The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  Click-click-click—

  A gasp.

  ‘You bastard!’ The guard opened fire.

  Bullets thudded around Patrick, inches from his exposed back and buttocks. He counted off the rounds till the magazine was spent, heard the guard panting. Next moment footsteps rang out on the platform above him, the door opened. Clanged shut.

  Silence except for the hum of condensing units.

  Patrick remained still for several minutes expecting more guards. His whole body was gooseflesh.

  None came.

  So much for Uhrig’s Wolves!

  Once he was sure it was safe he stood and crawled towards the platform, felt his kneecaps squash into faces. He hauled himself up, BK over his shoulder, and rolled on to the gangway.

  Patrick checked the wound on his shoulder. It was a burn mark, no bleeding. His hips and ankles were acid; the rest of his body covered in bruises from the kicking he’d taken outside. When he was younger they would have healed in no time, now they’d be with him for weeks. The swelling was worst around his ribs and the half-moon scar on his abdomen.

  His Dunkirk scar.

  Burton had sewn up the wound as they hid from the Lebbs. Hands messy and red. The stitch-work was bad, but it had saved his life.

  Patrick shivered. Refused to let the thought take hold. He grabbed the chains and pulled the dead guard in, stripped his uniform, put on his trousers. They fitted as bad as the pair he’d stolen in Stanleystadt. This is becoming a habit, Patrick mused grimly: wearing strange men’s pants. Next he began to search for his boots.

  You can lose your clothes, he used to tell new legionnaires, lose your weapon, even lose your mind – but never lose your boots. To prove the point he’d march them ten miles through the rocky dunes of Bel Abbès, barefoot. No one forgot the lesson. Patrick saw them now, feet raw and blistered. Saw their expressions turn from pain to utter disappointment with him, as if they knew he was going to ditch Burton.

  You didn’t leave your men behind, they seemed to say. Your comrades. Your friends. You went looking for them. It was the code of the Legion.

  But Patrick had been clear that day in prison. This was for Hannah. If things fucked up he wasn’t going to die in Africa. He’d wasted too much of his life for that, fighting for pointless causes when he should have been with his family. Idealism was a pay-cheque he had long since spent.

  He found his first boot, yanked it on. Then the other one.

  Burton could be anywhere – back on the highway, the tunnel. Maybe he had escaped, was already heading to the border. Maybe Kepplar had caught him …

  Patrick banged the wall in frustration. His fist came away cold. He lashed out again.

  Then became still.

  He concentrated on that moment in Stanleystadt when the Lebbs had dragged him from the cellar, Rottman taking his pipe. That dread of never seeing his daughter again, never making up for all those lost years. It was like being forced to stare over the edge of a deep pit.

  There was nothing he could do for Burton; if he tried he was dead. But he might still be able to keep his promise to Hannah. Get out of this place, head for—

  Close by, the clang of a door.

  Patrick snatched up the BK44, moved stiffly to the entrance of the chamber. He heard another door open … then close. It sounded like somebody was checking all the rooms along the corridor.

  Patrick snicked off the safety.

  Footsteps. Another door being heaved open.

  Angola. That was his plan. He’d head for Angola.

  He’d worked it out on the long ride from Stanleystadt, crushed in the back of the truck, eyes closed but not sleeping. If he escaped there was no point heading south. With his hobo clothes and Yankee accent the Rhodesians would never let him across the border. Even if he got lucky, then what? It was hundreds of miles to Lusaka or Salisbury and both were landlocked; he had no identification, no money to buy an air ticket. But Angola …

  The door clanged shut.

  The guard must be checking to see if he’d escaped. More footsteps. The grind of hinges as another door opened.

  The Angolan border was porous. He spoke enough Portuguese to get by, knew the terrain from when he’d been there in ’49 and the Waffen-SS invaded the south (another mercenary mission where the only right side was the one that paid best). He’d make for Loanda and the Atlantic, stow away; an American was always drawn to the west coast of Africa. There was also the promise of Ackerman. Some payback. The chance of putting a bullet through the sonofabitch’s head for what he’d done.

