by Guy Saville
‘Words worthy of Bismarck himself,’ said Freisler. He turned his attention back to Dolan. ‘Your sentence is to be carried out immediately.’
There was a pressure building inside Dolan’s head. The judge’s words seemed muffled.
‘Normally you’d be put in front of a firing squad.’ A malevolent smile. ‘Due to the severity of the crime, however, not to mention its personal nature, I think the manner of your execution should be at the Governor General’s discretion.’
Hochburg nodded.
Hear me God, thought Dolan, not the gallows.
‘Let this be a warning to all the enemies of peace in Africa.’ Hochburg pronounced his sentence.
Not hanging. Worse.
Worse than anything Dolan could have imagined.
His knees buckled.
Terras de Chisengue, North Angola
18 September, 13:25
‘TURN it off,’ said Patrick. He couldn’t stand any more. I think the manner of your execution should be at the Governor General’s discretion.
Nobody moved. They were all engrossed, listening to the simultaneous Portuguese translation.
‘Turn it off!’
Let this be a warning to all the enemies of peace in Africa, said Hochburg.
There was horrified silence at the sentence. Hands covered mouths.
Patrick moved towards the radio set. He wanted to hurl it to the ground. The thought of Dolan – booming, arrogant Dolan – dying like that made him want to plug his ears. Scream.
Ligio blocked his path. Pulled his pistol. ‘You’re one of them, aren’t you?’
Patrick stared at the lieutenant. He was a punk, phoney tough with a flop of greasy black hair and eyes that wouldn’t sit still. There was a bandage around his head where Zuri’s sister had clumped him.
‘I’m nothing,’ said Patrick.
‘Keep your hands where I can see them, old man, and sit down. Slowly.’
If Burton had been with him they would have charged the lieutenant, taken on the other Angolan soldiers – but alone there were too many.
Patrick raised his hands (they were still cuffed) and resumed his position next to Zuri. Her expression was impossible to read: curious, protective, peeved. They were sitting on hard barrack benches in the octógono. Huddled nearby were the other prisoners that had come with them from the labour camp.
‘Which one are you?’ asked Ligio.
‘Amigo, I’m nothing to do with this. I swear.’
Keeping his gun aimed at Patrick, Ligio snapped the radio off. ‘I’m not your friend, and I know you’re lying. Zuri told me what happened at the camp. She saw it all from her hiding place. Saw a dozen men shot dead because of you.’
‘It was nine. I counted every one.’
‘Which is why I went to find him,’ said Zuri, her plait swishing. ‘He’s on our side.’
Ligio flicked the gun in her direction. ‘You and your sister have caused enough trouble. Should have stayed in the kitchens where you belong.’
Zuri went to rise but Patrick put out a restraining hand. He didn’t need her defending him. He let out a weary sigh and offered his response to her rather than Ligio.
‘I’m Whaler,’ he said. ‘The American.’
‘Why didn’t you say before?’ she asked.
‘Rougier said it was the Angolans who set us up. I didn’t know what to believe.’ For an instant he was holding him face down in the toilet again. He’d been mistaken about Ackerman; should have kept that French sonofabitch under water till he went limp.
‘But you still came with me.’
‘I thought you might be able to help me. I also … I also felt bad about whacking you.’
Zuri traced the swelling on her lip where he’d hit her the day before, then turned to Ligio: ‘He tried to kill the German, their chief,’ she said. ‘He’s got to be with us.’
Ligio made no response.
‘She’s right,’ said Patrick. ‘I was part of the team hired by Ackerman.’
‘So?’ replied the young lieutenant.
‘You heard the trial: Ackerman’s the one supplying you. We’re on the same side, amigo.’
‘I’ve never heard his name before. It’s just Nazi propaganda.’
‘What?’
Ligio addressed the rest of the soldiers. ‘Anyone else know this Ackerman?’
They all shook their heads, every last man.
Patrick went to reply, then closed his mouth. Outside he could hear the chatter of parrots. His brain was too worn to keep up with this. Maybe one day, sitting at home with Hannah, they’d puzzle it out together.
