by Guy Saville
Patrick felt the bile rising in his mouth again. ‘I think you’re fucking crazy. You. Hochburg. Every last one of you.’
Below him was a mass of dead bodies. Thousands of them: naked, white, hairless. Some appeared fresh, others were bloated with decomposition.
‘Crazy?’ said Uhrig. ‘No, no. A stroke of genius. We take the bodies of our fallen heroes – the Waffen-SS, the Afrika Korps – grind them up, mix them with lime and gypsum and make a cement for the PAA unlike any other.’ Uhrig pulled the chains above him till they were suspended over Patrick. ‘We’re literally Aryanising the soil of Africa. Can you believe that, Amerikaner? The autobahn is a knife, a pure white blade, through the heart of the black continent.’
Patrick wished his hands weren’t cuffed. He wanted to put them to his ears: block out this lunacy. It was totally fucked up. Sick. If they knew about this back home, surely they’d fight; even Washington couldn’t ignore it.
Uhrig attached a butcher’s hook to the chains. ‘Tie his feet.’
Two guards approached Patrick with another piece of chain. He struggled – till another swipe of Uhrig’s baton had him flat on the floor. His legs were bound; the butcher’s hook skewered through the chain around his ankles.
Uhrig had stepped over to the side of the gangway and was turning a handle. There was the click-click-click of a ratchet and the chain began to move.
Patrick was hoisted into the air.
The guards pushed him out till he was over the pit. Dangling head first. Thirty feet below: more dead bodies than he had ever seen. More than after they bombed Guernica, more even than Dunkirk.
Patrick felt the blood rushing to his head. He shut his eyes tight. Squirmed to free himself. One of the guards snickered at the sight.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Uhrig. ‘Or you’ll be next.’ He turned back to Patrick. ‘There’s only one way out of this, Amerikaner. Talk. Now, what was the name of your comrade? Cole, wasn’t it?’
Patrick saw him again on the truck. Their last glimpse of each other. I’ll get you back to Hannah … I promise. ‘Yeah, Cole. Major Cole.’ He didn’t care any more.
‘So tell me something I don’t know.’ Uhrig released the ratchet. Click-click.
Patrick dropped two feet. Jerked to a halt, pain tearing through his ankles.
‘Where is he?’
The hum of the condensing units.
‘Where?’
Click-click.
‘You’re cheating,’ said Uhrig. ‘Open your eyes.’
Patrick kept them squeezed shut.
‘Open them! Or I swear I’ll let the chain go now.’
He can’t kill me, thought Patrick. The Gruppenführer had forbidden him to. Then his mind was back on the parade ground. He was convinced Kepplar had no idea what he looked like – and yet he’d been plucked out as easy as one of Burton’s quinces.
Click-click-click. Another drop.
Patrick opened his eyes.
‘Better … You know, we SS, we’re hard. As the Reichsführer says, we know what it is to see five hundred corpses or a thousand. But you Amerikaners, you’re like the British – anything not to fight. You want the easy life. Fat dinners and soft whores. So tell me what I need and you’re back outside.’ Uhrig breathed in deeply again. ‘Imagine it: the sun, fresh air.’
‘I already told you. Told the Gruppenführer. I don’t know.’
Somewhere an alarm began to sound. Uhrig glanced up with annoyance. ‘Find out what’s going on,’ he barked to one of the guards.
Click-click.
‘I don’t know!’ shouted Patrick again.
‘Pigshit. You’re lying.’
‘I don’t owe Cole anything.’
‘You Amerikaners never do.’
‘It’s his fault I’m here.’
‘Kepplar said you were in Stanleystadt. That’s where Cole is now, isn’t it? Hiding somewhere.’
Click-click.
Patrick dropped again; tried to lift his body up and away. Pale, rigid limbs were reaching out for him. He could see grasping fingers locked with rigor mortis. See wide-open mouths and blank eyes. The smell was overpowering. It burned at the back of his throat. Putrid. Sour.
