The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  ‘I wonder what your court martial will make of this,’ mused Hochburg, stroking his chin. ‘You. The British consulate. The man who tried to assassinate me.’

  ‘I’m sure your friend Freisler will make—’ he grimaced ‘—whatever you want of it.’

  Hochburg stepped over him, squashed his boot against Arnim’s chest. ‘On the belts of my Waffen troops is a simple motto: Meine Ehre heisst Treue. My honour is my loyalty. You Wehrmacht should learn from it.’

  ‘We have our own motto: God is with us.’

  ‘God?’ Hochburg ground his heel in. ‘God is dead.’

  The field marshal squirmed, veins bulging in his face.

  ‘You’re a traitor to Africa,’ said Hochburg. ‘And to Germany.’ He bent forward, snatched the Knight’s Cross from his throat.

  ‘Take it. It’s the only medal you’ll ever get.’ Arnim forced a sticky black laugh. ‘You’re finished, Hochburg. You, the SS. All your deranged ambitions.’

  ‘We’ll see. My panzers are already in Northern Rhodesia. Are fighting their way to victory in Lusaka.’

  ‘They’ll never make it. See what Germania, what the Führer, thinks of you when you’re routed, when your invincible troops are slaughtered. Turn tail. Our first defeat since Versailles.’ He laughed again. ‘I’m told the Rhodesians even have a company of black troops – ready to cut you down.’

  Hochburg raised his pistol. Aimed it directly at Arnim’s forehead.

  ‘You can’t shoot me.’

  ‘I’m not going to,’ replied Hochburg. ‘You were already dead when I found you, crushed by the collapsing building. And your own treachery.’

  ‘They’ll find my body. See the bullet hole.’

  A glacial smile spread across Hochburg’s face. ‘Trust me, there won’t be much of you left.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ said the field marshal. ‘Grind me into your road?’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

  Hochburg pulled the trigger: felt the blood spray his face.

  05:00

  ‘STOP,’ said Patrick. He was breathless, his ankle like a wet sponge. In his free hand he gripped the BK44 Neliah had picked up in the consulate.

  They crashed to a halt, Burton slumping between them. Across the road to their left was Loanda’s central post office, in front a wide plaza and the Cathedral of the Redeemer. Patrick recognised a boarded-up café from when he was last here, sipping beer and giving whores ten Angolar bills to leave him be. They were a mile and a half from the docks.

  Burton was pale and feverish, his stump tucked protectively under his armpit. Next to him the dust on Neliah’s face had dissolved into a sweaty mask.

  ‘We must keep going,’ she said.

  Beneath them the ground shook with whap-whap of tracks on tarmac. It was impossible to tell how close they were.

  Patrick ignored her. Checked Burton’s tourniquet: it was still tight, the blood flow reduced to nothing. He quickly bandaged the wound.

  ‘The first Book of Kings,’ said Burton. ‘21:20. I have found thee: because thou hast sold thyself to work evil in the sight of the Lord.’ He was staring at the domed towers of the cathedral. ‘It was Cranley, Chef. Not Ackerman. Cranley all along.’

  ‘Cranley? Who the fuck is Cranley?’

  Burton closed his eyes and smiled. One moment he seemed lucid, the next drowning in his dreams.

  Patrick turned to Neliah. ‘What happened in the consulate? What’s he talking about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  A whistling noise.

  Something flashed overhead, like an incandescent gull.

  The cathedral exploded, one of its towers toppling down. The clatter of falling stone, a bell rent in two with a terrible clanging sound. It cut through Patrick’s bones.

  He yanked Burton to his feet, put him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. They sprinted across the plaza –

  Another tank shell. Then another.

  – out of the square, down a side alley next to the cathedral. More shells. The walls crumbled to brick and plaster around them.

  They emerged on to a main thoroughfare. Patrick snatched a glance at the street sign: Rua de Salvador Correira. It should lead directly to the port. He looked up the road and almost buckled under Burton’s weight. Rumbling towards them was a Panther tank.

  It fired. The shockwave blasted them off their feet. Flames whipped through the buildings on either side.

  Behind them another tank gouged a path down the alley.

