by Guy Saville
‘Its grip will be weakened, that is enough. The Führer will start listening to men like me again.’
‘It’ll never work.’
‘What would you prefer, Major? That we do nothing! Hochburg wants all of Africa, won’t rest till it’s one huge, smouldering graveyard. At least this way gives us a chance for peace. You should be thanking us, Major. Holding your head high. You’ve done the world a great service.’
Burton thought of Madeleine. Saw them together in the arbour, overlooking fields, unable to talk. Would she share Arnim’s view? Or think him a skivvy for the swastika? He’d not realised it before, at least never so clearly, but he wanted her to be proud of him.
‘What about Peace for Empire?’ Burton turned to Ackerman. ‘You’ve started a fucking war.’
‘A limited border skirmish. For too long Britain has been seen as spineless; this will remind Germany we’re still a force to be reckoned with. Once Hochburg has been defeated, we stop. Reaffirm our commitment to Casablanca – only this time as equal partners, not an ailing power. Consider it a little “payback” for Dunkirk.’
‘You want my approval?’
‘I couldn’t care less, Major Cole. This has always been about the greater good. Keeping the empire strong. There is no better guarantee of peace. For all our sakes.’
The field marshal nodded his agreement.
There was a drawn-out silence.
‘What about Angola?’ It was Neliah who spoke.
Arnim contemplated his boots. ‘My biggest mistake was not leading the initial invasion for the quarries. In the south. I handed it to the Waffen-SS, which only emboldened Hochburg.’
‘I meant now. The north.’
‘A yambo,’ said Ackerman apologetically. ‘A pawn. Once the Germans had the marble in the south there was no reason to invade the north. But we needed the Afrika Korps diverted, to make sure there could be no reinforcements for Hochburg’s army. So I was tasked with getting the Resistencia to attack Kongo. Provoke it so that the field marshal would invade North Angola. Once his troops were engaged, there would be no one to save the Waffen-SS in Rhodesia.’
‘And after?’
Ackerman gazed beyond her at the empty office, shrugged. ‘There were never any plans. I’m sure one day the Germans will withdraw.’
Neliah flared her nostrils. ‘I wish Zuri was here. To see what you really are.’
‘Don’t be stupid, girl. The field marshal’s right, you should be grateful. If Hochburg isn’t stopped all you blacks are dead.’
‘All my family are. All my friends,’ came the spitting reply. ‘And for what? So you whites can pick over our graves.’
Outside there were some gunshots.
Ackerman moved over to the window again, parted the curtains to check outside. ‘Nothing.’
‘What about my team?’ asked Burton. ‘Were we ever going to get out?’
‘You were supposed to be … “de-activated” at Mupe. Blown up with the aircraft,’ replied Ackerman. He let the curtain drop. ‘But you got lucky. The Germans were a little too keen, fired before they should have.’
Burton took a step towards the table, curling his bandaged hand into a fist. ‘I’ll show you lucky.’ He glanced around the room for a weapon. Something to batter Ackerman’s head with. His eyes came to rest on the bottle of champagne.
Ackerman retreated behind his desk.
‘Not so fast, Major Cole,’ said Arnim. ‘We’re all men of honour here. You’ve helped us immeasurably, and since you’ve managed to get this far the least we can do now is speed you on your way. I’m sure there’ll be a place for you on that Royal Navy vessel.’
‘Unfortunately not, Field Marshal,’ said Ackerman. ‘My instructions from London are quite explicit. No member of the team must return alive.’
He pulled out a gun from the desk. A Webley revolver.
Burton calculated the distance between himself and the champagne bottle. Nine feet. Ackerman could get off at least two shots. His only hope was to keep him talking long enough for Patrick to arrive.
‘Sorry, Major.’ Ackerman cocked the trigger. ‘Orders.’
‘Wait! There’s one last thing I have to know. Why me?’
‘What?’
‘You could have chosen anyone to kill Hochburg. Didn’t I say there were plenty better? So why me? Dolan was picked to lead the mission. Then at the last moment you changed to me. Why?’
Arnim looked blankly at him. ‘I had no hand in it.’
