by Guy Saville
Patrick struggled to heave himself up. Anything to ease the pressure on his shoulders.
‘Lucky my Wolves spotted the big bitch.’ Uhrig cocked his head in Tungu’s direction. ‘Allowed us to track her all the way here. Now, where’s Cole?’
Patrick remained silent.
‘It was a long journey,’ continued Uhrig. ‘Plenty of time to think, and one question kept playing on my mind. You’re clearly not one of those isolationist pussies: you got some fight in you. So how to get you talking, Amerikaner? What about a bayonet through the kneecap? Pop it out from behind, nice and slow. Or slitting your fingertips open? Of course in an ideal world we’d have your daughter.’
Patrick felt a cold trickle of horror in his gut. ‘I don’t have a daughter.’
‘Uhrig has a good memory. Heard your blabbing to the Gruppenführer. You seemed genuine enough.’
‘Any old bullshit to shut him up.’
Uhrig snorted. ‘On the eastern front, when we interrogated the partisans, I always found having a man’s daughter worked best. Sons they cared less about – but that’s just the way of the world. I remember my own father beat me once in the streets of Hamburg. In full view of everyone. And nobody raised a finger. If I’d been blond and pretty I’m sure they’d have dragged him in front of the magistrate …’ He mused upon it before resuming. ‘But daughters. Daughters always get results.’
Uhrig grabbed Zuri by the hair, hauled her to her feet. In his hand was a dagger. He pressed it against her windpipe. She stood rigid and shaking.
Patrick kept his face blank, focused on the pain in his shoulder sockets. ‘You think I care about some black monkey? Go on. Cut her throat.’
‘Here we go again! Just like your performance in the parade square. Quite the thwarted actor, aren’t we, Amerikaner? But I saw the two of you together. Saw how much she wanted to save you from the lieutenant.’
Uhrig slowly ran the knife from Zuri’s neck, between her breasts to her stomach before poking it against her crotch. She tried to pull away but Uhrig wrapped her plait around his fist.
‘In Russia, when my Einsatzgruppen reached a new village do you know what the women did? Killed themselves. Even the crones. They’d rather be dead than indulge us. There were never enough to go around – so we had a rule. Ten men to one girl, no more. Otherwise—’ he rocked his hips obscenely ‘—you’re just fucking offal.’
The magma was bubbling up in Patrick. He fought to show no reaction. One word and Zuri was dead.
Uhrig looked around. ‘My Wolves, we’re twenty-five men. She’s going to be a real mess by the time we’re finished with her, Amerikaner. Blancmange … Pity it’s not your little girl.’
Patrick let out a roar.
‘I’m going to fucking kill you! I swear it.’ He jerked and spun on the rope. Above him the rafters creaked as if they were about to break.
‘Good,’ said Uhrig. ‘We’re getting somewhere. Now: Burton Cole?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Don’t give me that pigshit.’
‘He was killed in the tunnel. Ask Tungu.’
Uhrig ripped down Zuri’s pants. Patrick noticed her legs – they seemed so thin, so bare. She struggled away from him but Uhrig grasped her plait more firmly, tugged on it like a leash. Zuri’s forehead stretched tight around her skull. The dagger played up and down her thighs.
‘Where?’ demanded Uhrig.
‘Let her go!’
‘Where’s Cole?’
‘He died in the explosion.’ Patrick pulled at the rope again, oblivious to the pain now. ‘It was your fault, you sent him there.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Let her go!’
Uhrig grinned. ‘If you insist.’ He flicked the knife.
Zuri tumbled to her knees.
Uhrig stood over her, swinging her severed plait in his hand. He brought the hair to his face, sniffed. ‘I always like a souvenir,’ he said, stuffing the braid into his pocket.
Zuri desperately clawed the back of her head. She was crying and struggling not to; tears pooled in her eyes.
Uhrig kicked her over, put his boot on her back to stop her moving. ‘You,’ he said to the nearest stormtrooper. ‘Come do your duty.’
‘How many times,’ shouted Patrick. ‘Cole’s dead!’
