The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  ‘No. I must earn it. The Nazistas will never touch you again, Zuri, I swear. I’ll die first.’

  ‘You mustn’t die. Not ever.’ Her eyes swelled. ‘I don’t want to be left on my own.’

  ‘Then we must run, hide, go some place where they cannot find us.’

  ‘I don’t want to hide either. I told you in the tunnel, I want to fight! Want to kill as many skull-troops as possible.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Find the one named Uhrig.’ The words came out like irons from a forge.

  Neliah looked at her again. She had been wrong, her eyes weren’t empty, they were full to the brim. Full of rungiro. A hunger for revenge.

  ‘And when you’re face to face with him?’

  ‘What do you think?’ She laughed joylessly but for a heartbeat Neliah glimpsed the old Zuri. ‘Vindicta nemo magis gaudet quam foemina.’

  ‘You know I don’t understand.’ For once she wasn’t irritated.

  ‘No one rejoices more in revenge than a woman.’

  ‘Or a sister,’ replied Neliah in a whisper. ‘When the time comes the panga is yours.’

  After that they walked in silence till the air began to stink.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tungu.

  ‘I know that smell,’ said Zuri, her eyes darkening. She put her hand to her nose.

  Burton joined them. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘We must be near the railway now,’ said Neliah. ‘Very near.’

  They continued through the trees, the smell thickening all the time. The air buzzed with insects. Finally they emerged into a clearing.

  Quimbundo.

  There was a half-built brick building with no roof, a wooden workshop, water tower, piles of coal like huge termite hills. Everything was itching with leaves. The forest is hungry, thought Neliah, wants to bite back what man has taken. There was also a tyndo, a steam-train, its engine cold and silent. The tracks vanished into the trees.

  In front of the tyndo a tent had been pitched and long tables set for dinner to feed Penhor’s soldiers. Bowls of food, tin trays, metal cups. The stench was coming from the tables.

  Quimbundo was one of the far outposts of the Lunda Railway (more commonly called the ‘Salazar Line’ after Portugal’s President) situated less than ten miles from where the tracks abruptly ended. For decades Angola had been dominated by the Benguela Railway in the south, but the discovery of diamonds in the north-east led to prospectors demanding a link from the interior to Loanda, and from there to the markets of Europe and America. President Salazar, always keen to bolster Portugal’s fortunes and wanting a project to prove himself the equal of German achievements, obliged. And so three hundred and seventy miles of track, viaduct and tunnel were constructed, mining communities sprouting along its furthest leg.

  Then the Germans had occupied the south, the Benguela Railway coming under Nazi control to connect the copper belts of Kongo to the Atlantic. Fearful of a similar fate, the prospectors abandoned their new diamond mines and left the eastern section of the Salazar incomplete. Since then the Resistencia had used it to ferry troops back and forth.

  Neliah was bewitched by the tables. They were throbbing with flies.

  ‘What happened?’ said Zuri. Her voice rose. ‘Alberto …’

  Burton stepped closer. Neliah saw that his expression was blank. ‘There’s no blood, no bullet cases,’ he said, picking up a bowl of rice. He sniffed it. ‘Poison?’

  ‘It’d have to be something quick,’ said Patrick. ‘Like cyanide.’

  Burton pulled the rice away from his nose. ‘Or sarin.’

  There were three tables, sitting at them the soldiers Comandante Penhor had led from Terras de Chisengue.

  All of them dead.

  Their mouths twisted in agony, bodies starting to stink and rot in the heat.

  NELIAH was unable to drag her eyes away from the tables. ‘They’re not all here,’ she said. ‘Where’s Penhor?’ Her lips tightened. ‘Where’s Gonsalves? There are others missing also.’

  ‘Stay here,’ said Burton, pulling his gun. He began to search the buildings with Patrick.

  ‘Alberto,’ Zuri whispered again, her brow knotted. She looked around the clearing. ‘Why would the Nazistas do this?’

  ‘It wasn’t the Nazistas,’ said Neliah. ‘They have guns, tanks. Don’t need poison.’

  ‘Then who?’