  The door closed, near enough to send vibrations along the walls. More footfalls, a breath away now. Patrick watched the handle in front of him turn. It opened cautiously, the muzzle of a BK44 poking through.

  He grabbed the rifle and pulled hard.

  A figure stumbled into the room. Patrick cracked his elbow into his face. The figure tumbled to the ground. Patrick was on him in an instant, aimed his gun at his throat.

  Then lowered it in disbelief.

  The figure’s eyes flickered. ‘I came looking for you …’

  The gunman passed out. But not a gunman.

  A gunwoman.

  A girl, not much older than Hannah, with a long plait.

  Patrick lifted her arm, rubbed at the skin to wipe away the camouflage paint. But his first instinct had been right.

  He shook his head in disbelief again.

  She was black.

  Lulua River, Kongo

  17 September, 10:30

  HOW they survived he never knew. His father would have said it was the hand of God; Patrick luck. But Burton believed it was Madeleine. The need to hold her again, to bury his face in her black, honeysuckle hair; the life they could live together. It forced him on. Let him drag that final fistful of air from his lungs.

  All around him darkness, the rumbling roar of bubbles, the suction of the water dragging him down like Jonah. The black girl was still tied to his wrist. Burton could feel her fighting the torrent. Both of them kicked upwards.

  Upwards.

  The gullet of his throat pulsed for oxygen. His boots heavy as gravestones.

  Upwards …

  They broke the surface.

  Burton sucked in a lungful of air and water. Started choking.

  The river around him was a cauldron. Churning white, khaki, brown. The girl burst through it, retching. She fought to stay above the foam. Burton hauled her up. He could just make out the shore, kicked towards it. For once he was grateful to Hochburg: he had taught him to swim.

  Finally, as his muscles were turning to pulp, his feet found the bottom. Burton struggled through the waves, dragging the girl. Through a wall of papyrus. And collapsed into the mud.

  They both coughed and spluttered.

  Water burned through Burton’s nose. He let his head drop and squinted into the brightness of the sky.

  The brand on his forearm was throbbing, had been brought alive by the river. But it was good to have been submerged – the sweat and grime of the past few days had been washed from him. The blood sluiced from his mouth.

  He felt new.

  Burton snapped upright, his eyes searching the sunny spots of the bank. He tugged at the girl. ‘What about crocodiles?’

  She shook her head, and started to laugh uncontrollably.

  Soon Burton joined in.

  He laughed till tears ran down his face, just like they had done in Hochburg’s office, laughed till his chest was raw and hollow. He saw his mother’s empty room again and realised that the air in his lungs was more precious than any truth.

  Then his head dropped into the mud and he lay there like a shipwrecked sailor.

  In the distance he heard men shouting.

  The sound was muffled, his ears were still ringing from the explosion in the tunnel.

  Burton sat up, alert again. He scanned the undergrowth for movement, realised he was on the wrong bank for Rhodesia. The voices surged … then faded till all he could hear was the black
girl breathing next to him and the rush of the river. Debris floated in it. Upturned bodies.

  He leaned back and let the sunlight warm his face, the way Patrick did. His old commanding officer always loved the sun – even the hellish glare of the Sahara – no wonder he wanted to settle somewhere like New Mexico. He had described his hacienda there many times: the mustard-coloured walls and cool rooms, an icebox full of beer. Outside, a terrace with easy chairs, a garden of lime trees and cacti, and then the desert itself, stretching into the mountains. A place where a man could live out his final years.

  Burton rolled the thought round his mind, pushed it away. Concentrated on the girl’s breathing instead. It was slumberous and deep, strangely comforting.

  He studied her face. Apart from the scar on her temple, it was completely symmetrical with a broad nose and the type of skin his father would have marked as gemischt – mixed – on the orphanage ledger. Her hair had been brutally chopped. But it was her age that struck him most.

  She was so young.

  Suddenly Burton was overlooking the Schädelplatz again: its unholy square. Something slithered inside him at the memory. What would Hochburg have done to the girl? What would any Nazi? It made him want to reach out and touch her, feel the warmth of her scalp. The sanctity of her skull.