The trooper edged forward, regarded the sprawled figure beneath him with distaste. ‘But, Herr Standartenführer, she’s … a negroid. The Nuremberg Laws—’
‘This isn’t Germany.’ Uhrig stared Patrick in the eye. ‘Just get on with it. Pretend you’re banging some Aryan schoolgirl if it helps.’
The trooper fumbled with his belt, then stopped. ‘I can’t, Herr Standartenführer, I can’t—’
Uhrig turned purple. ‘You limp-dick cocksucker. Get the fuck out of my sight.’
Patrick allowed himself a moment of bleak satisfaction.
Below him Zuri was struggling to crawl away. Uhrig pushed the heel of his boot down harder. ‘Volunteers!’
Several men stepped forward.
‘Better. You first.’
The stormtrooper set aside his BK44, rolled Zuri over and unzipped his pants.
‘Last chance, Amerikaner. Where is Burton Cole?’
Zuri stared straight into Patrick’s face. Eyes imploring.
‘Stanleystadt,’ he blurted. ‘He never left, is still hiding there.’
Uhrig hesitated, wagged his finger. ‘You’re clever, Amerikaner, but I told you before. Uhrig has brains for ten. You’re going to have to do better than that.’ He nodded to the trooper.
He knelt between Zuri’s legs, ran his eyes over her body. Then he was on top of her, smothering her face with bites as she hissed and squirmed. The other stormtroopers gathered to watch.
‘Not as sweet as Fräulein Whaler, I’m sure,’ said Uhrig. ‘But she’ll do.’
Patrick thrashed around, his face a contortion. He focused on the rafters.
Then a scream.
High-pitched. Like an animal being speared.
Oh, Jesus, what were they doing to her? Patrick forced himself to look back, his eyes blurred.
The trooper was trying to stand, hands clasping his crotch. Blood spewed everywhere.
On the ground, between Zuri’s thighs, a hole had been punched through the floorboards. Patrick glimpsed a rusty machete disappearing back into it.
Bewilderment on Uhrig’s face.
A Mills-bomb was tossed out: a hand grenade. It rolled across the floor towards the stormtroopers.
Zuri pushed herself away, curled into a ball. Patrick heaved his body upwards with all his strength.
‘Run!’ bellowed Uhrig.
Three-two-one …
Burton counted down the final seconds of the fuse.
The grenade exploded.
A lightning flash. Screams.
He kicked away more slats, pushed Neliah through the hole. ‘Go!’ She was trembling with rage, the panga bloody in her fist.
Burton stayed behind, scurrying beneath the stilts of the octógono. In each hand was one of the BK44s they’d stolen from the perimeter guards after slitting their throats. He peered up through the floorboards. Fired wherever he saw boots.
Shards of timber shot upwards. Bullets ripping through feet and ankles. More screams. Gobs of flesh.
He moved forward, kicking up leaves. Fired.
Move, fire. Move, fire.
The first BK emptied. He tossed it away.
Above him Uhrig was shouting. ‘Flame units! Get the flame units!’
More troops were running towards the building, one with a tank on his back. Burton dived into position opposite the stairs. Waited till their boots were thundering up the steps. Locked his finger on the trigger.
This time the bullets chewed into shin bones. He aimed higher. Hit the soldier with the flamethrower.
Phwum. A ball of fire.
Burton buried his face into the dirt. Felt the hair on his arms shrivel, ears blister. The stench of petrol.
He crawled away from the burning staircase back to the hole. Heaved himself through it, took in the octógono.
It was strewn with bodies. The walls ablaze. Burton saw Neliah kneeling by her sister, a huddle of black women around them. Patrick had been cut down. He clutched a BK, his hands shaking as if he could barely lift the weapon. His face was screwed up, bloodthirsty. A mesh of livid wrinkles.
‘Uhrig!’ he roared. ‘You’re a dead man. You hear me? A fucking dead man.’ Patrick spun round, blasted at everything.
Stopped solid.
Stared at Burton.
He had an expression of such astonishment that Burton almost burst out laughing; tout bouleversé they called that face in the Legion. ‘Major Whaler,’ he said, ‘get down below and cover our escape.’
No response.