‘It wasn’t me either,’ said Ackerman. ‘It came from higher up.’
‘Who?’
‘He sent me to your farm. Was rabid. I’ve never seen him like that. Normally he’s self-control itself.’
‘Who?’
‘Insisted we change from Dolan to you. No explanation given.’
‘Who?’ demanded Burton.
‘My superior. Cranley.’
Burton felt his blood turn to ice, soak his spine. ‘Jared Cranley?’
‘Yes. You know him?’
For a long moment Burton did nothing. He stared past Arnim and Ackerman at the wall behind them. A picture had been removed, the plaster where it once hung paler than the rest of the room. He heard his father on the night he died, screaming as the flames consumed him. And Ahab said to Elijah: hast thou found me, O mine enemy?
Hast thou found me …
His injured knee gave way.
He stumbled. Reached to Neliah for support, squeezed her arm as he bent forward, like a runner at the end of long race. She stopped him from falling.
Ackerman’s brow furrowed with curiosity. ‘You know him?’ he repeated, the revolver faltering in his hand.
From somewhere came the sound of doors slammed open and shut.
‘Burton!’
Patrick’s voice echoed along the corridor. Breathless and desperate.
‘In here,’ shouted Neliah. She pressed closer to Burton. Helped steady him.
‘Cranley,’ he mumbled to her. Tears of desperation welled in his eyes. He should have stayed at the farm.
‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered back. ‘Who’s Cranley?’
The door burst open.
Ackerman’s gun snapped towards it.
It was Patrick, rifle in one hand, Neliah’s panga in the other. ‘Burton. We gotta split. Now!’
There was a roll of thunder. The building shook.
Keeping his Webley aimed at Patrick, Ackerman moved back to the window, parted the curtain again. ‘The attack.’ His voice wavered. ‘It’s started.’
‘Impossible,’ said Arnim. ‘My ceasefire lasts till zero six hundred. There can be no—’
A blast hit the consulate.
Burton saw the window explode inwards. Ackerman shredded by a storm of fire and glass.
The lights went off. Smoke flooded the room.
Burton’s ears pinged and went flat. He felt Neliah clasp hold of him. Patrick close by in the darkness.
There was another blast.
The ground collapsed beneath their feet.
British Consulate, Loanda
21 September, 04:40
‘HIT it again!’ shouted Hochburg.
A cold elation prickled around his throat. He’d seen the American dash inside the building. Burton must surely be in his grasp now.
Hochburg stood in the turret of a Panther tank, its gun elevated towards the consulate. There were two other panzers pointed at the building; a truck full of Waffen-SS commandos pouring on to the street. Uhrig spurred them on.
The gunner fired, the whole panzer shunting backwards. Hochburg clamped his hand on the hatch to steady himself.
There was a roar. A fog of smoke.
Then the cacophony of collapsing masonry and glass. It reverberated around the city, past the Governor’s Palace, up to darkened hills. Somewhere a klaxon began to scream. Others took up the cry. Next moment pockets of gunfire, the distant shriek of mortars.
When the smoke cleared Hochburg could see the consulate:
its white façade was caved in, like a skull that had been smashed with a crowbar. Dead marines littered the ground, the pavement flowing red.
Hochburg pulled out his Taurus pistol, leapt to the ground and gathered the commandos around him. They were dressed in black – almost invisible against the night – BK44s eager in their grips.
‘I want everyone dead,’ said Hochburg. ‘But not Burton Cole. We take him alive. Anyone accidentally kills him and I’ll have your wife shot. Wives, parents, brothers, sisters, neighbours, anybody you ever passed a pleasant fucking word with. Am I understood?’
‘What about the rear of the compound?’ said Uhrig. ‘They could escape that way.’
‘Take ten men, Standartenführer. Make sure nobody gets out. Have one of the Panthers go with you.’
Hochburg turned his attention back to the assembled soldiers. ‘Inside are the men who tried to kill me. It is time we repaid them in blood. Don’t fail me.’
The troops gave a war cry, shook their weapons above their heads, and stormed the building.
