The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  Vengeance is mine and I will repay.

  The intercom buzzed again.

  Hochburg wiped the blood from his hand, strode to his desk. ‘I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,’ he said, slipping the knife into a drawer.

  ‘Apologies, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, but Field Marshal von Arnim has just arrived. He says he must speak to you. Urgently.’

  ‘Let him wait.’

  Hochburg flicked off the intercom and went back to the veranda. In the distance, coming from the direction of Stanleystadt, he could see a helicopter. It was his personal Flettner. He watched it land in the square, the blast from its rotor blades lashing the wind-chime above his head. Kepplar got out, crouched against the downdraught and hurried towards him.

  ‘Do you have news?’ Hochburg shouted.

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst.’

  ‘Hurry then.’

  Hochburg returned to his office and flopped down at his desk. Forewarned that an assassination attempt was going to be made, his precious books had been removed from their shelves; now they were back in place. His eyes flitted over various titles – Mein Kampf, The Rising Tide of Colour, a leather-bound facsimile of Blumenbach’s study of skulls, Eugenica Afrika – before coming to rest on Eleanor’s battered copy of Wuthering Heights. He considered it for a pained moment before turning to the two portraits that dominated the room: Bismarck, his boyhood hero, and the Führer, re-kindler of his faith.

  It was from the secret chamber behind the Führer’s picture that he had watched Burton kill his double. At first he hadn’t recognised the boy, then – when he declared his name – Hochburg was too overcome to move. That turn of the mouth, those same blue-grey eyes. Why hadn’t it struck him immediately? He sat mesmerised as he watched the knife plunge into a throat that was meant to be his own.

  Another buzz.

  ‘Gruppenführer Kepplar is here.’

  ‘Send him through.’

  ‘And the field marshal is insisting—’

  ‘Kepplar first.’

  Hochburg pressed a button beneath the desk: the bolt on the door clicked. Seconds later it burst open.

  ‘How dare you!’ bellowed a starched, Prussian voice. ‘Who do you think I am? Some lowly corporal waiting on your pleasure?’

  In stormed Field Marshal Hans-Jürgen von Arnim, commander of the Afrika Korps.

  He was as bald as Hochburg with a thin moustache and ears that caused his troops to dub him ‘Der Elefant’. It was a nickname he relished, presuming it meant he crushed everything in his path. He had succeeded Rommel’s command in 1943 and led his men to victories in French West Africa, Congo and the Cameroons. General de Gaulle had surrendered to him personally at Douala. His uniform was dusty but perfectly tailored; around his neck was a cravat and Knight’s Cross.

  ‘Calm yourself, Field Marshal,’ said Hochburg, standing. ‘I thought you were in Angola, preparing for Operation Nelke.’

  ‘I’ve just flown in from Matadi.’

  Behind Arnim stood Kepplar; Hochburg motioned for him to disappear.

  ‘On the eve of battle? How courageous of you, Herr Arnim. And what is it this time? Have you conjured up yet another excuse for the Führer not to invade?’

  ‘Ninety Light Division is already on its way. Spearheading to Loanda.’

  ‘For once you surprise me! And are my Einsatzgruppen ready to follow after your troops?’ Einsatzgruppen: the SS’s Special Action Groups that resettled the blacks to Muspel.

  Arnim’s face soured. ‘They are chomping at the bit as always.’

  ‘They are very dedicated,’ said Hochburg with a carefully calibrated smile, ‘have much work to do. And you came all this way to give me the news, how thoughtful of you.’

  ‘Northern Rhodesia.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I’ve learned that you intend to invade.’

  ‘A team of British and Rhodesian assassins tried to kill me; the trail leads back to Lusaka. What would you have me do?’

  ‘I have barely enough divisions for Angola, and now this!’

  ‘Rhodesia will be a matter solely for the Waffen-SS. The Afrika Korps need not be involved.’

  ‘And who will lead this invasion?’ Arnim sneered. ‘You?’

  Hochburg swelled his chest. ‘May I remind the field marshal that it was the SS who took southern Angola.’

  ‘To my great regret.’

  ‘Who took Madagaskar. Tana. Conquered it in a matter of weeks when you and Rommel said it couldn’t even be done.’