‘Major!’
Patrick gave him another startled look, his mouth agog … then he clambered down through the floorboards.
Burton turned to Neliah. She was pulling up her sister’s trousers. ‘Can she walk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Back through the hole.’
He helped them down.
The flames had reached the rafters. Through the fire he could see shapes moving towards him. The flash of bullets.
Burton returned fire till his magazine was spent. He pulled out his Browning and dropped to the ground below.
‘We need more weapons,’ he said to Neliah.
‘The strongroom.’ She was cradling her sister, the panga held protectively over her breast. ‘This way.’
They darted through the smoke to a squat brick building. The flames from the octógono were spreading to the other huts. The crackle of wood and thatch. Burned leather. Someone was pleading for help in German.
‘Down there,’ said Neliah, sheltering inside. ‘Tungu, go with them.’
A massive Herero woman disappeared down the stairs. Burton and Patrick followed into a storeroom. There were some old Enfield .303s, a Thompson submachine gun. Crates of ammo, canteens, medical supplies.
Burton slung the Thompson over his shoulder, thrust the rest of the rifles towards Tungu.
‘Go!’
She flew back up the stairs. Patrick was shoving phials of morphine into a haversack, syringes, bandages, water bottles. Burton joined him, picked up an ammo case, checked it for rounds.
‘They told me you were dead,’ said Patrick. ‘Killed in the tunnel.’
‘Not yet.’
Patrick suddenly threw his arms around him.
Burton felt the roughness of his stubble against his cheek. Shoved him away. ‘We have to move!’
‘My hands.’ Patrick placed his cuffed wrists against the ground, twisted his face away.
Burton aimed his Browning at the middle of the chain. Fired a single shot. A deafening boom.
The cuffs broke free.
Patrick stuffed the last of the supplies in the bag. ‘Wait. There’s something else. Hochburg. He’s alive.’
‘What?’
‘He’s alive.’
Burton froze.
It was like that moment back on the farm among the quince trees. The strongroom seemed to close in around him, grow darker. The air at once too thin, but thick enough to choke. Burton tasted blood and tears. His voice was a whisper. ‘No.’
‘I heard him on the radio. With Rougier – he sold us out, not Ackerman; I got it wrong.’
‘But I killed him.’
Neliah’s voice echoed down the stairs. ‘Hurry!’
‘You got his decoy,’ said Patrick.
From above: gunfire, heavier calibre weapons. MG48s. Hurry! Neliah called again. Her voice seemed to come from a great distance. For an endless moment Burton did nothing. His tongue felt heavy and dry in his mouth. He couldn’t swallow.
Hochburg was still alive …
Then he grabbed the last of the ammo crates and tore up the stairs, Patrick at his heels.
They reached the top. Standing over the Herero were some white men. Burton raised the Thompson.
‘No,’ said Neliah. ‘Their arms.’
They were marked with UJ; their faces bewildered, scared. Escaped prisoners.
Burton peered out of the door frame. Flame units were moving through the camp. Roaring plumes of orange and red devoured everything. Behind them more troopers.
Nobody needed telling.
Patrick and Neliah reached to carry Zuri. She shrugged them both off, snatched one of the guns from Tungu and ran. For a second Burton thought she was going to attack the Germans, but she veered off. Was swallowed by the grass. Neliah and the other women followed, then the prisoners, finally Patrick and Burton.
The camp was engulfed in flames.
Schädelplatz, Kongo
19 September, 06:38
DAWN.
When the guards came he was going to make a break for it. It didn’t matter about his broken leg now, didn’t matter if he got shot. A bullet in the head was preferable to the barbarism that awaited him.
Even the gallows and a short rope would be better.
Dolan tried to control himself, forced his body rigid … but almost at once the tremors started again. Tremors travelling from his chest, into his belly and limbs. His remaining teeth chattered.
He still couldn’t believe this was happening. It all seemed hazy. Unreal.
Somewhere he heard a door open. Then the echo of boots, heading towards his cell. He squeezed his eyes shut. Readied himself. His muscles felt sapless.
