by Guy Saville
‘Frankly, there’s little we can do for you,’ said the attaché. ‘Berlin is screaming blue murder—’
‘Germania.’
‘What? Oh, yes, I never got used to the change. We’re trying to avert an all-out war. The Rhodesian reserves have been called up. Bombers are flying in from England. As if there weren’t enough problems with Angola. Now it looks as if Casablanca itself might be nullified.’
Dolan thought it should never have been signed in the first place. ‘What about me? Any chance I’ll get out of this?’
‘My advice is admit nothing, respect the court no matter what a farce and for God’s sake—’ he dabbed his forehead ‘—there’s no conspiracy.’
‘But will I get out?’
The attaché refused to meet his eye. ‘I suppose there’s no physical proof as such …’
Moments later Dolan was escorted to court. Hochburg’s doctor had refused him crutches, fearing he might use them as a weapon: two guards supported him.
He took the dock.
The court was dominated by a huge eagle and swastika seal. Beneath it was the judges’ bench, to the side a small gallery crammed with SS uniforms and what Dolan took to be journalists. The GG they called them, Goebbels’s Geiers. His vultures. Lounging at the front, not a drop of sweat upon him, was Hochburg. The courtroom had a smell of lacquer. Although fans whirred overhead the air was stifling.
More men in uniforms arrived. The British attaché took his place in front of the judges’ bench. Technicians from Rundfunk Afrika, the Nazi broadcaster, busied themselves with radio equipment. Dolan felt a loosening in his chest: at least they couldn’t hurt him again, not with so many witnesses. Finally the clerk of the court called order.
‘All rise for Herr President Judge Freisler.’
An excited murmur.
Roland Freisler – ‘raving Roland’ – the personification of Nazi blood justice. He had served as the President of Hitler’s People’s Court, the Volksgerichtshof; been one of the architects of Jewish resettlement to Madagaskar. Now a senior SS dignitary, he only presided over trials of national importance, and had flown to Africa at Hochburg’s request.
The court stood.
Dolan watched the judge storm in. He wore burgundy robes over a black uniform and bow tie. Was balding, had a sour mouth, hooded eyes. After a terse Führer salute, he assumed his place, introducing the two other SS judges at his side and a neutral observer from the Council of New Europe: Señor Aguilar, the Spanish consul.
At least there’s one independent voice, thought Dolan. Maybe I’ve still got a chance.
Freisler flicked through the notes in front of him, wrote something, then looked up and pierced Dolan with his eyes.
‘Are you a pervert?’
Dolan shifted awkwardly. His leg was already throbbing, he wanted to sit down. There was no chair in the dock. ‘Sir?’
Freisler raised his voice. It was shrill and phlegmy. ‘It’s a simple question. Are you a pervert? A homosexual?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you think my court is some Jewish lavatory?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do you keep fiddling with yourself?’
Dolan’s torn and bloodied combat fatigues had been taken from him that morning. In their place a coarse grey suit with trousers several sizes too big; no belt or braces, no underwear. He had to keep hoisting them up to maintain his dignity.
Dolan let go of the waistband, felt his trousers sag.
Amused whispers from the gallery.
Freisler returned to his notes. ‘You are Lieutenant Owen Dolan, of the Welsh Guards, Great Britain. Serial Number 2200118.’
Dolan hesitated, glanced at the British attaché. He was scribbling notes.
‘Yes.’
‘Speak into the microphone.’
Dolan dipped his head. ‘Yes.’
‘Louder!’
‘Yes.’
‘On September 14th, at approximately zero one hundred hours you and a team of British and Rhodesian criminals, backed by the governments in London, Lusaka and Salisbury, attempted to assassinate the Governor General of Deutsch Kongo. How do you plead?’
For an instant Dolan considered claiming insanity. Then he looked at all the faces watching him and realised no one would notice.
He said nothing. Probed his remaining front teeth. They were loose.
‘Are you deaf? How do you plead?’
‘Not gui—’
‘I have your full confession in front of me. The names of your co-conspirators.’