  ‘A city is one thing, a whole country another. But you misread the British: the mood in London is changing, becoming more belligerent. Invade and they’ll fight. Fight to the last man.’

  ‘As will my Waffen troops.’

  ‘What about the Casablanca Treaty?’ asked Arnim.

  ‘That prized document of peace!’ snorted Hochburg. ‘In tatters, shredded by an assassin’s knife.’

  ‘And if your invasion fails?’

  ‘Impossible. The British are weak, will be wiped out – just like Dunkirk.’

  Arnim took a step closer, lowered his voice. ‘But the Lulua River won’t be.’ Hochburg caught his breath: it stank of cigars.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I heard what happened to your tunnel.’

  ‘You heard nothing. Nothing! The autobahn is already being cleared, ready for my tanks.’

  Arnim took another step forward, till their faces were almost touching; he was taller than Hochburg. ‘You can’t control your current territory, are losing the insurgencies in the Aquatoriana and the western districts. How do you intend to conquer more?’

  ‘The tunnel was attacked by Angolan terrorists. Do you hear me, Field Marshal: Angolans. If the Afrika Korps had done their job, secured the rest of the country and destroyed the rebel camps, this would never have happened. Instead all you do is delay. Loanda should have been ours six months ago. We’ve suffered enough provocations.’

  ‘It will stretch us too far.’

  ‘Always the same excuses.’ Hochburg leaned over his desk, forcing Arnim to take a semi-step backwards. ‘If we’d listened to milksops like you Versailles would never have been avenged, German Africa little more than a strip of Togoland.’

  ‘We don’t have the troops, the resources.’

  ‘What is Angola? A country – a half country – of fat Portuguese, convicts and niggers. A troop of Pfadfinders could take it.’

  ‘How dare you insult my men—’

  ‘Your soldiers are among the bravest. True white men. It’s their leaders who are cowards. It’s a wonder you haven’t been recalled to Germania.’

  Arnim’s face turned black.

  He adopted his most affected Prussian accent. ‘You talk easily of conquest, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, but it’s my soldiers who die for your dreams.’

  ‘You should learn a little Latin,’ replied Hochburg, pointing at a volume on his bookshelves. ‘Caesar’s advice to the Legions: amat victoria curam. “Victory favours those who bleed for it.” Besides, they are not just my dreams—’ his finger turned to the picture of Bismarck ‘—they are Germany’s. It is our destiny to rule middle Africa. Which is why the SS will storm Rhodesia.’

  Arnim gave a flippant laugh. ‘Destiny!’

  ‘If you have no sense of the profound, then at least consider the bounty. The copper mines, tobacco fields—’

  ‘It’s a folly, like Angola.’

  ‘I have the Führer’s wholehearted blessing.’

  ‘His mind has been turned, turned by people like you and Himmler.’

  ‘The SS is the future now, not the army. You will see in Northern Rhodesia.’

  Arnim straightened himself, adjusted the Knight’s Cross at his throat. ‘The Afrika Korps will take North Angola. But when the British grind you into the ground, when you and the SS choke on the dirt of Rhodesia … we will not support you.’

  ‘I shall remind you of this conversation, Herr Field Marshal, on that garlanded da
y I enter Lusaka.’

  Arnim turned and left.

  ‘Sieg Heil!’ Hochburg called mockingly after him. Hail Victory.

  He sat down, a cold euphoria coursing through his veins. Moments later Kepplar entered the room. He offered a rigid Nazi salute – a waft of peppermint oil – then remained at attention.

  ‘What news?’ asked Hochburg.

  Kepplar slipped his hands from his sides to behind his back, hesitated before he spoke. ‘With respect, Oberstgruppenführer, I heard the field marshal. What if he’s right? What if the British do beat us back?’

  Hochburg looked up as if he wanted to drink blood. ‘Do you doubt the uniform you wear, Gruppenführer? Doubt our mission in Africa?’

  ‘No, Herr Oberst.’

  ‘Maybe you doubt me.’

  ‘Of course not. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Burton Cole. He’s one man and yet …’ Kepplar hesitated again. ‘I’m loath to say this but I feel that the Herr Oberstgruppenführer has been distracted by his capture when his mind should be on Rhodesia.’

