The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  Meanwhile another SS battalion had been diverted from the Lulua to the PAA at Elisabethstadt to join the second column attacking from the east. Lusaka would be crushed between two pincers. Soon the whole country would be his and the Einsatzgruppen could begin the process of racial cleansing: the negroid threat to Kongo’s southern border eradicated.

  Everything was proceeding as Hochburg had planned.

  Everything except for the photos he’d been handed that morning. They were from Schwarzflügel aerial reconnaissance. His generals murmured when they saw them. Thirty miles from the Rhodesian side of the border, at Solwezi, was a mass of enemy tanks hidden beneath netting. Hochburg dismissed the pictures: a training exercise. Coincidence. The Rhodesians haven’t had time to prepare.

  Besides, they would be no match for the SS: Britain and its colonies had grown fat on peace.

  ‘Herr Oberstgruppenführer!’

  The radio operator held up a phone. Hochburg snatched it from him.

  A burst of static. ‘Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Hochburg. ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenführer.’

  It was Uhrig.

  ‘I saw Cole with my own eyes. The Amerikaner too. Over.’

  Hochburg felt the blood surge into his throat, cold and exuberant. He gripped the phone till the Bakelite creaked. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I tracked them to Quimbundo, part of the Salazar Railway. North-east Angola. Over.’

  Hochburg scanned the map in front of him. ‘I have it.’

  ‘Something happened here. We found lots of bodies. All of them poisoned. Over.’

  ‘What about Cole?’

  Another crackle of static.

  ‘There was no train. I assume, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, he’s headed for Loanda. Over.’

  ‘Standartenführer, assemble a dozen of your best men. I shall meet you at Quimbundo.’ He detailed his instructions.

  ‘My Wolves will be ready. Over.’

  ‘Make sure they are rested but hungry.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenführer.’ A hesitation. ‘With respect, Herr Oberst, I was wondering if … I want to be re-assigned back to the Einsatzgruppen. Over.’

  Hochburg gave an icy smile. ‘Get me Cole – alive – and I’ll promote you to a full general. I’ll be with you in three hours. Be ready. Out.’

  He turned to the radio operator. ‘Send word to Kondolele. I want my Walküres to leave immediately.’

  Hochburg walked briskly from the operations room to his study. On his desk were the remainders of the mango and strawberry trifle he’d eaten for breakfast. Fenris, his Ridgeback, was dozing by the veranda. The dog looked up as he came in. Shook his jowls in greeting.

  Hochburg changed out of his dress uniform into a vented black shirt, camouflage trousers and smock; belt with grinning skull buckle, boots that laced up to the shin. To the belt he buckled ammunition pouches, holster and Taurus pistol (another of his Brazilian imports).

  In the corner of the room, nestled among the bookshelves, was a gun cabinet. Hochburg unlocked it and took out his BK44. It had been given to him by the Reichsführer himself, a gift for all his efforts in Muspel. The stock was made of brushed steel, the words – Good Hunting, H.H. – engraved on it.

  Hochburg checked the firing mechanism, took several of the banana-shaped magazines, then went to his desk drawer to retrieve his final weapon: the knife Burton had tried to kill him with, the one he had pulled from his decoy’s corpse. It had been whetted to a deadly point, but he recognised it from the silverware Eleanor was so proud of.

  After they eloped from the orphanage he had promised to buy her an even more splendid set, but never had the means. They had lived in a cabin near Keta, theirs a simple life of books and passion, swimming in the lagoon. Eleanor had been so happy at first, before the guilt began to gnaw at her. Before dreams of her son and husband woke her at night and she turned her back when Hochburg reached to comfort her.

  He slid the drawer shut and knelt by his dog, tickled his chin. Fenris rolled on his side, baring his teeth, gave a growl of satis-faction. And as his fingers raked the animal’s coat, a thought struck Hochburg.

  His plan was to hunt Burton down … but the boy was as hellbent on revenge as he was. He glanced towards the maps of Africa on the wall; the bloodstains had been scrubbed off but remained just visible. Faded streaks of vermilion. Burton had stabbed his decoy with a frenzy matched only by the rage in Hochburg’s heart.