  She hesitated. For some reason she was thinking about Gonsalves. Then Penhor, how he wanted her to find the dynamite because he knew she’d go back to the tunnel. Knew the detonators were useless. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. There would be no satisfaction in sharing her thoughts – Zuri didn’t need any more pain.

  Neliah turned away from her sister and stared into the face of the nearest soldier. She remembered serving him in the kitchens, his name was José. He had a wife and a little boy in Lisboa, sometimes drank too much caporotto and sang Fado songs that made the other soldiers cry—

  A gunshot.

  Neliah pushed Zuri to the ground, held out her panga. The others ducked under the table with them. The sound rolled away into the trees.

  Silence except for the zumm of flies. They were feasting.

  Then footfalls.

  Burton walked back from the direction of the workshop. He was leading someone at gunpoint: a man in overalls and a cap, covered in black, babbling in Portuguese.

  ‘I don’t understand him,’ said Burton.

  Neliah translated. ‘He’s says don’t shoot him.’

  Burton lowered his pistol, kept his other hand clamped on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s the train driver … Says that one of the soldiers did the poisoning.’

  ‘How did he manage to escape?’

  ‘He was working on the engine, didn’t eat … Afterwards he hid in the coal.’

  ‘Which soldier? Does he know who?’

  ‘He doesn’t know his name … He was scared, there was shooting also … One of the Portuguese, he thinks, with black hair.’

  Burton looked at her. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘It could be any of them.’

  The driver was speaking again.

  ‘He says later a plane landed close to here. Took off again after a few minutes. Flew west.’

  Burton chewed on this, let go of the driver. ‘Ask him if he can get the train running. Can he get us to Loanda?’

  The driver didn’t need translating. He nodded his head. ‘Loanda, sim.’

  ‘Burton!’ Patrick was calling from the trees. ‘You’d better see this.’

  Neliah and Zuri followed Burton to behind the roofless building. They found Patrick staring into a shallow ditch. There were more bodies. Zuri glanced down, then covered her mouth.

  ‘The sooner we’re out of here the better,’ said Burton. ‘Me and Patrick will help the driver. Get the train going.’

  ‘What about the bodies?’ said Zuri. ‘We can’t leave them. Not like this. The smell. Animals will find them …’

  ‘There are too many,’ said Burton.

  ‘I don’t care about the others. Just these here.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Patrick, reaching out for Zuri. ‘We’ll bury them for you.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ said Burton, but Neliah saw the struggle in his eyes.

  Zuri grabbed his hand. ‘Our parents were left like this. Please, Burton.’

  ‘Your parents?’ He gave a long sigh, his breath coming from deep within. ‘We’ll check the train first, then find some spades.’

  The two soldiers walked away, leaving Neliah and her sister alone.

  Neliah gazed into the ditch below. There were four or five men, it was difficult to tell. They were a pile of arms and legs, lying face down, the back of their skulls torn open. They’d been shot in the face. Among the bodies was a blue uniform and red sash.

  She looked at her sister. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Zuri’s eyes were dry. ‘Whatever you thought about him, Neliah, he loved our country. The same as Papai di
d. Didn’t want the Nazistas to own it.’

  ‘Who will tell his wife in Portugal? His children?’

  ‘Someone will bring them news.’

  Without warning Zuri leapt into the ditch. Grabbed Penhor’s red sash and climbed back out. The whole time she kept her eyes away from the gaping, bloody heads.

  ‘Did … did you love him?’ asked Neliah.

  Zuri crushed the sash between her fingers. ‘Not real love.’

  ‘Then why did you do it?’

  ‘To protect you, sister.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If I hadn’t shared his bed what would we be? Out in the forest, always running from skull-troops.’ She rubbed the bite mark on her face. ‘Just another two negras that nobody cared about.’

  Neliah felt her throat grow thick.

  She cupped her sister’s cheeks and kissed her.

  The ground was sandy, easy to dig.

  Burton flicked a pile of dirt into the ditch, thinking about the other soldiers he’d buried over the years. And those who’d just been left. At Bel Abbès he always volunteered for burial duty, perhaps because he never got to lay his parents to rest. It was something else to curse Hochburg for. A cloud of insects rose from the corpses.

  Patrick had come across the spades in the workshop. While he searched for them Burton got on his hands and knees, checked underneath the tables of rotting food. Finally he found what he was looking for.