In his ear a muffled, high-pitched whine. The air was thick with brick dust. He struggled to breathe, each lungful like a bag of flour being poured down his throat.
Burton tried to move.
Failed.
He opened his eyes: darkness, swirling powder, great blocks of broken stone. Where once there was a ceiling now he saw chinks of sky. He was lying on the ground, no one else with him.
Burton reached out to push himself up. Failed once more. He couldn’t move his left arm. It was caught above his head at an odd angle. He checked it, running his eyes from his shoulder to the elbow, past the burnt UJ triangle to the wrist.
His breath came in short, sharp gasps.
He got to his hand.
It was crushed between two huge slabs of concrete.
Burton studied it with a detached curiosity, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. He pulled, tried to free himself. A shard of intense white pain: a dagger thrust into his armpit. Behind it a sodden numbness. He tugged again. Nothing. Blood was spreading around the hand, trickled down his arm – but slowly, as if there were no pressure in the arteries.
He could feel nothing beyond the elbow joint.
The whining in his ears began to subside. He heard the clatter of rubble, cascades of dust. And behind it another sound, a scurrying sound. Like rats in the attic. They got into the roof of the farmhouse sometimes, scratched on the bedroom ceiling. The sound never stirred Madeleine but he would lie there all night listening to it. This wasn’t rats though.
It was the scurry of boots.
Burton pulled harder. Still his hand didn’t budge.
He scrambled around for something to defend himself with. All he could find was a lump of brick; he clasped it in his free hand.
Then a cry to still his heart.
‘Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman …’
Burton pulled at his hand more desperately. Thought he was going to black out with the stabbing in his armpit. The hysteria threatened to overwhelm him.
‘Burton!’
Hochburg’s voice rang out like that night he returned to the orphanage, when the flames devoured everything.
The whole of Burton’s left side was turning to meltwater. He pulled again, was becoming too weak.
Footsteps, close by. Heavy and shuffling.
‘Fee-fi-fo-fum …’
He felt rough fingers slip round his neck and lift up his head. Saw the inverted face of a clown: dusty white, blood-red lips.
Patrick.
‘On your feet, legionnaire,’ he said. ‘We got to move.’
‘My arm,’ replied Burton. His tongue felt heavy, mouth full of crumbled stone.
Hochburg’s voice rang out again. There was a spurt of machine gun fire.
‘Where’s Neliah?’ said Burton. ‘The others?’
Patrick didn’t reply. He was staring at Burton’s trapped hand, his eyes dull. Hopeless.
‘See if you can release it,’ said Burton.
He shook his head.
‘Come on!’
Patrick reached for the concrete, heaved, every crease on his face thickening. The rock wouldn’t shift. He tried again, failed, then gripped Burton’s wrist. ‘Best you look away, boy.’
He pulled.
Black spots swam in Burton’s eyes. He bit his tongue not to scream. Felt his nose fill with bubbling liquid.
Patrick released him. His cheeks were wet. ‘It’s impossible.’
Burton understood. It was that moment all soldiers pretend not to prepare for. ‘There’s a boat,’ he said. ‘At the docks. It’ll take you to a Royal Navy vessel, the Ibis—’
‘No.’
‘You’ve got till six hundred.’
‘I’m staying.’
‘Find Farrow, he knows us from Stanleyville. He’ll get you on board.’
‘I said I’m staying.’
‘There’s nothing you can do. One of us has to get away.’ He grabbed Patrick, pulled his ear close to his mouth. ‘Find Maddie. Tell her what happened. Tell her I love her.’
‘No. No.’
Burton shoved him off. ‘Now get out of here. Back to Hannah. You deserve it.’
‘So do you.’
‘No. I should have listened to Madeleine. I got what I deserved.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘This is my revenge, Patrick. My truth. Right here.’
His old friend stepped back, peered into the whirling grit as if some miracle might be hidden there.
The scurry of boots again, much closer now.
‘Go!’ said Burton.
Patrick turned, ducked beneath a fallen lintel, and began to crawl away.
Then he stopped. His hand went to his stomach, to where his scar was.