  It had never occurred to him before: what if it was he, Hochburg, who didn’t return from their confrontation?

  He leaned forward, nuzzled Fenris’s forehead, and left.

  The dog barked as he strode away. A low, pitiful yelping.

  Hochburg’s helicopter was waiting for him in the middle of the skull-square. Not the Flettner he had let Kepplar use.

  But his Walküre gunship.

  The Walküre was Focke-Wulf’s state-of-the-art attack helicopter; had been commissioned by Odilo Globocnik, the SS Governor of Madagaskar, who wanted a new toy to patrol his island domain. Built at a secret installation in Muspel, the Walküre was a decade ahead of anything the British had. It was capable of two hundred kilometres per hour, armed with a rotating barrel-gun and six Ruhrstahl X-7 rockets. The prototype tests had been completed two months earlier. A mock village was built in the desert and populated by blacks; they were even given rifles and told to defend themselves. Within the hour the Walküre had proven its efficiency.

  When Hochburg heard the reports he was minded of Joshua 6:21, the battle of Jericho: ‘and they utterly destroyed all that was in the city, both man and woman, young and old, ox and sheep and ass’. He immediately ordered four of the machines, despite Globocnik insisting they were his helicopters and his alone. Conflicts between the Governors of Africa were not uncommon; in the end, Himmler had to settle the matter.

  The pilot was completing his final checks as Hochburg approached. The rotor blades began to spin, were soon at full speed. Hochburg adored the sound, its raw power and fury. He clambered into the bubble cockpit.

  Over the radio came a voice: ‘Walküre Leader, this is Walküre One. We’re approaching the Schädelplatz, over.’

  Hochburg pulled on his headset. ‘Walküre One, I see you. We’re leaving now.’

  The helicopter took to the sky.

  Below, Hochburg watched the ash from Dolan’s pyre swirl round the square, the charcoal stump of his body crumble to nothing.

  From the direction of Kondolele came three more Walküres, behind them two other craft. They took up formation behind Hochburg’s helicopter: a black arrowhead.

  ‘What bearing, Herr Oberstgruppenführer?’ asked the pilot.

  ‘South-west,’ replied Hochburg, loading his BK44. ‘To Angola.’

  Salazar Railway, North Angola

  19 September, 17:25

  ‘I hope this means dinner,’ said Burton. ‘I’m starved.’

  They were in the second cattle-truck. Outside, the trees had given way to grassland and abandoned cotton plantations. The sky was beginning to darken. An hour earlier, after skirting the mountains of central Angola, the train reached Malange. Burton had been in the locomotive with Neliah, shovelling coal into the firebox.

  ‘He’s asking, should he slow down?’ said Neliah, translating for the driver.

  ‘No. Keep going, as fast as possible.’

  They hurtled through the station. Burton glimpsed a blur of Portuguese and Angolan troops – startled white faces – on their way to fight in Loanda. They were one hundred and fifty miles from the capital now.

  Zuri handed them two heaped bowls. ‘Slave food,’ she said. It was a mass of rice and cassava. ‘There was nothing else.’

  ‘You never ate desert rations,’ said Patrick. ‘It’ll be a banquet.’

  Burton watched him take the bowl and thank her with a smile. She smiled back but her eyes had a distant quality, sad and shy.

  When she was out of earsh
ot, Patrick sniffed the food and said, ‘What if it’s from the same batch as Quimbundo? Poisoned?’

  ‘I’m too hungry to care.’

  There were no spoons, so Burton ate with his hands, shovelling the cassava in. It had been mixed with palm oil and chilli, tasted creamy, like the mashed yams his mother used to serve the orphans. He saw her and Hochburg stirring vats together, glancing at each other through the steam.

  Patrick picked at his rice. ‘I’m trying not to remember our last meal. In Stanleystadt.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Burton, his mouth full. ‘The Lebbs can’t find us now.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I keep thinking about Hannah, I got so much to make up.’

  ‘You’ll make a good father.’