‘What do we do, Lieutenant?’ asked one of the Angolan soldiers. They were what the Legion called bleus: boy soldiers, goggle-eyed and toting guns that were too big for them.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Set him free!’ said Zuri.
Patrick looked at her, unsure why she was so eager to safeguard him.
She was five years older than Hannah and he couldn’t help wonder how different their lives must have been. At least Zuri had known her father. She’d spoken about him as they travelled to Angola; told Patrick about his death as if he could right it – at least that’s what he felt. Or maybe it was guilt. How many pleas had he ignored last time he’d been in Angola? How many fathers and daughters had he abandoned when the Nazis invaded the south? All because they couldn’t pay a mercenary’s wage.
‘Do you still think about him?’ he had asked.
‘I try not to.’ A long silence. ‘I think of his voice. The smell of his room, like man-skin and tobacco. How his face became bright when he lifted me up as a girl. That I will never see him again …’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Patrick, squeezing her shoulder. His throat felt jagged: he wondered what Hannah would say if a stranger asked the same question. He probably deserved whatever his daughter’s reply.
Later, Zuri told him about her younger sister, Neliah. How they would journey to Loanda to fight with the Resistencia, that Zuri was just as brave: see what I did at the chimney-camp! There was something about her that reminded him of the girls he’d helped in Guernica: shoeless orphans who wanted to chatter. Her familiarity, her intensity, unnerved him. He wasn’t used to women, had been confined to the world of uniforms and killing for so long that it was all he knew.
In turn she asked him why he was in Africa, why the Nazis were so interested in him. Patrick had skirted her questions, avoided any mention of Burton even though he was still wondering if he’d done the right thing by him. Instead he talked about Ruth, how they never should have married or had a child; about Hannah and getting home. How he wanted to make up for the past.
When finally they arrived at the rebels’ camp Zuri had been summoned to a fuming Ligio. The rest of the Herero women, Patrick and the prisoners were sent to the octógono and guarded by the Angolans. Patrick’s BK44 was confiscated. In one of the corners a soldier was fiddling with a receiver in an attempt to pick up news about the German invasion of the north, but on every frequency there was only one broadcast. Dolan’s trial.
‘What do we do?’ repeated the soldier.
Ligio took a step forward, raised the pistol again until it was level with Patrick’s head. ‘We hand him over to the Nazistas.’
Patrick remained impassive.
‘How could you?’ said Zuri.
‘You heard the radio, “the fate of Africa is in our hands”. We have to do it.’
‘My father did what the Nazistas said. They murdered him.’
‘Lieutenant,’ said Patrick. ‘You’re part of the Resistance. To German eyes that makes you a terrorist too. Hand me over and they’ll shoot us both.’
‘They said there’d be an amnesty.’
Patrick gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Yeah, right. The Krauts are famous for them.’
‘It’s you they want, not us.’
‘True … but then what? The invasion’s already started, there’s nowhere for you to go. Angola’s finished—’
‘We can still beat them back.’
Another dismissive snort. ‘That’s what Stalin said.’
‘So we head for Mozambique.’ Ligio raised his voice so the rest of the soldiers could hear him. ‘We’ll get a hero’s welcome there.’
Patrick shook his head: another kid warrior who had never tasted battle. Hadn’t they heard Dolan on the radio? That shattered voice. Thirty seconds of enemy fire and spilled guts and nothing would ever seem heroic again. I got to get out of here, he thought, before they do something stupid. He hoped Zuri was with him.
Patrick offered his cuffed wrists: the lieutenant would be on the floor before he knew what hit him. ‘You’d better hand me over then, amigo.’
Ligio kept his gun arm straight but didn’t move.
‘He’s right about Mozambique.’ Zuri was on her feet, trying to soft-pedal the lieutenant. ‘Una salus victis nullam sperare salutem.’
‘What?’
‘“There’s no safe place for the defeated.” Nowhere for us. You can’t give him up.’
Ligio kept his eyes on Patrick. ‘Since when have the kitchen girls been in charge?’
‘Alberto wouldn’t do it.’
‘While Comandante Penhor is in Loanda, I’m in command.’
‘And where were you when we raided the chimney-factory?’
Patrick saw Ligio’s neck flush pink. ‘Obeying my orders, unlike you.’