‘He was on the truck,’ said Patrick. His ears were pounding. ‘The one you sent away with Rottman.’
‘Very convenient.’
Click-click.
‘I swear.’
‘I’ve spent thirteen months in this cesspit. I don’t expect to spend another day. Where is Cole?’
The guard burst back into the room. ‘Standartenführer! They’re attacking the tunnel again.’
‘What?’
‘The rebels.’
‘Summon all the troops. Everyone. Get them down to the tunnel immediately. We’ll catch those niggers this time. Skin ’em alive.’
Uhrig reached for his tunic.
‘What about him?’ asked one of the other guards, pointing at Patrick. ‘Shall I haul him back up?’
‘He’s not going anywhere.’
Patrick’s head was bulging with blood, eyes watering. He looked at the gangway, away from the mountain of dead.
‘Last chance, Amerikaner. I might be gone for some time. Where’s your friend?’
‘I already told you. On the truck.’
Uhrig snorted, finished doing up his tunic. He checked his Luger in its holster and stormed towards the door. Then he paused, glanced back at Patrick.
He strode back to the ratchet – and set it free.
Patrick screamed.
Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick—
Lulua Tunnel, PAA
17 September, 10:05
NELIAH tore into the ranks of skull-troops, her panga slicing left and right. Circles of blood sprayed the grass. Close to her heels Bomani had screamed herself into a rage. The point of her spear was red.
A soldier fell, grabbed at Neliah’s leg. She spun, hacked at his arm, and tumbled to the ground, the breath knocked from her. She pushed herself up – as another skull-troop aimed his rifle at her.
There was a hissing sound.
The German toppled over, an arrow in his face.
Neliah snatched up his weapon and raced after Bomani. The breath of the wind was in her feet, the hunger of the rungiro urging her on. She would kill for the ancestors, those massacred by the grandfathers of the Nazistas. Kill for those who had lain in the pit back home and been torn open by grenades, for the screams that still visited her at night. But most of all she would kill for Papai. For Ina. Their spirits would protect her now.
Neliah and Bomani reached the road.
From above them Tungu’s arrows whipped through the air, striking the troops down. Deadly as any rifle. The Germans took cover, raked the ridge above with gunfire. Neliah could already see inside the tunnel. Between it and her – three tanks. One was trundling towards them, another to the tunnel. The ground shook beneath her feet.
‘Take this,’ she said, thrusting the gun into Bomani’s hands. ‘I need to get to the tunnel.’
‘What will you do?’
Neliah reached for the two grenades she was carrying. ‘All it takes is one. It goes, the dynamite goes with it.’
The rifle drooped in Bomani’s hands. ‘But who will look after Zuri?’
‘She’s the oldest, remember.’ Neliah pushed the rifle back against Bomani’s chest. ‘Kill as many as you can.’
With that her feet were flying again.
She reached the first tank, leapt on to the turret and pulled the hatch. The driver looked up, startled, went for his pistol. Neliah pulled the pin from the first grenade, threw it between the feet of the driver and slammed the hatch shut.
Behind her Bomani shot at the soldiers, her bullets pinging wide.
Neliah jumped off the tank. One stride, two, three. A loud crump. The tank shook like some great monster belching. Smoke poured from it.
The second tank continued towards the tunnel. Neliah caught its tail, her mouth filling with fumes
, and clambered upwards.
‘Neliah!’
She spun round to see Bomani drop. For a single moment their eyes met – help me! – then the skull-troops were gathered around her crawling body. They emptied their rifles into her.
Neliah hid her heart in rock, she would weep later for Bomani. She swung her panga, the blade glistening, and pulled open the turret. Gunshots screamed past her face.
One of the crew climbed out. Neliah drove the panga into his chest, twisted and withdrew the blade. She pushed him out of the way and dropped into the belly of the steel beast.
Behind her the third machine had started its engine. Was already chasing after them.
