The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  UJ.

  PAA, Kongo

  17 September, 09:15

  FROM the air it was even more impressive. A miracle of German engineering and Hochburg’s genius.

  Kepplar was in the passenger seat of his master’s helicopter, marvelling at the scene below him. He had spent the last sixteen hours ransacking Stanleystadt for Cole and the American, working through the night to check every last tavern, flophouse and festering brothel. Nothing. He was resolute he wouldn’t return empty-handed again; had never seen the Oberstgruppenführer so agitated. Then came a report of an incident with the Unterjocher the previous afternoon. A prisoner had attempted to escape from one of the convoys to Wutrohr 161.

  Now Kepplar was heading south, on his lap a dossier supplied by the Gestapo.

  He had intended to use the flight to catch up on some sleep but as soon as the PAA came into view, the fatigue left him. His heart swelled. What they had achieved in Kongo in a single decade the Belgians failed to do in a century. Even the British in India – before the Hindoos kicked them out – couldn’t compare. The triumph belonged to the SS! They had put the niggers to good work in the years before Windhuk. Under Hochburg’s auspices new cities and mining towns were built, hydroelectric dams across the Rivers Klara and Rufiji, even an opera house in the jungle near Gerberstadt designed by Brinkmann. The key had been transport. Without it, Hochburg declared on the day he became Governor General, Kongo isn’t worth two pfennigs.

  So: the Matadi lock system (largest in the world); ultramodern ports at Pythonhafen, Neu Berlin and Stanleystadt; the north–south railway network linking the colony to Muspel; a hub of airports to carry Germans back home or to the beach resorts of Kleine Küste and Strength-Through-Joy holidays. None of these achievements, however, stirred Kepplar as much as the Pan African Autobahn.

  It was as straight as any Roman road, bisected the continent with its gleaming white lanes – arteries to pump the blood of German civilisation – with neither forest nor desert, river nor mountain allowed to stand in its path. The Kongo section had opened only a few months earlier. Along here the panzers of the Waffen-SS would thunder on their way to victory in Northern Rhodesia. But it was more than simply a triumph of civil engineering. The masterstroke of the PAA, at least for the German legs, was the material it was constructed from: a unique blend of concrete that would ensure the presence of National Socialism in Africa for millennia.

  The idea was Hochburg’s.

  When he presented it to Himmler only two things were demanded of him. One, that work begin immediately. Two, that no one outside the SS must ever know its secret. Later, Hochburg told Kepplar, the Reichsführer had danced a jig at what they planned.

  The pilot’s voice came over the comlink. ‘Two minutes, Gruppenführer,’ he said, pointing to the horizon.

  Kepplar opened the dossier on his lap, studied the photos in it, before returning his gaze to the grasslands below.

  Already he could see the billowing chimneys of the Wutrohr labour camp. Although not of the magnitude of DESTA’s complexes in Muspel, Wutrohr 161 was still a considerable achievement. Built in the deep south of Kongo – far from prying eyes – it had risen from the bush in a matter of months to manufacture the cement for the PAA. This time not a single black hand had contaminated the construction: on Hochburg’s insistence every last brick and girder was laid by the SS.

  The Flettner landed and was met by a small contingent of troops. Kepplar climbed out of the helicopter, ducking against the wind, and hurried towards them. He was greeted by the camp commandant, Uhrig.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ said Uhrig, snapping to attention. He was a gorilla in uniform.

  Kepplar regarded the man with distaste: he knew the accusations against him. ‘Heil!’

  ‘This is an unexpected honour, Herr Gruppenführer,’ said Uhrig as they strode away. ‘But let me assure you I am doing everything – everything – in my power to clear the tunnel for the Governor. I’ve doubled the work-gangs, sent another across the river to dig from the far side. Told my men to whip any shirkers—’

  ‘I’m sure the Herr Oberst will appreciate your efforts.’

  ‘I also sent out patrols to hunt down the niggers that did it. When we catch them, they’ll wish they’d been shipped off to Muspel.’

  ‘I’ve not come to check on the progress of the tunnel,’ said Kepplar. ‘Two convoys of Unterjocher travelled here yesterday. Where are they?’

  A flicker of disappointment. ‘The last arrived thirty minutes ago. They’re being de-loused ready for branding.’