  Hochburg fixed his subordinate with his black eyes. His voice came from the depths of his throat: ‘And who was it that let him escape from the Mupe airfield?’

  Kepplar bowed his head.

  ‘The invasion has been planned to the last detail, Gruppenführer. The British won’t know what’s hit them. It’s not your concern. Now, what news from Stanleystadt?’

  ‘Dolan was telling the truth. We found Rougier.’

  ‘And Burton?’

  ‘The local SS got there before us, raided Rougier’s home earlier this morning. A tip-off from his landlady.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Two men were seen escaping the scene, I presume Cole and the American. Rougier himself was injured during the raid but is still alive. He will be ready to speak shortly.’

  Hochburg let out a long, stony sigh. ‘So you lost him?’

  ‘With your permission, Herr Oberst, I would like to interrogate the prisoner Dolan again. He may still have information that—’

  ‘Whatever he knows will be of little help now. He is, however, part of the team that tried to assassinate me, an act of war if ever there were one. Convene an emergency court martial and try him. Get RFA to broadcast it. Long-wave: so the whole continent can hear. In translation too. English, Portuguese, French.’

  ‘At once, Oberstgruppenführer.’

  ‘It will strengthen our position for the invasion, give Germania something extra against the British. In the meantime, return to Stanleystadt. Raise every SS man, every brownshirt, every flatfoot you can. Check the quays, the dosshouses, brothels, taverns. Tear the city apart if you have to. Everything until you find me Burton Cole.’

  ‘Alive or dead?’

  For an instant Hochburg was back in the secret chamber behind the portrait, watching Burton press the knife against his decoy: My mother. I want to know. ‘Alive of course!’ he roared. ‘The truth awaits him.’

  ‘Herr Oberst?’

  Hochburg gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

  Kepplar lingered a moment longer, then headed for the door.

  ‘Wait,’ said Hochburg. ‘Is the Unterjocher still at work in the city?’

  ‘Yes. They are raising an extra workforce to clear the tunnel. We are short of strong backs as usual.’

  ‘I doubt Burton has the proper papers. Check the Unterjocher too.’

  ‘I will make it a priority.’ Kepplar turned back to the door.

  ‘And Derbus …’

  Kepplar’s face lit up.

  ‘You have been my deputy for five years now, seen our achievements grow together.’ Hochburg slid his hand over his bald head. ‘Be warned: it counts for nothing. You failed me at the airfield. You also failed me with Dolan, and now Rougier.’

  Kepplar’s smile collapsed. ‘Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenführer. Apologies.’

  ‘Don’t do it again. Now get to Stanleystadt.’

  Stanleystadt, Kongo

  16 September, 13:40

  THE door was opened by the Greek. He was holding a torch; behind him the cellar was hidden in darkness. He beckoned them out.

  ‘Is it safe?’ asked Burton.

  ‘Germans gone.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Now you give me gold.’

  Burton relaxed his grip on the Browning, turned to Patrick and forced a smile. ‘Age before chancers.’

  Patrick didn’t move. There was a cockroach crawling along his ear. ‘I’m still on that boat.’

  Burton flicked the safety catch back on and ducked out of the cubby-hole.

  Next moment the muzzle of a BK44 was hard against his cheek. Someone tugged the light switch.

  There were five of them, all with banana-guns. The officer stepped forward. He was mid-twenties, had a low brow and wolfish teeth; his eyes looked vaguely oriental. On the breast of his uniform was a name badge in Gothic script: Hauptsturmführer Rottman. Even before he spoke, Burton guessed his type.

  As the Reich had expanded ever further into Africa, Germany ran out of native-born citizens to control its colonies. So a new breed of ‘ethnics’ needed to be found in the conquered territories of Europe: Serbs, Slovaks, Baltics, even Poles and Russians – anyone who could prove some German ancestry and was willing to swear an oath to the Führer. They were produced in their thousands by the SS colonial academies of Grunewald and Oranienburg, filled the lower ranks. Men who were insecure about their backgrounds; insecure, obedient, ambitious. Always ready to crack open a skull.

  Rottman held out his palm. ‘Your weapon.’