Neliah closed the hatch. Inside the tank was like an oven, the air hot with grease and sweat and gunpowder. At the front, close to the ground, was the driver. Inside the turret, the gunner. He looked over at Neliah, mouth wide open.
She speared the panga into his thigh.
He screamed. A fountain of blood.
Neliah pulled the blade back out and hooked it round his neck. ‘Los!’ she shouted to the driver below.
‘Do it, do it,’ begged the gunner. Blood was pumping from his leg.
The driver hesitated, then pressed the pedals. The tank rumbled forward.
‘Faster,’ said Neliah. ‘Head for the—’
There was a huge blast from without.
The tank shook. Stones rained down on them, a thousand wild hands beating at the roof.
Neliah pulled the blade harder against the gunner’s throat. ‘What is it?’
His face seethed with pain. He pointed a bloody finger from his eye to a box in front of him. ‘Periscope.’
Neliah didn’t understand the word. She chanced a look, putting her face to the eye-hole – and found herself seeing outside. They were near the tunnel. Guards were whipping the workers as they ran. There was a swarm of skull-troops.
And the third tank.
It had roared ahead, the turret pointing backwards at them. A burst of lightning spat from its gun.
Neliah pulled away from the eye-hole.
The shell blasted into the side of the tank. There was a deafening bang. They lurched hard to the left. Neliah thought they were going to roll over, then the tank thumped back to the ground. It filled with smoke and sparks. Neliah’s eyes stung.
‘Fire back!’ she yelled at the gunner.
He sat slumped against her, his mouth foaming. The blast had pulled the panga through his windpipe.
Neliah was fighting to breathe. She ordered the driver to slow them.
Another shell punched into the rear of the tank.
‘Slow down!’
She looked at the driver. He was crushed into his seat, the controls gory.
Neliah’s throat was burning. She coughed, trying to draw breath, heaved the hatch above her head. It didn’t move. In the smoke she searched blindly for some way to release it.
Above her knee she found a trigger.
Coughing as if her lungs would split, Neliah pulled it. There was a roar. The smell of petroleum. But no explosion, no kickback. She pulled it a second time.
From outside came the screams of men. Crackling. Loud enough to hear over the engine.
The last of her breath was leaving her.
Neliah struggled with the hatch again. Pushed her neck and shoulders against it with all her strength. Called on the spirits to help. Unseen hands banged with her.
The hatch came free.
She burst through it, sucking in gulps of burning air.
She was in the tunnel. The walls, the ground, everything was on fire. The other tank had stopped outside, the skull-troops held off by the flames. Ahead – a solid wall of debris.
The tank surged towards it.
Neliah scrambled out of the hatch, panga in hand, and jumped.
The pickaxe fell again, this time breaking a hole in the ceiling. Burton covered his head as shale peppered his eyes. By the time his vision had cleared a face was peering down at him through the gap.
‘Looks like we’ve broken through,’ said the man above; his voice was Polish. ‘We’ll help you up.’
A hand was offered.
Burton reached out and grabbed it. It felt cool and rocky; reminded him of Ackerman’s handshake.
At that moment Burton felt a sharp tug on his ankle-chain. He struggled to keep hold of the hand – was yanked to his knees. Another tug and he fell flat on his front.
The face above him vanished.
The chain was being pulled hard. Burton was dragged across the floor … back into the passage … the damp taste of stone in his mouth.
He held out his hands, clawing at the walls to grab hold of something. The sides tore at his branded arm. Shards of electric pain. He dug his fingers into the rock. Felt it crumble away beneath his nails. There must have been several men pulling on the chain: he couldn’t fight them.
His head banged against the rock, smashing the miner’s lamp. Instant darkness.
Another haul. And another.
Beyond the passageway he heard Rottman’s voice. ‘Faster!’
‘But, Hauptsturmführer, what about below?’
‘There are enough soldiers to deal with it. I don’t want this prick to get away.’
The retort of gunfire again. And a new sound.
Tank tracks.