  Neliah’s mouth creased with disapproval. ‘You mustn’t!’

  ‘He doesn’t need them,’ said Burton, pulling off the dead soldier’s boots. ‘I do.’

  They were a decent fit, cushioned his throbbing toes and heels. When Neliah had gone he also took a shirt to replace his tattered one. There was a superstition in the Legion: the clothes of dead men would protect you.

  Burton and Patrick continued to dig. Breathed through their mouths.

  Gradually the corpses disappeared beneath a layer of earth. From nearby came the lilt of women’s voices; the hiss of steam.

  ‘I got to stop,’ said Patrick. ‘My arms.’ He rolled his shoulders, inhaled sharply.

  Burton rested his spade in the ground. His face was dripping. He took a swig from his canteen and offered it to Patrick. The American shook his head. They stood in silence, staring down at the grave like two mourners deep in thought.

  ‘How come you came back?’ said Patrick eventually. They’d only passed a few words since the rebel camp, mostly about Dolan, God rest his soul. Neither wanted to talk much or knew what to say. Now Patrick’s voice was tentative, self-conscious.

  ‘Because I promised,’ replied Burton. ‘Said I’d get you back home, to Hannah.’

  ‘When I heard you at the labour camp, I wanted to turn round.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘There was dust in my eye.’

  Burton gave a knowing smile. He took another mouthful of water, sluiced it round his mouth. ‘Well, before you get too sentimental, it wasn’t the only reason. I also did it for Madeleine.’

  ‘And how was saving an old fool like me going to help?’

  ‘You may be a fool, but you’re also the only friend I’ve got left. The closest thing to family.’ He picked up his spade and began to dig again. ‘If I’d left you it would have been like my mother: the same not knowing, always wondering what happened. And I’m tired of looking back, Patrick. I want a future. Me and Madeleine, not ghosts. I had to at least try and find you.’

  ‘But Stanleystadt. I was going to get on that boat.’

  ‘Every man for himself, eh?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘You never meant it, Chef. Not really.’

  ‘I did.’

  Burton laughed, a worn-out aching laugh. He shook his head. ‘No. There’s some honneur de la Légion in you yet. If you’d really wanted to lose me you could have done it. Just vanished. I’d have woken up in that doss house alone.’

  Patrick considered his words. ‘So you came back for me.’

  ‘No more ghosts.’

  ‘What about Hochburg?’

  Burton’s spine stiffened; he drove his spade hard into the earth. ‘I can’t believe he’s still alive. I swear the man’s the devil himself. But I don’t care.’

  ‘And your mother? That truth you wanted so bad?’

  ‘What does it matter now? What does any of it matter now: the truth, revenge? I’ll never get back inside the Schädelplatz.’ Burton swiped a fly from his face. ‘Don’t want to. I’ve wasted a lifetime on this stuff.’ He was thinking of Maddie and how she’d found peace despite her family’s fate in Madagaskar. He admired her acceptance – it offered him a different way to live.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Madeleine told me you don’t need the truth to live your life. She was right. All I want now is to get home to her.’

  ‘Home,’ repeated Patrick. ‘You’ll invite me, won’t you? To the farm.’

  ‘Of course! You can meet Maddie. We’ll have tea and cake, scones with quince jam.’

  Patrick smiled. With his white stubble and watery eyes he seemed older than ever. ‘That’d be swell.’ He picked up his spade again.

  After that they worked in silence till their shirts were plastered to their backs and the soldiers were buried. Once they were done Burton reached for his water again, swallowed a mouthful, offered it to Patrick.

  This time he took it, but didn’t drink. ‘When Tungu said you’d been killed, I …’ He stared into the canteen. ‘I’m glad you’re still with me, Burton.’

  For a long moment Burton didn’t reply. Then: ‘We made it this far, Chef. We’ll do the rest. It’s four hundred miles to Loanda.’

  ‘Then what? Do we go find Ackerman?’

  ‘If we take Rougier at his word, he’ll be at the consulate. Maybe he can help us out of here, maybe not. At the very least he’s got some explaining to do. I want to know why me. Who am I to British intelligence?’

  ‘And after?’