‘Sir, this confession was obtained under torture.’
Spittle flew from Freisler’s mouth. ‘There will be no such lies in my court! Admit the truth and there may be leniency. Were you part of the team that attempted to assassinate Governor General Hochburg? A tool of Anglo-Rhodesian aggression?’
‘Sir, I was not part—’
‘Yes or no!’
‘No.’
‘Did you attempt to blow up the Schädelplatz?’
Dolan felt a tug of professional pride. A half smile. ‘No.’
‘Wipe that lousy smirk off your face. Let it be noted that the prisoner appears to find these proceedings a joke. Did you attempt an illegal crossing of the Kongo-Sudan border?’
‘No.’
Freisler hurled down his pen. ‘Quit this drivel! You were captured at Doruma. Over a hundred witnesses saw you, including the Governor General and his deputy. We have testaments from the British guards at Muzunga. You deny all this?’
Dolan tugged at his trousers again. Said nothing. Faces peered in his direction. Part of him wanted to beg for mercy – what would Patrick say? – but he knew he was already dead. And if he was dead, he might as well go down with a bang. He summoned the last of his fight, wished he had his boxes of tricks with him to wreak merry hell.
Freisler was growing impatient. ‘Were you captured at Doruma?’
‘I was there on leave—’
‘Yes or no.’
‘Visiting a whorehouse. Your German mädchens are so much cheaper than the girls back home.’
‘The accused will shut his filthy mouth.’
‘And ten times dirtier.’
‘You degenerate!’
Dolan felt a knot of triumph, like when Kepplar had failed to make him talk. He forced a ribald laugh. ‘The things they’ll do for the Fatherland.’
Freisler snatched up his gavel. Hammered it in a frenzy. He glared at the radio technicians: ‘Stop the broadcast! Stop the broadcast!’
Hochburg stood.
‘Herr President,’ he said calmly. ‘We must continue. I would hate for our enemies to accuse us of holding a show trial.’
The judge next to Freisler leaned over and whispered into his ear. He ceased his banging, straightened his back. ‘You are quite right, Oberstgruppenführer. For the record, the accused has refused to co-operate. Shown contempt for these most serious of proceedings.’ He adjusted his bow tie. ‘We call a witness.’
The clerk of the court hurried out. Dolan watched him go. Could they have captured the major? The old man? But no, they’d be in the stand too. It was going to be some stooge. He looked towards the gallery, caught Hochburg’s attention.
Hochburg rolled his eyes in boredom.
The clerk reappeared, and held the door open.
An SS officer hobbled in, supported by a cane. In his other hand was a red folder marked Department E: TOP SECRET.
Dolan felt the floor surge towards him. He sucked in a lungful of air to clear his head.
The officer continued into the court, his cane tapping the floor. As he passed Dolan he flicked him an apologetic look. A scent of onions and boot leather.
‘You bastard!’ shouted Dolan, lunging forward, indifferent to the pain in his leg now.
The guards pulled him back. Freisler was banging his gavel again.
The SS officer took the witness stand.
With barely contained glee the judge spoke into the microphone: �
��Please state your rank and name for the court.’
The officer gave Dolan another look. ‘Sturmbannführer.’ His voice filled the room. ‘Sturmbannführer Lazlo Rougier. Gestapo.’
‘I must apologise for my appearance, Herr President,’ said Rougier. Around his neck was a collar-brace. ‘But I had an accident in Stanleystadt.’
‘We’re all sure you were doing your duty, Sturmbannführer,’ replied Freisler.
Dolan leaned forward in the dock, supported himself against the rail. The courtroom was suddenly much hotter. His scalp was trickling.
‘The accused will show due respect. Stand up, you slovenly pig.’
‘My leg.’
‘Carry on, Sturmbannführer.’
‘Thank you, Herr President. I work for Gestapo counter-intelligence. For several months we have been monitoring the activities of Donald Ackerman, a senior British intelligence officer operating from Angola.’
Dolan glanced at the attaché, expecting him to refute the claim. He kept his head down, was still writing furiously.