  Patrick whirled round: there were no side streets, no other escape routes. They were going to be crushed like tomatoes in a vice.

  Another shell landed, punched a hole in the road. There was a stink of methane.

  Through the smoke Patrick glimpsed troops in the darkness, the fire glinting on their helmets. He struggled to his feet. The street seemed to be closing in.

  ‘Look,’ groaned Burton.

  Patrick followed his gaze. There was a crater in the ground.

  Neliah ran to it, tripped, landed on her belly. She crawled the final few feet. Peered downwards. Instantly she pulled her head back up, retching. She spat bile, covered her mouth with her hand. Patrick and Burton joined her. Below them was a main sewer, a river of excrement flowing in the direction of the bay.

  The tanks fired again. Debris thundered down on them. Burying into their scalps. Patrick hunkered low, covered his head. His hands came away bloody.

  ‘We don’t have a choice,’ he said. He pushed Neliah into the hole, helped lower Burton in after her.

  The tanks had come to a halt, their turrets searching the street. Troops fanned out around them. Suddenly Patrick felt the breath splinter in his throat. Leading the troops was a dead man.

  Uhrig. Somehow he’d survived his fall off the train.

  For an instant he thought of Zuri; wanted to rake the sonofabitch’s body till it was chock-full of lead. But it would give away their position. Patrick ducked below ground into the sewers.

  The stench hit him like a fist in the nose. The shit of ninety thousand people. He gagged.

  Ahead, Neliah was supporting Burton, her hand clamped over her mouth. They were on a narrow walkway with barely enough room to stand. A dozen feet below them, the effluent river.

  ‘Keep going,’ said Patrick over the rush of the water. ‘Follow the current.’

  They pressed forward, trod carefully, kept slipping. The walkway was like goose fat, the walls dripped. Patrick heard the squeals of rats around his boots.

  They reached a corner and turned into complete darkness.

  ‘We mustn’t go further,’ said Neliah. ‘We’ll fall. Break our necks.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Patrick. He tore at the arm of his shirt, ripped it off, then searched his pocket for his Zippo. He flicked the lighter. A triangle of flame glowed in the darkness.

  Behind them, voices echoed along the tunnel. Orders barked in German.

  They must have gone down there. Into the hole! Move it!

  Neliah’s body went taut, her hand falling from her mouth. ‘It can’t be …’ she said. In the flame Patrick saw her eyes blaze with madness. She stepped towards the voices and brandished her panga. ‘Uhrig.’

  Patrick barred her way. ‘We need your help to get out of here. Burton needs you.’

  ‘But my sister!’

  ‘It won’t bring her back.’

  ‘I promised no one would hurt her again.’

  ‘She’s past that now.’

  Neliah tried to push him out of the way.

  Patrick grabbed her by both arms, hated himself for what he said next. ‘What would Zuri do if she was here?’

  She pulled herself free.

  ‘What would she do?’

  Neliah glared at him, seemed ready to fight, then grudgingly lowered the blade.

  Patrick handed her his lighter and torn sleeve. ‘Cut it into strips. Wrap the first around the end of your machete, keep the other pieces dry till you need them. Light it only when I
tell you.’

  ‘What about the skull-troops? They will be able to follow us.’

  ‘Just go!’

  With that he doubled back to the corner and flattened himself against the ground. He scooped slime off the walls and rubbed it into his cheeks and forehead to blacken his face. Then he aimed his BK44 along the walkway in the direction of the hole.

  He saw soldiers climbing down.

  ‘Come on, you pigs: move it!’ shouted Uhrig as he shoved them through the opening. ‘I want Cole!’

  As soon as the last man had descended, Uhrig followed.

  Patrick watched as they crept unsteadily along the walkway. Their flashlights pointed to the ground in front of them, a harsh sickle against his eyes. There were seven or eight of them.

  ‘Faster!’ screamed Uhrig.

  Patrick waited till they were inches from his face before firing. Each shot shredded boots and kneecaps. The soldiers tumbled over each other, blocked the walkway. One plunged into the sewer, splashing filth into Patrick’s face. Flashlights shot up at crazy angles. Ignoring the screams in his ears, Patrick pushed himself off the ground, let go another burst of bullets, and ran, struggling not to slip.