‘Orders! We’re all on the same side. We …’ Zuri’s voice withered in her mouth. Her face paled.
Patrick turned, followed her gaze.
She was staring out of the octógono’s entrance. Somebody was coming up the stairs. A huge black woman with the saddest eyes Patrick had ever seen. Forgetting Ligio, Zuri took a few steps towards her.
‘Tungu. Tungu, where’s …?’ Zuri looked past her, to the stairs and empty camp beyond.
The woman called Tungu trod slowly into the room. She was streaked with mud and held a bow in her hand.
‘Where’s Neliah?’ asked Zuri.
‘She was very brave,’ said Tungu. Her words were flat and slow. ‘Blew tunnel to Mukuru like she promised. Kill many skull-troops.’
‘Where is she?’
Zuri’s voice reminded Patrick of his wife’s after Hannah was born, when they’d wake to silence and she was petrified that their daughter wasn’t crying.
Tungu reached out for Zuri’s shoulder, bowed her head before she spoke again. ‘With the ancestors now. They will sing yimbira to her.’
Zuri snatched her shoulder away from the other woman. Let out a rasp of air, her face turning hard. She tugged at her plait. For several moments she did nothing. Then she buckled, falling to one knee. Clasped her stomach.
Nobody moved. Everyone was watching her.
Patrick saw Zuri struggle to breathe. It sounded as if a bone were lodged in her throat. He pushed past Ligio and went to her side. Placed his hand gently against her neck, crouched down beside her. She clutched hold of him. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman – a child – had embraced him.
Patrick looked up at Tungu. ‘There was a man, a white man, sent to work on the tunnel. Blond hair …’ He struggled to describe Burton.
‘There many prisoners.’
‘What happened to them?’
Tungu shook her head. ‘Tunnel blown. None escape.’
Patrick swallowed, nodded. It couldn’t be …
Fearless, dangerous, stupid Burton: gone.
He heard his last words shouted from the truck at the labour camp again. I’ll get you back to Hannah, I promise. Patrick wished he’d turned round. Wished he’d faced him. Wished he’d never said those things in Stanleystadt.
He stood up, his hand still resting on the nape of Zuri’s neck. She was weeping softly.
Then another sound. From outside. Patrick strained to make sense of it.
The clink of webbing.
He stared out of the door, into the dappled brightness of the trees. Saw black shapes darting towards the stairs. He spun towards Ligio.
But it was too late.
One of the octógono’s walls exploded inwards. A slingshot of splinters and smoke.
Stormtroopers poured in through the hole. They were flying up the stairs too. The pounding of boots on wood. The clunk-click of machine guns being readied. The Angolan soldiers dropped their weapons, boys who no longer wanted to play.
They were surrounded.
Patrick saw a familiar figure climbing the steps. ‘No tears,’ he whispered to Zuri, gently helping her to her feet. ‘Not for these bastards.’
Next moment the point of a gun was in his back. ‘I’m sorry, Major,’ said Ligio. ‘It’s best for my men.’
‘You idiot. We’re all dead now.’
Uhrig reached the top of the stairs. Gone was his black SS uniform, instead tropical combat fatigues, a blur of khaki, sage and brown; paratrooper boots. Bandoliers of ammunition criss-crossed his chest. Over his shoulder was a thick coil of rope. Uhrig’s eyes scanned the room, hovered briefly over Patrick, then wandered up to the rafters. He smiled to himself.
A gallows’ smile.
Ligio stepped forward, pushed Patrick in front of him. ‘Senhor Sturmbannführer—’
Uhrig frowned. ‘Sturmbannführer?’ He slapped his shoulder flashes. ‘Standartenführer, I think.’
‘Senhor Standartenführer—’ he struggled to mouth the word ‘—I am Lieutenant Carlos Ligio of the Portuguese Colonial Defence Force. This is one of the fugitives you are searching for. Whaler, the American.’
‘No!’ said Zuri. Her cheeks were stained with tears.
Ligio batted her away.
Patrick caught Uhrig’s expression and felt a twist of revulsion. The Nazi was eyeing Zuri the way a starved man looked at a steak.
Uhrig turned back to Ligio, saluted. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’ He pulled Patrick towards him by the cuffs; the metal gouged his wrists.