He had expected the night to rush by, but it seemed endless. Earlier a guard arrived with Hochburg’s compliments, asking him to choose his final meal. Dolan wanted something to fox them, something a German chef would scratch his head at. One final, futile gesture of defiance. It was all he had left.
‘Old English trifle,’ he blurted out. Just like his mam used to make at Christmas.
Several hours later the guard returned with a silver spoon and a bowl of the stuff. It was the most delicious trifle he’d ever tasted, better than anything at home. Slivers of fresh strawberry and mango, sherry sponge, golden custard. The sweetest, thickest cream. As soon as he finished eating he puked in the corner.
The footsteps reached the door. Locks turned.
‘It’s time.’
Guards entered the cell.
Dolan’s heart thundered. He tensed, rolled his fingers into fists – found himself too weak to act.
They dragged him to his feet, carried him above ground. The sky was full of dense, mauve-grey clouds, the skulls almost shimmering in their light. At the far end of the square – the scene of his execution. He couldn’t bear to look, twisted his head away. Dolan began shaking more violently despite the balmy morning air.
‘Lord, lead me through the wilderness,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Me … me, a pilgrim …’ He remembered singing it at school.
A small crowd had gathered to watch: the bureaucrats and torturers of the Schädelplatz, secretaries in pencil skirts, a yawning Señor Aguilar, the British attaché. Someone had brought his children. Dolan watched two young boys in Pimpf uniforms chase each other. They stopped as he approached, sidled back to their father.
The guards led him through the crowd, his plaster-cast scraping the ground …
And there it was.
How many times had he studied the plans of the Schädelplatz, never once imagining this is where it would end?
There were three of them.
‘A pilgrim of poor … appearance.’
Three pyramids of wood, each with a stake protruding from the centre.
They took him to the left pyre, round the back, up a short flight of steps to a platform hidden among the logs. The stink of petrol was overpowering.
Dolan was chained to the stake. Then left alone. Somewhere he heard the tinkle of a wind-chime.
‘I don’t have strength … strength or life in me …’ The lyrics were in his head now. His windpipe too tight to sing.
At the far end of the square, from the dire
ction he had just been carried, three men appeared. Two carried swastika banners. The one in the middle a flaming torch. All were wearing black hoods. They marched solemnly towards him. Behind them came a drummer rapping a heartbeat tattoo.
Dolan stared into the crowd, eyes beseeching. Please! Someone had to stop this. It was 1952, not the fucking Middle Ages. In the front row, flanked by bodyguards, he saw Hochburg, dog at his feet. He was gazing beyond the pyres at some invisible point. His face seemed locked. Cold and cruel. Eyes black.
Will they be the last things I ever see? thought Dolan. Two pinpricks of darkness.
He began convulsing. His mind a thunderflash of images. He struggled to make sense of them – as if somehow they might offer salvation.
Home … the dank wallpaper in his old bedroom with the floral pattern he hated so much … a girlfriend who loved boiled sweets, always tasted of cough-candy and peardrops when he groped her … his brother, polishing his boots, always so bloody cheery …
He had died at Dunkirk, bombed into the water as the Expeditionary Force attempted to flee. A hero, so the dispatches said, an example to live up to. Survivors told of the sea foaming red. How could the country have surrendered after that? It wasn’t peace, no matter what the politicians claimed – it was defeat.
The torch and swastikas were close now, close enough for Dolan to smell the burning pitch of the flame. His breath came as rapid as a machine gun. The crowd parted to let them through.
A sponge cake, white icing and glitter … Dolan saw himself blow out six candles … the recruitment depot in Newport on his eighteenth birthday, Mam all tears again … Drill instructors yammering in his ear … His box of tricks crammed with TNT … Evac training … the whirr of helicopters—
Helicopters! That was it.
They would save him. A team of commandos brought in by chopper, abseiling into the square, led by Patrick and the major, guns blazing. They wouldn’t let him die here, not like this, not all alone. Dolan scanned the clouds, expecting to see a helicopter at any second.
The executioner had reached the base of the pyre. He turned to the crowd, presented the torch. They raised their arms in a wordless Führer salute. Even Aguilar and the British attaché.