  ‘Amerikaner!’

  Patrick twisted round, fired blindly, ran again. Bullets splintered the walls round him. He felt something whack against his side, a flash of heat spread across his flanks. No pain. He stumbled, then continued into the darkness.

  ‘Now,’ he shouted to Neliah. ‘Light it!’

  Ahead he saw a flicker of flame. It expanded as the material from his shirt caught fire. Burton and Neliah were further in front than he expected. Patrick chased after them, every hundred yards spinning round to point his BK into the darkness.

  For the moment no one was following.

  He trailed the firefly for ten minutes before it halted and he caught up with the others.

  ‘Which way?’ asked the girl, swiping the torch from left to right.

  The sewer split into two.

  ‘Main tunnel,’ said Patrick. He took Burton from Neliah. He was wan but blissful: the morphine had kicked in. Patrick clicked his fingers in his face.

  Burton’s eyes opened. ‘You hear that, Chef?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen. A wind-chime.’

  ‘You’re imagining it.’

  ‘No. It’s close. Same as the one at home.’ Burton stared into the darkness, his mouth wide. Then his expression hardened, grew sad. ‘It’s gone …’

  ‘I’m gonna put you on my back, boy. Keep your eyes open. Watch behind us.’

  They continued along the walkway.

  Patrick’s hair was dripping with sweat, his eyes stung. On his shoulder Burton seemed to grow heavier with each step. He felt a wet patch spreading around his midriff where Uhrig’s bullet had nicked him.

  Another few minutes and Neliah stopped again. She held her flaming panga to the wall: ‘See here.’

  There was a rusty ladder bolted to the bricks, the rungs disappearing upwards into a manhole.

  Patrick tried to calculate how far they’d gone. ‘Keep going,’ he said. ‘Underground will be safer. We need to get as close to the docks as we can.’

  They had only travelled another two hundred yards when Patrick got a whiff of fresh, salty air. The walkway ended; below them the sewer flowed into an outlet pipe. It was large enough to crawl through. Patrick eased Burton off his shoulder and splashed waistdeep into the sludge below, waded over to the outlet. It was blocked by a grille. He shook it, struggled to wrench it open, feeling the rust and filth burn his hands.

  It was welded shut.

  ‘What can you see?’ asked Burton.

  Patrick pressed his face against the bars. They had gone past the bay to Loanda’s northern beach. Palm trees rustled in the darkness. To the left he saw cranes rising above the docks and beyond that the ocean – close enough to breathe.

  ‘We have to go back,’ he said, hauling himself up on to the walkway. ‘To the ladder.’ He reached for Burton.

  Burton shrugged him off. He held his severed hand under his armpit. ‘I can manage.’

  Patrick led the way, skimming his palm along the wall till he found the rungs again. He looked up: it was thirty-five, forty feet to street level.

  ‘Can you climb?’ he asked Burton.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ said Neliah.

  Flashlight beams danced along the roof. Below them deformed, lurching silhouettes, growing larger by the second.

  ‘I can hear you, Amerikaner,’ shouted Uhrig. ‘Hear you, Cole. There’s no escape. Give yourself up, a sewer is no place for a white man to die.’

  ‘Go,’ said Neliah, stepping away from them. ‘Climb!’

  ‘Not without you,’ replied Burton.

  ‘I stay.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I stay!’

  ‘Neliah, please …’

  She turned to face him, lifted the burning panga to see him better. Patrick watched as she gently put her fingers to the stump of Burton’s bandaged hand; he didn’t flinch. They came away red and she touched them to her lips. ‘No blood oaths,’ she said.

  Burton went to embrace her – but she kept her distance. He held her eye for a final moment. Then began to climb.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ said Patrick, gripping the ladder. ‘You can come with us.’

  ‘This is right thing to do.’

  ‘He’ll kill you.’

  ‘He already did,’ said Neliah, ‘on the train.’

  Patrick nodded. Offered her the BK44. She pushed it away, swung her panga. It flared in front of his eyes. Then the flame was gone.

  ‘Zuri,’ he whispered in the darkness.