‘Ackerman, along with aggressors in the British and Rhodesian governments, planned to assassinate Governor General Hochburg.’
‘What was their motive?’
‘Under the Casablanca Treaty, all foreign mining rights in German territory were guaranteed until 1950, when they would revert back to the Reich. LMC, a Lusaka-based syndicate, agreed a three-year extension to the Kassai fields with Oberstgruppenführer Hochburg. They assumed this would be an ongoing arrangement. However, when they learned that the Governor General intended a new company to take over production – DESTA no less, our SS Earthworks – they decided to have him removed.’
‘Where does Ackerman fit into this?’
Dolan shook his head. It was like the pantomimes his mam used to take him and his brother to see: the actors knew their lines by heart. He wished his brother was with him now, his ruddy face jeering at the court. Give ’em two fingers, boyo.
‘LMC like to regard themselves as a reputable organisation,’ continued Rougier. ‘They wanted no blood on their hands so contracted British intelligence to do the job for them. In return the British would get twenty per cent of their annual diamond production. Approximately, nine hundred thousand Reichmarks.’
There was a gasp in the courtroom.
‘An extraordinary sum, Sturmbannführer,’ said Freisler. ‘And why did the British need this money?’
‘To fund the Angola Resistance, supply them with weapons. Allow them to wage a guerrilla war against us.’
The gallery erupted.
Amid the commotion Dolan looked at Hochburg. He didn’t even blink.
When the furore had died down, Freisler turned to the British attaché. ‘What do you have to say to these charges?’
‘I’m still waiting for instructions from London, Herr President. But Her Majesty’s Government is opposed to all acts of aggression or terrorism no matter who—’
‘What were the details of the conspiracy?’ Freisler had turned back to Rougier.
‘Ackerman recruited a team of ruthless professionals to carry out the assassination. Fanatics.’ Rougier raised the file in his hand. ‘With the Herr President’s permission?’
The file was passed to the judges, then Señor Aguilar, the British attaché, finally Dolan. He opened it, flicked through some photographs: Lapinski, Vacher, himself. They were mug shots from their ID papers, had been blown up full size, the images grainy.
Dolan shook his head again. A drop of sweat fell from his brow, splashed the pictures.
The fight was pooling out of him. He just wanted to sit down.
Freisler addressed him. ‘Can you identify these men?’
‘No.’
‘Idiot!’ His voice was shrill with contempt. ‘You can’t even identify yourself.’
Dolan turned to the next photo. It was of Burton Cole and Patrick. They were perched on a bath tub. The old man looked desolate, his face towards the floor; the major seemed to be scrutinising himself as if gazing into a mirror.
‘Well?’ said Freisler.
‘Yes.’
‘Speak up!’
‘I can … I can identify them.’
‘Their names.’
‘Myself, Lapinski, Vacher, Cole …’ He hesitated. ‘Whaler.’
Freisler leaned back with a look of poisonous satisfaction.
But Dolan realised there was still a glimmer of hope. He stared at the British attaché, willing him to get to his feet. State the obvious.
In the end it was the Spanish consul who came to his defence.
‘Herr President, with respect, although this demonstrates the link between the accused and the other men, it doesn’t prove a conspiracy to assassinate Herr Hochburg. Speaking on behalf of the European Council, and given the gravity of the charges and their consequences, we would expect more.’
Freisler nodded. ‘Let it never be said that our courts are anything but fastidious. Sturmbannführer, I understand there is further evidence.’
Rougier was talking to one of the RFA technicians. He nodded to a colleague. Next moment there was a hiss of speakers. Then a thud as a recording started. A rushing sound, like a waterfall.
A voice, French accent. Echoey but distinct. Then others:
What do you say?
I can’t see it matters any more. We’re assassins.
Our mission was to [distortion] the Governor General.
Remove … Remove how?
With extreme prejudice. I killed Hochburg with my own hands.
You strangled him?
Knife …
A click. The recording ended.
Silence.
Dolan felt a prickle of hopeless tears. He looked at Aguilar. He was shaking his head. By his side the attaché dabbed himself.