  The girl opened her eyes and caught him staring at her. Burton glanced away and reached for his Browning. He checked it over, released the clip before sliding it smoothly back in place; opened the exhaust port and blew through it to discharge the water. Then he wiped it dry.

  The girl said something he didn’t understand.

  He shook his head.

  She tried again, this time in German. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Burton.’

  She repeated it. Her accent made it sound like Burtang.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Neliah. Neliah Tavares.’

  He looked at her face again, noticed how clear her eyes were. And in the darkest part of the pupil, something else. A void. A place emptied by brutality. He’d seen it many times before – in soldiers, refugees; caught it in his own eye when he stared in the mirror.

  Burton held out his hand, the one the Nazis hadn’t tied. After a brief hesitation she gripped it and they shook. Her skin felt supple, but the bones were like nuggets of steel.

  ‘I owe you my life, Burton—’

  He raised his palm to silence her. ‘No blood oaths,’ he said, thinking of Patrick again, of Dunkirk. ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

  He reached over and began to untie the rope that bound their wrists together. The knot was as tight as if it had been welded. As he worked he saw Neliah staring at the brand on his arm; his sleeve was in tatters.

  ‘You will always be marked,’ she said softly.

  When Burton didn’t reply, she reached out and traced the inverted triangle. He pulled away. ‘You escape from somewhere? I haven’t seen a black face in all of Kongo.’

  ‘I am Angolan, one of the Resistencia.’

  ‘But you speak German.’

  ‘My mother taught me. Said it was wise to know your enemy’s tongue. Her ina came from Damaraland. Escaped to Angola after the Blutbad.’

  Blutbad. The blood bath.

  Burton’s father had often spoken about the massacres in South-West Africa. They had been committed at the turn of the century, long before the Nazis, by the first Germans to settle DSWA. Three-quarters of the black population wiped out. A dreadful stain on our conscience, he used to call it. That was after his mother had left, after Hochburg. Years later Churchill raised the subject with Halifax before he flew to Casablanca. ‘The German can’t be trusted,’ warned the former Prime Minister, ‘murder is in his veins. War the only diplomacy he understands.’ The public has spoken, Lord Halifax was reported to have replied. Peace for Empire, Mr Churchill. Peace for Empire.

  ‘You are Herero?’ said Burton.

  She nodded.

  ‘I know the Herero. They are a brave people. Warriors. Always ready to fight.’ Which is more than can be said for the British, he thought.

  A sparkle of pride. ‘And you, Burton—’ Burtang ‘—you are German?’

  ‘I speak it.’ He gave her a cautious smile. ‘It’s wise to know your enemy’s tongue.’

  Burton went back to unpicking the rope.

  ‘I watched you arrive at the tunnel,’ said Neliah. ‘What happened to the other men you came with?’

  ‘Dead, I guess.’

  Her face darkened. ‘They were your friends?’

  ‘No. My friends are …’ Burton concentrated on the knot. ‘I’m heading for Rhodesia.’

  ‘Then you must be fast. The Nazistas will soon invade.’

  He looked up sharply. ‘Impossible!’

  ‘That is why I blew up the tunnel – to stop them.’ She rubbed her scar. ‘They are at Matadi also, will attack Angola.’

  ‘Where did you hear this?’

  ‘Orders from Loanda. From Penhor. He’s our comandante.’

  Burton considered her words, then what Rougier had said in Stanleystadt. ‘Do you know someone called Ackerman?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Are you sure? He’s a British agent, works with the Resistencia.’

  ‘Penhor has allies with the British. They supply him weapons. But I have never heard this name before. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s the one who sent me here. To Africa.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To kill a man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If only I knew.’

  Voices. Close by.

  They ducked below the papyrus.

  Burton pulled his Browning, hoped it was dry enough to fire. He pressed himself flat against the mud, gestured at Neliah to do the same. Along the top of the bank appeared a patrol of SS soldiers. Furious faces. BK44s. An officer harried them on, his eye darting everywhere.