  ‘Assemble them immediately for my inspection. All of them.’

  Uhrig chewed his lip. ‘All of them?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Ten minutes later Kepplar was standing in the parade square at the back of the camp. Chimneys towered above him casting shadows on the dusty ground. The sky was grey from smoke, had a tang of fire and dust.

  Uhrig was running around barking orders at his men, shoving the assembled prisoners into place. The first dozen had been shaved, their heads white with disinfectant, the rest were as they had arrived. They were all still cuffed. Uhrig punched one who didn’t move fast enough.

  ‘Line up, you fucking pigs!’ screamed Uhrig. ‘A shoulder width apart. Make yourself presentable for the Herr Gruppenführer.’

  He’s desperate to impress, thought Kepplar, anything to get out of Wutrohr. Uhrig was a one-time hero of the Einsatzgruppen, had been among the first into Russia, and later Kongo. With him the stench of scandal: Polacks in the East, outright miscegenation in Africa. He had been accused of raping a native girl. Kepplar’s stomach convulsed at the notion. Nothing was ever proved, at least not sufficiently for a prosecution under the Nuremberg Laws for race defilement, but his career suffered. For a crack trooper like Uhrig, Wutrohr must have been purgatory. He wanted to be back on the front line especially with the prospect of Angola and Northern Rhodesia. Kepplar had seen several transfer requests pass over Hochburg’s desk.

  Finally the prisoners were assembled, a ragamuffin parody of troops on parade.

  ‘Stand to attention,’ said Uhrig. He was twirling a baton of wood. ‘Come on, you pigs!’

  Kepplar scanned their faces. They seemed a mean bunch. Slavs and Polacks mostly to judge from their physiognomy, escaped workers. The slime of humanity. Also a few migrant Germans foolish enough to have lost their papers. They might get lucky.

  ‘I said: stand to attention!’ To emphasise his order Uhrig brought the baton crashing down into the back of the nearest prisoner. He crumpled to the ground. The rest straightened their spines.

  ‘That will do, Uhrig,’ said Kepplar.

  ‘Sorry, Gruppenführer.’

  Kepplar glanced at the Gestapo dossier then began walking down the ranks, examining the faces, looking for Cole and the American.

  A Slav: Category Four skull.

  Another Four.

  And another.

  Four.

  Three/Four.

  Four again.

  Four—

  Kepplar came to a halt, scrutinising the face in front of him. ‘And he arrived today?’ he said to Uhrig.

  ‘This morning, Gruppenführer.’

  Kepplar turned back to the prisoner, leaned in closer. He was a Category One/Two, in another life could have joined the SS. His head was bowed.

  ‘Look at me,’ said Kepplar.

  The prisoner glanced up, eyes fixed on a point beyond the parade ground. He was in his fifties, lean and wrinkled, with thinning grey hair. His nose bent to the left. A scab on the bridge of it.

  Kepplar beckoned Uhrig over. ‘This one.’

  They can’t know it’s me, Patrick kept telling himself.

  They can’t know it’s me.

  A Gruppenführer – a fucking major general – was walking down the line examining the faces before him. In his hand was a red folder. As he approached, Patrick saw part of his ear was missing: it looked as if it had been bitten off. He came to a halt in front of
him. The faint smell of mint, like chewing gum that had been in your mouth all day.

  Patrick averted his eyes. Steadied his breathing.

  They only knew what Burton looked like. There was no way they could pick him out unless he gave himself away.

  ‘This one.’

  Patrick felt a choking sensation, fought to control his throat.

  The camp commander, Uhrig, came over, a leer on his face. He had stopped twirling his baton, was now gripping it so hard his fist had turned crimson.

  The Gruppenführer spoke. In English. ‘You are Patrick Whaler, an American.’ He spoke the last word with particular scorn; it dripped with Goebbels’s taunts of capitalists and yellow-belly isolationism – the exact reason why Patrick had joined Burton at Dunkirk. It made sense at the time, though now … His idealism had long since withered away.

  Patrick remained silent, kept his eyes straight ahead. He conjured up an expression of reverence, fear, bafflement.

  ‘Three nights ago you and a team of assassins tried to kill our beloved Governor General. Do you deny it?’