Firing squad, thought Dolan. Quick, efficient. He wouldn’t feel a thing. Or maybe the guillotine. Anything. As long as it wasn’t hanging … He’d heard how the Nazis would keep the rope short so your neck didn’t break. It could take up to fifteen minutes until you were strangled, legs thrashing, tongue blue. Then there were the nightmare stories about piano wire.
‘Do you recognise those voices?’ asked Freisler.
Dolan bowed his head.
Rougier answered for him: ‘They are the voices of Majors Cole and Whaler.’
Freisler gathered his papers together, tapped them into shape. ‘Thank you, Sturmbannführer, you may step down.’
Rougier climbed off the stand and, leaning on his cane, left the courtroom.
‘The conspirators Lapinski and Vacher have already been neutralised by our security forces,’ said Freisler. ‘In absentia, I find Major Burton Cole and Major Patrick Whaler guilty.’ His eyes turned to Dolan. ‘I also find the present-accused guilty. Sentence: death.’
Whispers of agreement in the gallery.
Not hanging. Please, not hanging.
Dolan suddenly burst into song. In Welsh. He didn’t know where it came from, the lyrics just emerged from his lips, voice booming, like his dad: ‘Lord, lead me through the wilderness—’
‘Shut up!’ shouted Freisler. He banged his gavel. ‘Shut your stinking mouth!’
‘Me, a pilgrim of poor appearance—’
‘Silence him!’
One of the guards kicked Dolan’s plaster-cast.
He stumbled in the dock, the song shrivelling in his throat. Through his tears he saw someone rise.
‘With your permission, Herr President.’
Hochburg took the stand, addressed the court.
‘Perhaps it would be best if someone fetched Lieutenant Dolan a chair.’ He adjusted the microphone, began speaking in the same soft baritone he had used while slicing the chilli. In the gallery some of the journalists leaned forward to hear better.
‘We Germans are a peace-loving nation. Witness the stability we have brought to Europe, or the Casablanca Treaty. In Africa we have forged a society based on the principles of trade and technology. Racial hyg
iene. Harmony. But what we call peace others view as weakness. We have enemies everywhere, those who would ruin our progress for their own ends.
‘First Angola. We sued for peace … then they attacked Kongo. Just yesterday an army of Angolan criminals committed a terrible act of sabotage on the PAA. The Road of Friendship!
‘Now the British and Rhodesians threaten our Africa Reich.’
Dolan watched as Hochburg’s black eyes smouldered. There was still not a drop of sweat on him.
‘They sent their assassins to kill me. They failed. But this blatant act of aggression cannot go unpunished. Were we to resort to diplomacy this would only encourage the British further, goad them on. So much for their hollow promise, “Peace for Empire”. They have forced our hand.’ His voice soared. ‘Theirs is a declaration of war!
‘And so to protect Deutsch Kongo, its citizens and resources, I shall order units of the Waffen-SS to Northern Rhodesia to repel our foes. I do this with the Führer’s full blessing, I do it as he ordered our forces into Russia in 1941. With reluctance, with the heaviest of hearts. But there come moments in every country’s history where it must act decisively or surrender its way of life for ever. As with the Soviets, we will prevail.
‘In the meantime, our noble Field Marshal von Arnim is already leading his Afrika Korps to crush the terrorist regime of North Angola. A regime we now know is funded by the British.
‘There is, however, still hope.’ Hochburg offered his hands. ‘We know that Cole and Whaler remain at large. Let me assure you they will be hunted down. Hunted without respite. Even as I speak my deputy, Gruppenführer Kepplar, is closing in on their trail. Perhaps, though, someone is harbouring these assassins, someone listening to this broadcast right now. If that is the case, I urge you to surrender them at once; there will be clemency.’ His voice dropped again. ‘The fate of a continent may rest in your hands.
‘Long live German Africa. Heil Hitler!’
The gallery – SS and journalists alike – stood as one.
‘Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!’
Hochburg motioned for them to sit as if he found their outburst an embarrassment.