  Next to Burton, Neliah reached behind her back. For the first time he noticed she was carrying a panga. She withdrew the blade from its sheath. The slice of metal on leather.

  ‘No,’ hissed Burton.

  The troops were directly ahead now. No more than twenty feet. He saw she was tensing.

  Burton slid over to her. Grabbed her panga hand and pressed it into the mud.

  ‘I didn’t survive the tunnel for this,’ he whispered. ‘There are too many.’

  For a few seconds she struggled against him – she was strong – then nodded her head. Let go of the weapon. Burton remained where he was, his hand still on top of hers. This close he could smell her skin. It had no scent, only the coldness of the water.

  Once the patrol passed he released her.

  ‘They would have killed us,’ he said.

  Neliah snatched up the panga, swung it towards Burton and cut the rope between them. ‘I have to go. Now.’

  ‘Back to Angola?’

  ‘My sister. There is chimney-camp near here. She needs my help.’

  ‘It’s a labour camp. SS. You understand what that means?’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘My friend is.’

  ‘Come with me then. My sister goes to fight, to free the prisoners.’ She stood up – was almost as tall as Burton – and riffled through her pockets. Pulled out a hand grenade.

  ‘No. I have to get to Rhodesia.’

  ‘But your friend. We can save him.’

  Burton hesitated, tried not to think about his final words to Patrick, that pledge to get him back to Hannah. It had been parting bravado, nothing more. The easy vow of a condemned man … Except now he had a choice.

  Yes, Burton reminded himself, just like Patrick had one on the quayside in Stanleystadt.

  ‘Goodbye, Neliah Tavares.’

  He splashed out into the river, held his Browning over his head to keep it dry. He could be in Lusaka by tomorrow.

  She gave him a curious frown as if his actions were unfathomable. ‘Your friend,’ she called after him.

  Burton waded out deeper, began
to swim through the flotsam. He was halfway to the opposite bank when he hesitated. Stopped, trod water.

  He was still thinking about his promise to Patrick. Then his promise to Madeleine. The baby, their future on the farm. The quinces that would soon need harvesting. It was all within his grasp again. Before Maddie life had been brutish. If he ever considered the days ahead all he saw was an early grave, or maybe an old man: arthritic, alone, undone by the past. But now …

  He thought of the promise his mother made him: I’ll never leave you, Burton. Never.

  Cross your heart, Mama?

  Cross my heart. And hope to die.

  Those words haunted him. Why had she needed to declare what should have been evident? He saw her now, splashing in the river by their home. Hochburg had taught her to swim too. He loved the water; promised she would never drown while he was there. Soon she was as confident as a fish.

  So many promises.

  Burton pushed himself around, facing the way he’d come.

  He saw Neliah climbing through the papyrus, poised like a leopard, panga held in front of her. Her limbs flexed hard and muscular. She would reach the labour camp in no time. His father would have urged him to follow, to offer his protection: she was but a child in the kingdom of Moloch.

  Next moment she was gone from sight.

  Burton made up his mind, turned away, and resumed his swimming: a steady front crawl to the opposite shore and the prospect of Rhodesia. The water was still choppy from the explosion. Splintered lumps of timber bobbed past him, ends of machinery. Dead bodies.

  He ploughed through them.

  Schädelplatz, Kongo

  18 September, 11:55

  DOLAN was allowed two minutes with the British attaché. He was a runt of a man, sweaty suit, slab of paperwork under his arm. The type of pencil-pusher who had worked on some minor sub-clause of the Casablanca Treaty. He didn’t bother to introduce himself or shake Dolan’s hand.

  ‘They treating you well?’ he asked.

  ‘How does it look?’ replied Dolan, failing to keep the bile from his voice.

  After Hochburg finished interrogating him he had honoured his word, sent his own doctor to treat him. Dolan’s leg was now in plaster – but no amount of ice packs or ointment could hide the swelling to his face or missing teeth. The whites of his eyes had turned puce from the chilli. He had spent the last two days in a prison cell, clutching his groin, unable to combat bouts of shaking.