  Still Patrick said nothing.

  Uhrig pushed his baton against Patrick’s neck. ‘Answer the Gruppenführer, you pig.’ He shoved him backwards.

  Patrick stumbled but kept his footing. ‘Please, monsieur,’ he said in his legionnaires’ French, head bowed, ‘I don’t understand.’

  The Gruppenführer raised his eyebrows. ‘We can speak French if you prefer, we can even hang you in it.’

  ‘I’m just an old man, monsieur, a worker. I didn’t have the right papers. I don’t understand what’s going on, all I want is to get back to my family.’

  This time the Nazi replied in German, raising his voice so everyone could hear. ‘You are a criminal and a terrorist. Your fellow conspirators have all been captured or killed. Lapinski, Vacher, Dolan. You have no hope.’

  Patrick swallowed hard, felt the currents in his stomach shift. He forced his expression to remain blank but even he couldn’t help reacting to the next statement.

  ‘Your mission has failed. Failed entirely. Herr Hochburg is alive. Alive and well – and as I speak planning his next move against the enemies of peace in Africa.’ The Gruppenführer leaned in closer; for a second Patrick thought he was going to embrace him. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You killed his decoy.’

  It’s a bluff, thought Patrick. All a bluff to get me talking. Remember: they don’t know what I look like.

  I’m a blank.

  The Nazi stepped back, gave a signal to Uhrig. The camp commander slipped his baton into his jackboots and withdrew his pistol. Patrick recognised it at once: a Luger P08, nine mil. The muzzle was placed against his forehead.

  Patrick fell to his knees, cupped his hands. ‘Please, monsieur, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t killed anyone. I just want to get back to my daughter.’

  Uhrig kept the pistol trained on his head.

  ‘I have two daughters,’ replied the Gruppenführer. ‘Two daughters and a son. I haven’t seen them for a year.’

  ‘Then you understand, monsieur. I only came here to work, for money, for my family. We’re very poor.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Marseilles.’

  ‘A Vichy. And what do you think of your Monsieur Laval?’

  ‘He’s a good man. I don’t know. I’m not interested in politics.’ Patrick looked up into the face above him: he could see the doubt in the Nazi’s eyes. They were shockingly blue.

  ‘What about Westmark? Every Frenchman has a view on that.’

  Westmark: previously Alsace-Lorraine, ‘a jewel we won’t give back’, as Hitler described it. It had been subsumed into Greater Germany in 1940, was now the seat of the Council of New Europe. Its loss remained a fiercely contentious issue in France.

  ‘It will be ours again,’ proclaimed Patrick, ‘you’ll see.’

  The Gruppenführer considered this for a moment, then motioned to Uhrig to remove the gun.

  ‘Shoot the man next to him.’

  Uhrig twisted his Luger to the prisoner on Patrick’s right. Patrick looked over to him. He was pleading in a language that—

  Uhrig fired.

  Blood sprayed Patrick’s face, hot and thick. It splashed his mouth. For an instant he was standing over Nares again. Poor Nares …

  The man slumped to the ground, blood continuing to spurt from his skull.

  ‘And the next one.’

  Uhrig moved along the line.

  Hannah, he thought. Concentrate on Hannah. She’s all that matters now. Getting out of Africa and back to her. Let them kill as many as they want. In prison he had memorised the picture she’d sent him, every last grain of film. He focused on her smile, the turn of the skin at the corner of her lips; the way the light caught her eyes – just like her mother.

  A second shot.

  The Gruppenführer was staring at him, eyes as unflinching as a mesmerist’s, watching for any tick or tremble that might give him away.

  ‘Please, monsieur …’

  ‘And the next.’

  There was a third shot. The ground was turning black.

  Uhrig moved to the next prisoner, raised his gun again and looked over expectantly. His sleeve was sprayed scarlet.

  The Gruppenführer turned to the folder in his hand and removed a photograph. Patrick could only see the back of it, glossy white paper.

  ‘Perhaps you’re thinking, Major Whaler, that we don’t know what you look like. Perhaps you are pinning your hopes on this. Let me assure you nothing is further from the truth. I have your face here. Yours and Cole’s, from a Gestapo file.’