‘Your Governor General he … he spoke of clemency,’ said Ligio.
‘Of course.’ Uhrig pulled his Luger: shot him dead.
The roar of the pistol bounced off the walls.
‘Round up all the soldiers,’ Uhrig ordered his men. ‘Take them outside. Shoot them—’
‘They’re just kids,’ said Patrick.
‘You think I give a shit?’
‘What about the others, Standartenführer?’
‘The workers we’ll take back to Wutrohr. The niggers … they can watch.’
The Herero were forced to lie on the ground, muzzles against their heads. All except Zuri.
Uhrig re-holstered his Luger, took a step closer to Patrick.
Slammed him in the gut.
Patrick dropped as if he would never breathe again. He sensed stormtroopers groping around him, half heard Uhrig’s barked commands. A thick cord of rope was threaded through his cuffs. Then whipped over his head. Over the rafters.
‘You see that?’ said Uhrig. ‘It’s mountaineering rope. From when I climbed Kilmanscharo. The finest SS weave, strong as anything. Strong enough to take a pig.’ He hawked and spat. ‘Pull him up!’
Patrick was yanked off the ground.
He heard Zuri cry out again, prayed she’d shut her mouth. Two soldiers heaved on the rope. He was lifted into the air until his boots were dangling five feet from the floor.
His arms screamed in their sockets: he could feel the ligaments slowly ripping. His abdomen was stretched tight enough to snap.
‘Now, Amerikaner,’ said Uhrig, ‘where were we?’
OUTSIDE there was a volley of gunfire.
‘Ah … farewell, sweet youth,’ said Uhrig. ‘There’s no one to save you, Major Whaler. So you’d better start talking. Where is he?’
Patrick’s arms were on fire, his chest so tight he could barely breathe.
‘Where’s Cole?’
Patrick said nothing.
Hide, he thought, it’s the only thing left. Hide!
He barricaded himself into his mind. Tr
ied to picture his hacienda in Las Cruces. The arches that shaded the front door, the terracotta tiles in the kitchen. Hannah in a new dress, tanned and happy, calling him Dad. The baking sun.
But the more he concentrated on the image, the more his thoughts kept tumbling back to Burton.
He saw him that first day at Sidi Bel Abbès, barely old enough to volunteer. Something about his insolence, that scowling, forsaken spark in his eyes, reminded Patrick of himself at that age. He had told the boy to go back home to his parents, that the Legion wasn’t for him. It only made Burton more determined to take the coin of Madame la République.
Outside there was a second volley. Uhrig looked bored. He was pacing up and down, boots ringing on the hollow floor.
‘I can’t hear you, Amerikaner,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps you need something more persuasive.’
His eyes lingered on Zuri.
Another memory: drill on Les Grandes Dunes. Endless miles of sand hot enough to blister the feet of a camel. One by one the other rookies had dropped, all except Burton, driven on by his inner fury. Patrick had never seen such grit. That night he invited the boy to his quarters. Poured them both a cup of rough fig wine, drank a toast: the Kaiser!
Soldat 2ième Classe Cole had become one of the best soldiers Patrick had ever known. Had that rare hunger to survive, no matter what.
And now he was dead.
The rope creaked above Patrick, his shoulders agony. The half-moon scar on his stomach felt as if it were going to rip open.
If I get out of this, I’m going to find Madeleine. Tell her everything. I swear it.
But what? That Burton had failed to kill Hochburg, failed to learn the truth about his mother. Had died in some nowhere tunnel, crushed or drowned for nothing. Should never have left home. That Patrick, his oldest friend, the only man he trusted, had fled into the savannah with some girl he’d just met rather than save him?
Patrick hung his head.
Below, Ligio was curled up on the floor, an oval of blood spreading around him. Zuri was on her knees between two stormtroopers, hands on head. She kept glancing at him, eyes brimming with anguish. He willed her to look away.
Uhrig stopped pacing. Sighed.
‘You know the worst thing about you escaping, Amerikaner? Having to listen to Kepplar when he got back from the tunnel. Find him, Standartenführer,’ he mimicked. ‘Don’t fail me again.’