  ‘Zuri,’ came back the ghostly reply.

  HE’D been wrong to let Burton go first.

  ‘Keep trying,’ shouted Patrick, his neck craned upwards.

  Burton heaved again, but was too weak to shift the manhole cover.

  Below them came the echo of gunfire. Screams.

  Burton looked down. ‘Neliah.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do for her, she made her choice. Try again!’

  Burton screwed up his face; it was sopping. Another heave. Patrick saw the cover lift an inch.

  Then drop back.

  ‘Something pushed against it!’

  ‘I’m coming up,’ said Patrick. He waited until Burton had squeezed himself tight against the wall, then climbed the final rungs. There was barely enough room for both of them. The BK on his shoulder scraped bricks. He smelt something gangrenous on Burton’s breath.

  There was a second burst of gunfire below … A sound like a heavy stone dropped in a well.

  Patrick struggled to get into position.

  ‘What if the boat’s already gone?’ said Burton.

  ‘It won’t be.’

  ‘What if it is?’

  Patrick put both palms against the cover. Pushed with all his strength. A wedge of fresh air. Suddenly something pushed it back down, bent his wrists. He pushed again, elbows straining as if the sockets would pop – and the cover was off.

  Patrick slid it to one side and climbed out into a torrent of legs.

  All around him people were rushing past. Somebody tripped on the cover, crashed to the ground cursing in Portuguese. In the distance the blare of artillery fire: howitzers by the sound of it.

  Patrick helped Burton out and they both gulped down lungfuls of air. It was like that moment when they emerged from their hidey-hole in Dunkirk, except this time the air was balmy.

  They were in Largo Diogo Cão, the square in front of the docks. Rising above them the monolithic structure of Customs House: gateway to the quayside itself. A barrier and sandbag emplacement had been erected across the entrance but failed to hold back the crowds. The guards had deserted their posts, crushed bodies lay strewn all round.

  Patrick looked up at the clock-tower: 05:30.

  ‘Come on!’ He slung Burton’s arm over hi
s shoulder and they joined the throng, staggering past railway sidings and on to the main pier. It was flanked by cranes and warehouses. Total chaos.

  ‘The far end,’ said Burton, fighting for breath. ‘Boats.’

  The distance seemed longer than the entire length of the PAA.

  They ploughed through the mass of bodies, Patrick jostling people aside. The air stank of sweat and hysteria. One woman refused to move: Patrick shoved her to the ground without a thought; pulled the BK44 off its strap and held it in front, finger on the trigger.

  At the edge of the quay a line of soldiers struggled to maintain order. Patrick saw Portuguese troops, British marines, even the familiar white kepis of legionnaires. There were only four boats left, engines chugging violently. Gangplanks being pulled up.

  ‘Which one?’ shouted Patrick.

  ‘Find Farrow,’ said Burton. He swirled on his feet like a drunk.

  ‘But which boat?’

  Burton pointed to the furthest one. A tugboat. It flew a Union Jack.

  Was casting off its ropes.

  Patrick lifted his BK, cut a burst above the mob, bullets skimming heads. People screamed. Ran. A ragged corridor opened up through the crowd. He hauled Burton through the mêlée.

  They stumbled, almost dropped. Kept running. Patrick ignored the agony in his ankle.

  The last of the ropes were free. Marines stood by the gunwale, waving Sten guns to ward off the foolhardy.

  ‘Stop!’ yelled Patrick.

  He saw the water around the tug churn white. Its engine throttled up.

  They skidded to a halt on the edge of the harbour. Fell to their knees.

  ‘Wait! Please!’

  People were hurling themselves into the water in an attempt to get on board.

  The marines lifted their weapons to defend the boat. In between them was a man in a tight waistcoat giving orders.

  ‘Farrow!’ shouted Burton. ‘Farrow!’

  But the boat was already pulling away – out towards the open sea.

  In the darkness, Neliah let the rungiro flow through her. Promised to let it gorge. She saw herself win back the plait of Zuri’s hair. Kill Uhrig. Then she spoke a prayer to Mukuru – asked him to give her the strength of the heavens. To still the fear if it should beat in her heart.