  Burton’s eyes scanned the cellar – narrowing as they met the Greek’s – but he knew it was impossible. He handed over his pistol.

  Rottman took it. ‘A Browning HP, “the King of Nines”,’ he said, turning it over. ‘I’ve not seen one of these since Muspel. Where did you get it from?’ He had an antiseptic voice.

  Burton made no reply.

  Rottman resumed his examination, running his fingers over the barrel. Burton’s gut twisted as if someone had their hand on Madeleine’s leg. He thought of her husband, his fingers scraping her inner thigh and for a crazy moment Burton was ready to take all of them on, punch and kick and blast his way out of the cellar.

  His thoughts must have shown on his face: the soldier with the BK against him pressed harder.

  ‘And what do these mean?’ asked Rottman, examining the engravings on the handle.

  Burton continued to stare forward.

  ‘Hmm. No matter.’ Rottman tucked the weapon into his belt. ‘Check him for ammunition and cuff him. The other one too.’

  They took his extra clip, the gold coins, then bound his wrists; Patrick was dragged out next, had his handgun and pipe confiscated. Neither of them looked at each other.

  ‘As for you,’ said Rottman, turning to the Greek. ‘Harbour illegals again and I’ll have you and every low-life customer in this dump on a chain-gang for the next ten years. Now get out of my sight.’

  Rottman led them upstairs. Outside there were four lorries waiting for them, more troops. A short distance away a man was face down in a pool of blood. The quayside was deserted.

  ‘Split them up,’ said Rottman. ‘The old man at the front, this one in here.’

  Burton was marched to the rear vehicle and shoved in. It was a steel cage on a flatbed lorry with hard wooden benches on either side and no cover from the sun. There were at least thirty men crushed into it; some were sobbing. Burton took his place at the back, two guards climbing in next to him. They pulled the cage door shut – but didn’t lock it.

  Engines started. Burton caught a mouthful of diesel fumes, and the lorries pulled away.

  They drove through Otraco, over the Giesler bridge. For an instant Burton thought their destination was SS headquarters. Then they turned down the Avenue of Victory (a scale version of Germania’s) and he realised they were leaving the city. On either side marble columns topped with sculptures flashed by, alternately eagles and th
e bronze heads of the party leadership: Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels, Göring. Followed by the conquerors of Africa: Rommel, Arnim, von Hulsen. There was no bust of Hochburg.

  The convoy continued southwards out of Stanleystadt.

  Burton’s mind was racing. He’d wait till they were driving through the jungle: the trees would offer better cover. Then back to the city and that one bunk to Neu Berlin. And Patrick? Burton felt a squirm of guilt but pushed it from his mind. Reminded himself of the American’s words in prison.

  Every man for himself.

  They were on a slip road. The outskirts of the city – a VW plant, rice mills and soap factories – were giving way to trees. Soon the jungle was rising again. Burton glanced at the two guards. One was smoking a cigarette, the other watching the cathedral sink beneath the tree line.

  Burton arched his spine, began tightening and releasing his thigh muscles to relax them. Buttocks, shoulders, arms and neck. The looser his body the better. He pulled at the cuffs just in case they hadn’t been secured properly.

  With each second the jungle was thickening. Through the foliage he glimpsed the old road to Ponthierville; he’d heard it was a ghost town now, another Belgian outpost left to moulder through Nazi spite.

  Burton took a deep gulp of air, checked the road behind them. It was empty. His heart was hammering in his throat. He’d go on three: the way he used to in the Legion before leaping off dunes steep enough to break your back.

  Another deep breath. Un … deux …

  This was going to hurt.

  Trois!

  He shot up. Kicked the cage door open. And hurled himself out of the lorry.

  Burton landed hard, his body crashing on to the road. Blinding white pain shot up his leg like a chisel rammed into his kneecap. He rolled once. Twice. The ground tore a gash in his forehead.

  The convoy screeched to a halt.

  Burton dragged himself to his feet, vision spinning, and bolted towards the jungle. Limp-run, limp-run, limp-run. If he could just make the tree line …

  Behind him there were shouts. Whistle blasts.

  Each step sent another bolt of agony searing through his leg. Burton stumbled, forced himself back up. He had thirty feet to go.