In the cramped space Burton managed to twist himself over so he was on his back. He spread his legs, jammed his boots into the sides. The chain pulled tight, sending a bolt of pain through his knee, up his spine. The rock was disintegrating.
From the darkness behind him came the Polish voice again. ‘Hey! You still there?’
Burton stretched forward with his hand, frantically searching for the ankle cuff, trying to prise it from his leg. It was impossible. The chain was pulled hard again.
Burton lost his footing.
He was dragged through the hole, hands scrambling for any purchase.
Next moment he was back outside. The roof of the tunnel flickered red and black. From ground level came gusts of heat. He could see the FP5, the flame-tank, chugging towards the rock face. It moved erratically, fire spewing from its turret. Men like human torches tried to flee it.
Rottman loomed over him, narrowed his slanty eyes. He seemed indifferent to events below. ‘What did I tell you if you tried to escape again? Hold him down.’
There were two soldiers and the other Hauptsturmführer. They pinned him to the floor. Rottman lifted up a pickaxe. Aimed it at Burton’s kneecap.
From the hole behind him came a ghostly cry: ‘You still there?’
Burton snatched one of his legs free. Lashed out – but not fast enough.
Rottman swung the pickaxe.
Neliah landed on her belly, her jaw cracking the ground. She tasted blood.
The tank crashed into the rock-wall. Erupted in a ball of flame.
Neliah felt it whip the skin on her neck. She forced herself up, pulled out the last grenade and ran towards the escape-hole where she had planted the dynamite.
‘No!’
It was hidden in fire.
She tried to move forward. The heat was too savage. But she could see the flames snaking round the hole and ladder. They would soon find the dynamite, catch it alight, do the grenade’s work for her. The tunnel would come crashing down.
Neliah picked up the panga. Her eyes flew around her for a way out. The other escape-hole was blocked by a wall of orange and red. The main exit also. Outside, the skull-troops had retreated from the blaze. Neliah stepped towards the back of the tunnel, realising she was trapped between the fire and rock. Already she could feel her skin roasting, the road was melting beneath her boots.
She held the grenade tight in her fist – it would serve her still. Better a quick death than to burn alive.
Then a final thought.
Penhor.
What had he told her? There’s no more dynamite left, we’ve taken it all. Need it for the battle ahead. But Neliah had found th
e crate hidden in the strongroom. It had been easy. Easy because Penhor wanted her to. He knew she would go back to the tunnel. Knew the detonators were useless.
It wasn’t the British equipment – it was him.
The flames tightened round her.
Neliah stumbled and fell. Pulled her knees close like a little girl.
She thought of her mother and father, how once Ina had given her a handful of honey-almonds as a treat and told her not to tell Zuri.
‘Be safe,’ she whispered to her sister. ‘Wherever you go.’
Neliah squeezed her eyes shut, they were too scorched for tears, and put the grenade against her heart.
She reached for the pin.
There was an explosion as the FP5 hit the rock face below, a huge ball of fire rushing past them to the roof. Everything shook.
Rottman was hurled forward, the pickaxe lodging in the ground.
Burton lashed out again with his free leg, cracked it into the face of the other Hauptsturmführer. He rolled over, throwing his entire weight behind the movement, freed one of his arms. The soldiers were scrambling to grab him. Burton buried his hand into the crotch of one of them. Found his balls. Squeezed to burst them.
The soldier shrieked in pain, clamping his groin.
Burton rolled again. Found the other soldier’s leg. Sank his teeth into it. Tore out a mouthful of cloth and flesh.
Then he was on his feet, mouth like a vampire.
Burton grabbed the soldier still clutching his crotch and hurled him off the rock face. He watched him plummet into the inferno, bouncing off crags as he fell. The FP5 had crashed into the wall of debris below. For a second he thought he saw a girl – a black girl – sitting among the flames. Then she was obscured by a veil of smoke.
Burton turned to the other soldier, the one with the gushing leg; watched him scurry away and hide.
A shovel slammed into Burton’s ribs.