‘I won’t leave you, boy, not this time.’
He scrambled back, fell to his knees and tried to prise apart the concrete jaws that held Burton’s hand, groaning with the effort.
‘Please,’ begged Burton. He gritted his teeth, tried to push him away. ‘You can’t save me.’
‘You stayed at Dunkirk. Now it’s my turn.’
‘But we’ll both die. For what? Think of Hannah, think of—’
Suddenly a movement. So close neither of them had time to react.
Burton glimpsed another chalky face. Eyes that begged forgiveness.
There was a flash of steel.
A ringing sound. Metal on stone.
And his hand was free.
Burton felt nothing.
He tumbled back, sending up a cloud of dust. Lifted his arm. And stared at the place where his left hand used to be.
It was a clean cut, straight along the wrist.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Counted the squirts of blood.
One … two … three …
Automatically he hoisted the stump above his head to reduce the blood flow. Like he was back in Bel Abbès, raising his hand to ask one of the sous-officiers a question.
‘It feels lighter,’ he said to himself, his voice calm and utterly level.
Patrick undid his belt and wrapped it around Burton’s forearm. Pulled it tight. The skin bulged around the leather.
‘Burton. Look at me. Look at me!’
Patrick stared into his eyes. Checked the pulse under his jaw. Behind him Burton saw Neliah. Her face was caked with dust. She held the panga low in her hand, the tip barely above the ground. He smiled at her. She refused to meet his gaze.
Patrick reached into the haversack around his neck. Pulled out a bottle, loaded a syringe with morphine.
‘There’s no need,’ said Burton. ‘It doesn’t hurt. We can go now.’
He went to stand and collapsed, the world spinning around him. He heard the thump of boots, the sound so loud he was convinced they were inside his head.
A stormtrooper broke through the rubble. Bullets sparked.
Neliah charged him, brought her panga down on his head like an axe. ‘More are c
oming!’ she yelled, snatching up the fallen banana-gun.
Patrick hesitated with the syringe. Then punched it into Burton’s shoulder and pressed the plunger. Burton felt the liquid enter him, a cool thread lacing its way through his bloodstream. Next moment Patrick and Neliah had raised him to his feet. The three of them stumbled forward, dipped beneath a concrete beam and found themselves in a maze of masonry and pulverised stone. Burton looked over his shoulder, wanted a final glimpse of his hand.
They turned left. Then right. Then right again. Rubble groaned above them. Trickles of dust.
‘This way!’ said Neliah.
Another left turn. They crawled through a hole.
Next moment Burton was breathing lungfuls of fresh air. His brain felt swollen with oxygen. ‘The docks,’ he managed to say.
Patrick was spinning round, trying to orientate himself.
‘Quick!’ said Neliah.
The sound of boots on tarmac rang out along the street.
‘Help me,’ said Patrick.
He slung Burton’s arm over his shoulder. Neliah took the other side and they half ran, half staggered into the darkness. Towards the port.
Behind them came the rumbling of tank tracks.
‘Oberstgruppenführer! Oberstgruppenführer!’
Hochburg followed the cries through the building. He felt dust patter down on his bald head, grit chafe against his collar. The air smelt like a mausoleum.
In the city beyond: more gunfire, artillery pounding the sky. His little incursion had lit the touchpaper for the battle of Loanda.
‘Oberstgruppenführer!’
Hochburg ducked into a partially collapsed chamber. Buried in the rubble was a picture of Edward IV, the canvas ripped, his face torn in pieces. At the back of the room a stormtrooper stood over a body.
‘Is it Cole?’ asked Hochburg, stepping forward eagerly.
The trooper moved aside.
Beneath him was Arnim: his body buckled and broken, uniform in shreds.
Hochburg’s disappointment turned to curiosity, then rancour. Arnim! He dismissed the stormtrooper; gave a mock bow to the figure below him. ‘An unexpected pleasure, Herr Field Marshal.’
‘Get me a medic.’ He spoke with his usual starched, superior accent – except now each syllable cost him a mouthful of blood. It was congealing around his mouth and cheeks.