  ‘Haven’t so far.’ Patrick chewed pensively for several moments. ‘D’you think I should tell her about my life? What I’ve done? The things I’ve seen?’

  Burton thought about his own unborn child, what he might have to confess one day. ‘I don’t know. It’s what we are but … it doesn’t make you a bad man.’

  ‘Don’t make me a decent one either.’

  They continued eating.

  ‘You never did finish your story in the tavern,’ said Patrick after a while. ‘About Hochburg and your mother.’

  Burton felt the cassava clot in his throat. ‘There’s not much else to tell.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘He was an old man, it broke him. He’d lost his wife and … surrogate son.’

  ‘He still had you.’

  ‘He faded away, not even his faith was enough. He prayed – but God didn’t answer.’

  ‘Does he ever?’

  ‘Sometimes I’d visit his room and he’d just sit there, clutching my mother’s picture, rocking back and forth. I tried talking to him, pleading, begging.’ Burton put down his half-finished bowl. ‘The orphanage ran wild. I got into fights with the other kids, “sinned” with the girls … but nothing roused my father.’

  Burton halted, unsure what to say next.

  How could he put that time into words? If there was a hell, he was definitely going there. He’d revelled in too much blood to escape that fate; it was the one thing Madeleine couldn’t save him from. But he never saw the lake of fire and brimstone St John had promised. When he died he’d be fourteen again, trapped for ever with the familiar view of the Oti River and a hundred parentless kids. His father’s silent sobbing in his ears.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ said Patrick.

  ‘It’s okay,’ replied Burton. ‘I should have told you this long ago. It was two years after my mother vanished that Hochburg returned. He was raving mad, wanted blood. He …’ Burton hesitated over the detail. ‘He chained the orphanage doors, torched the place. I barely escaped. My father didn’t bother, just let the fire take him. Most of the kids were burned alive.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘You never heard anything so terrible. That’s when I knew what Hochburg was capable of, knew for certain about my mother. I wanted to kill him …’

  Burton felt the moment again. The orphanage was an inferno, flames roaring and flattening in the wind. A crematorium for all those trapped inside. They had opened their home to Hochburg, given freely of their affection – and this was how he repaid them. Burton stood there limply, face and arms charred, tears scalding his blistered cheeks. And in his heart was a lone yearning. Not for Mama or Father. Not for the children whose screams continued to madden the air. But for Hochburg. Burton conjured up all the punishments of the Bible – Achan stoned to death, Samson’s eyes gouged out, Jael hammering a stake through the head of Sisera – and wished them upon him. Wanted to stare him in the face and strike the fatal blow.

  ‘… Except he was already dead. Burned with the rest. Or so I believed till Ackerman showed up.’

  Burton fell silent, wondering how different his life might have been if he had searched the ruins of the orphanage. Found Hochburg. Instead he had run away, fleeing into the jungle before the dawn broke. All that remained of his past life was the clothes he wore and the few pieces he had salvaged from the blaze: a blackened wind-chime and some silver cutlery.

  ‘I wish I’d known,’ said Patrick, ‘when you arrived at Bel Abbès. I would have been easier on you.’

  ‘No. I needed what the Legion gave.’

  After that they sat in silence, listening to the rhythm of the train. Each second was taking them closer to Loanda. Burton concentrated on that thought, stroked the stubble on his chin: felt comforted by it.

  Loanda, home, Madeleine.

  Patrick put down his food, stretched. ‘I wish I had my pipe.’

  ‘I almost forgot,’ said Burton. He reached into his pocket. ‘Courtesy of Hauptsturmführer Rottman. Your Zippo too.’

  Patrick’s eyes danced. ‘And how is the good ol’ Hauptsturmführer?’

  ‘Let’s say his Unterjocher days are behind him.’

  Patrick grunted, popped the pipe between his teeth. ‘Tobacco?’

  Burton shook his head.

  ‘Oh well. Good to have it back.’ He tapped the bowl, sucked air through it. Leaned back contentedly. ‘Maybe our luck’s changing at last. Maybe Ackerman will be waiting with our diamonds and a couple of first-class tickets out of here.’