  Patrick used the back of his hand to wipe away the blood on his face. This was the interrogators’ game. Another bluff.

  Whoever blinked first, lost.

  The Nazi was growing agitated. ‘There are—’ he estimated the number of prisoners, frowning as he did so ‘—ninety-five, a hundred men here. Must every one of them die?’

  Patrick returned his gaze to the ground. Blood was trickling around his knees, soaking into his pants. A hundred men: at least the same number of children. Sons, daughters. Orphans-in-waiting because of him. He tried to push the thought away. Was that all Hannah was now? An orphan-in-waiting? The last time he’d seen her she was four years old. He had picked her up and she cried. She’s not good with strangers, Ruth told him.

  The Gruppenführer sighed. ‘Very well.’ He nodded at Uhrig.

  He checked the mechanism on his Luger, then went down the line. One shot. Two. Three. He seemed bored.

  The prisoners were staring at Patrick. Begging. Wailing. He’d heard that sound after battles, men with missing legs and open bowels pleading to be saved. It was the type of sound you never forgot. He had woken in prison with it gnawing his ears.

  Four. Five. Six.

  Patrick got to his feet, swayed. ‘Promise me you won’t kill any more?’ he said in German.

  ‘Uhrig has lost nine strong backs because of you. He doesn’t have enough workers as it is.’

  ‘I’m Whaler.’

  ‘Kepplar.’ He clicked his heels, saluted.

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Your friend Dolan.’

  ‘I knew he’d blab.’

  ‘I had him squealing in minutes. It was easy enough.’

  Patrick thought of the Welshman, his booming voice and armour-plated arrogance; he was just a kid really. ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘For now. His court martial is tomorrow. You’ll be taking the stand with him.’

  ‘And the photo? It was blank, wasn’t it?’

  A spark played in Kepplar’s blue eyes. He glanced down at the picture, slipped it back into his folder, snapped it shut. Patrick caught sight of the markings on the front. Gestapo, Department E: TOP SECRET.

  ‘Enough chit-chat,’ said Kepplar. ‘Where is Burton Cole?’

  Patrick hesitated. ‘I haven’t seen him since the Schädelplatz. Somebody double-crossed
us, our plane was destroyed.’

  ‘Get involved with British intelligence and what do you expect?’

  ‘So it wasn’t the Angolans?’

  Kepplar shook his head.

  ‘Ackerman?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘We knew from the start.’ A thin smile. ‘You never had a chance.’

  ‘But why? What did he hope to gain?’

  ‘Major Whaler, it’s not for you to ask the questions. Now, where is Cole?’

  ‘We split. After that I don’t know.’

  Kepplar sighed. ‘You’re an American, you like the movies. Cole too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were seen together in Stanleystadt, fleeing across the rooftops. Paid an unexpected visit to Fräulein Riefenstahl’s latest masterpiece.’ He spoke up so Uhrig and the rest of the guards could hear him: ‘I’ve met her, by the way. Charming woman.’ He returned to Patrick. ‘I’ll ask one more time, or does the good Standartenführer here have to reload his Luger?’

  Patrick tilted his face to the sky; let the sun warm it for a few moments. The heat was dry here, like the desert, the kind he loved. He could hear the flies already buzzing around the corpses either side of him. ‘I don’t know. We were put on separate trucks. When we got here he was driven away.’

  Kepplar turned to Uhrig, raised his eyebrows. ‘Is this true? How many trucks were there?’

  ‘Four, Herr Gruppenführer.’

  ‘Thirty prisoners per truck … and there are only a hundred here. What happened to the rest?’

  Patrick watched Uhrig chew his lip. ‘Sent on a punishment detail, to clear the tunnel.’

  ‘From the same convoy as the American here?’

  ‘One of my deputies dealt with it, Gruppenführer. When I find out who I’ll have him whipped.’

  Kepplar spoke deliberately: ‘From the same convoy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Prepare my Flettner for immediate take-off. I’m going to the tunnel.’

  Uhrig clicked his fingers and a guard scurried off. ‘And the prisoner?’ he said, withdrawing his baton from his jackboot and pointing it at Patrick.

  ‘We may need to interrogate him further,’ said Kepplar. ‘Keep him alive, but make sure he’ll be more … amenable to questioning.’