friend doesn’t catch anything. Those Polack sluts are worse than sewer rats,’ said the Gruppenführer, striding away. ‘If you see anything suspicious, report it immediately. Goodnight to you both.’

  Dolan released the clutch.

  The Gruppenführer stopped and turned back to them. ‘One last thing.’ Dolan’s feet shot back to the pedals. ‘Turn off your engine. There’s a fuel shortage, remember.’

  Dolan killed the engine. A second later it was as if his lungs had popped.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God,’ said Vacher, crossing himself.

  ‘I didn’t know you were religious.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  They both laughed, like raw recruits who’d outfoxed the colour-sergeant.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ said Vacher. ‘Sudan, Nigeria. Who cares.’

  There was a loud fizzing sound.

  On the other side of the town a blob of pink phosphoro
us rocketed into the heavens. Everyone – the border guards, soldiers on the street, Dolan and Vacher – stopped to stare. It rose in an elegant arc before tumbling to the ground and reminded Dolan of the first fireworks he’d seen as a boy. That had been in Newport on the day Halifax announced peace between Britain and Germany. His mam wept as the heavens exploded above them, though whether through shame or grief he never asked. Dolan simply walked off in wordless dismay. The war had been short but still left plenty of families with graves to tend; his elder brother hadn’t made it back from France.

  ‘Isn’t something supposed to happen?’ There was a clawing to Vacher’s voice.

  ‘It missed the fuel dump. I couldn’t measure the trajectory. I had to guess.’ Dolan started the engine again. ‘There are three more, each at different angles—’

  Two lorries skidded to a halt in front of them. Troops were disgorging like a torrent of black water. Leading them was the one-eared Gruppenführer.

  The second phosphorous shell blasted into the sky.

  Dolan drove, smashing through the soldiers. He aimed between the two lorries but the gap wasn’t big enough. The screech of tearing metal. The jeep’s front lights shattered. The lorries jerked out of position … And they were through.

  The phosphorous landed harmlessly.

  Vacher fired his BK44 out of the window.

  ‘Get down! Get down!’ shouted Dolan as he steered towards the border gates. A tide of bullets smacked into the jeep. He saw sparks ping and flash off the bonnet. The windscreen disintegrated. They were almost there.

  Above them, another blast of phosphorous. And another.

  The jeep hit something, throwing them violently forward. Then back. They were past the barrier. Now the gates. They crashed through them. More screaming metal, like a steel animal being disembowelled. Gunshots. The back of the vehicle imploded.

  The phosphorous dropped, found its target. The night turned yellow, orange, scarlet. Soldiers were whipped off their feet. For a few brief moments the firing stopped.

  ‘Drive!’ yelled Vacher. He positioned himself between the seats and fired backwards, out of the vehicle.