  ‘The first boat to anywhere. I never want to see Africa again.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He raised the canteen to his lips. ‘The Kaiser!’

  Burton took it back – ‘The Kaiser!’ – and drained the bottle. The water tasted earthy, warm, sweet.

  They picked up their guns and walked to the train.

  The locomotive was a black Beyer-Garratt. It pulled a tender brimming with coal, two cattle-trucks and at the rear a platform mounted with an anti-aircraft gun. The prisoners and most of the Herero were already on board, their legs dangling over the side through the open doors. Neliah and Zuri stood by the engine. It towered over them, smoke coiling from the funnel. An aroma of coal. The smell reminded Burton of foggy London streets, of Hampstead: Madeleine’s family home. Servants tending fireplaces, wall-to-wall carpets, gilded furniture. He shuddered inside.

  How distant England was. That’s why people hadn’t balked at the Nazis’ conquest of Africa, thought Burton, or when they deported the Jews to Madagaskar; why they nervously laughed off Windhuk and its legacy of rumour. It was all too remote to care about. Too far away to imagine – or even want to. Better to get on with your life and enjoy the good times that peace had brought.

  Patrick stepped over to Zuri. ‘It’s done.’

  There was a red sash tied around her waist. She looked in the direction of the ditch, then stood on tiptoes and whispered something in Patrick’s ear. He nodded, gently touched her elbow.

  ‘We gathered more guns,’ said Neliah, ‘and some food. We also found this. I don’t know if it works.’ At her feet were two wooden crates. She opened one of them.

  Patrick whistled.

  Burton knelt by the box: it was packed full of dynamite and timer-fuses. ‘We should stow it at the back, with the AA gun. That’ll be safest.’ He fastened the lid. ‘How long to Loanda?’

  Neliah shouted up to the driver. He was checking dials in the engine, seemed chirpier now they were about to leave.


  ‘He says eight or nine hours – if the tracks haven’t been bombed again.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  Neliah translated. The driver shrugged.

  ‘Tell him if he sees any Germans – on the ground, in the air – to sound the whistle at once.’

  Moments later the pistons began to chug back and forth. The wheels turned. Burton watched Quimbundo slide away. He had a final glimpse of the tables: the putrefying soldiers, their grimaces. From a distant they could almost be laughing. The stench was still livid in his nose. Then the trees obscured them.

  He sat down next to Patrick. Cool air rushed in through the open cattle-door. The beat of the train.

  Burton felt exhausted, his muscles like they had been wrapped in barbed wire. He put aside the Thompson, rolled up his sleeve and checked his burn-mark; it was throbbing, the U and J a vivid burgundy colour.

  ‘Another scar for the collection,’ said Patrick.

  ‘One I could have done without.’

  ‘Let’s make sure it’s your last.’ Patrick leaned his head back, closed his eyes. ‘Try and get some rest, boy.’

  Burton held his arm towards the open door, let the breeze soothe the brand. He smelt coal again: thought of Madeleine at home in London, living the perfect little life her husband had decided for her. He wondered how he would react when she told him about their affair. Wondered how his own father felt after Mama vanished; he had never spoken a word about it. Then Burton lay down and let the rocking of the train lull him to sleep.

  A hundred miles later he was still awake.

  Schädelplatz, Kongo

  19 September, 12:40

  BEFORE him lay all of middle Africa.

  Hochburg was in the operations room of the Schädelplatz, hands behind his back, pacing up and down. There was a hum of conversation, the cht-cht-cht of telex machines.

  He was waiting for a radio call.

  In front of him: a ten by four metre table map of the region marked with black triangles. Heading from Matadi towards Loanda was the Afrika Korps (90 Light Division, 6th Urwald Panzer), their exact position unknown because Arnim refused to send updates to the Schädelplatz; everything on Operation Nelke had to be relayed via Germania. To the south and south-east, the armies of the Waffen-SS bound for Northern Rhodesia. Military engineers were building a pontoon over the Lulua River ready to transport the first panzers. So much for the field marshal’s threat not to help! The Wehrmacht liked to delude itself, but in the end would always surrender to the will of the SS. Der Elefant, the fabled conqueror of Africa, was nothing more than a circus animal.