  ‘That might be too much.’

  ‘D’you think we can trust him?’

  Burton shrugged. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I’ll admit he didn’t betray us – but something still doesn’t add up. If he was supplying the Resistance, how come they never heard of him?’

  ‘Neliah said the same.’

  ‘And why risk so much over some mines?’ Patrick studied his pipe. ‘It’s a high price for a war. Goes against the whole Peace for Empire thing.’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘If he talks.’

  ‘We can always stick his head down the toilet if he doesn’t.’

  At the other end of the carriage the Herero were clearing away the cooking implements. Neliah helped Zuri with a pail of starchy water, picked it up and went to the open door. Burton watched her silhouette. Watched as the bucket suddenly went loose in her hand.

  The shrill blast of a whistle. Once, twice.

  Then over and over.

  Burton snatched up his Thompson machine gun. Leapt to his feet.

  Neliah faced him and yelled: ‘Zenga-zeras!’

  ‘What?’

  She pointed out of the train. Burton followed her finger. Cotton fields streaked past, deserted, overgrown. The sinking sun had turned the sky to fire.

  Then he saw them: six black carbuncles on the horizon.

  Growing by the second.

  ‘What are they?’ shouted Patrick.

  The first helicopter roared overhead.

  The sound mauled Burton’s ears, caused him to duck. Hot air pummelled into the carriage. ‘Walküres,’ he yelled back. ‘But I thought they were only prototypes.’

  ‘Looks like somebody’s been busy.’

  The four gunships criss-crossed above them, their engines blurring the sky. In the distance were two other helicopters which Burton couldn’t identify. They hugged the horizon, holding back for now.

  Something flashed past the open door.

  ‘Why are they jumping?’ shouted Zuri. ‘Why are they jumping?’

  Burton saw two of the prisoners leap off the train to save themselves; their bodies bounced off the ground. The others rushed in from the first carriage, faces pale and terrified.

  The train was slowing.

  He turned to Patrick. ‘Major, get to the front and protect the engine. If the helicopters hit it we’re dead. And see if you can speed us up, fast as possible. Take Zuri—’

  ‘No.’ Neliah stood in front of her. ‘Zuri stays with me.’

  Her sister pushed past, tied the red sash tight around her waist and joined Patrick. ‘I want to fight!’

  ‘Get up there,’ said Burton. ‘Give the spare guns to the He
rero and prisoners. Tell them to aim for the cockpit or the rotor blades.’

  Patrick and Zuri gathered a stack of rifles. Moved out.

  ‘Wait!’ Neliah reached to touch her sister, but she was already gone.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Burton, hustling her and Tungu in the opposite direction. ‘Patrick will keep her safe.’

  They reached the end of the carriage and jumped across the coupling to the platform at the rear of the train. There was an anti-aircraft gun protected by a wall of sandbags. Burton recognised it as an old Breda 35, probably a relic from the desert war in North Africa a decade earlier; he prayed it still worked. Stacked up behind it, next to the crates of dynamite Neliah had found at the station, were strips of ammunition.

  Burton grabbed one and, showing Neliah and Tungu what to do, loaded the gun. There was a reassuring clunk. Then he jumped into the gunner’s seat, spun the wheel that rotated the base and squinted through the sight.

  Neliah was staring at the horizon, at the other two helicopters. ‘Why are they waiting?’

  Burton ignored her, tracked the nearest Walküre.

  He pulled the trigger. Let loose a ferocious barrage of shells. Burton’s upper body juddered with the kickback. Neliah and Tungu clamped their hands over their ears.

  Above, thick bursts of fire trailed the helicopter. Missed the target.

  Burton swore. Wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm. Jettisoned the empty strip; each one carried a dozen shells.

  ‘Reload!’ he yelled at Neliah and Tungu.

  They slammed more ammunition into the gun.

  Another Walküre came in low behind the train, cannon blazing. The tracks clanged and flashed as the beam of fire surged forward. Bullets chewed into the platform and sandbags. The two Herero girls ducked behind them. Burton smelt hot steel and grit.