by Guy Saville
The lights of the Nazistas were getting closer. She heard the clink of their weapons. And above them, in the city, another sound – the boom of big guns. The walls trembled.
Neliah pulled off one boot and threw it on to the path, gripped her panga and slid into the dung-river. The filth came to her chest, the current tugged on her legs. It made her think of the Lulua, swimming with Zuri. She could hear her voice again, fretting about crocodiles.
It was the only place Zuri lived now – in her memory. The only place they all lived, Ina, Papai, Tungu, Bomani. If Neliah died their memory would die too. There would be no trace of them, nothing to hand on to those who came after. She whispered more words to Mukuru. She had to live for their sake.
‘Cole! Amerikaner!’
The skull-troops were almost upon her. There were three of them, Uhrig leading. In the light of the torches his face was scarred with shadows. His gun swayed in front of him. Neliah saw the loop of precious hair around his shoulder.
Her heart roared, hungry for blood.
She sank into the water till it touched below her mouth. The stink made her want to empty her belly. It was worse than when they hid in the cesspit back home. This was the shit of strangers. Lumps of wood floated past, the body of a dead cat.
One of the Nazistas tripped. ‘Standartenführer, I found something.’
Uhrig stopped, spun round.
The skull-troop picked up Neliah’s boot. ‘Is it Cole’s?’
Neliah pushed herself against the walkway till her eyes were level with their toecaps. She lifted the panga out of the water. Pulled her shoulder back. She could hear the blade drip.
Uhrig snatched the boot. ‘Not unless he’s got girl’s feet.’
Neliah swung her arm.
The panga sliced right through the first Nazista’s leg. He toppled on to Uhrig, his finger catching the trigger. For a heartbeat the tunnel was the colour of day. Uhrig shoved him off – back into the other skull-troop. Another burst of fire, a heap of thrashing arms and howls, the smell of guts. Only Uhrig remained standing.
Neliah leapt up from the dung-river, swiped her panga at him, an arc of metal and brown water. The blade lodged in his ankle. He dropped his rifle and grabbed the wound, face seething. Neliah twisted the panga, pulled it out to strike again.
Then a dazzling flash. Burning circles of red and white in her head.
Uhrig clubbed her with his torch. Neliah felt her neck snap backwards, nose flatten. She tumbled into the filth below, was dragged away by the current. Her mouth and nostrils bubbled with shit.
She broke the surface, retching. Heard a loud splash as Uhrig jumped in after her. Went under again, rolling over and over. Neliah kept her fist knotted around the panga. She scraped the bottom, found her feet. The toes of one sinking into mud, the other heavy inside her boot.
Neliah coughed and spat, tried not to swallow. She had reached the end of the tunnel where they had turned back a few minutes before. Through the bars she saw the sea, rippling like the black fur of a barungue. She waded to the walkway and reached with both arms to pull herself up.
A hand crushed her throat. Thick, brutish fingers. Another went around her wrist, shook the panga from her grip. It landed on the walkway with a clang.
She was dragged back down into the filth.
Neliah fought, legs thrashing. She opened her eyes but it stung worse than wasps. Next moment she was back in the air, Uhrig’s breath chewing her ear. They stood in the dung-river, below the walkway, waves chopping around them.
‘Where’s Cole?’
She said nothing. Felt the fingers crush harder round her windpipe. Her blood was becoming stone.
‘Where’s Cole?’
‘Gone … safe.’
‘And left the poor nigger down here on her own? Pigshit!’
The Nazista thrust her back into the filth. Neliah thought her neck was going to snap. She scrambled around, hands reaching between his legs, tried to crush him there.
Uhrig pulled her up, laughing. ‘We can play later. I already told you I like a bitch with a bit of fight. But first, Cole.’
‘You’ll never find him.’
He punched her in the belly. Neliah fell in half, her insides screaming.
Uhrig’s breath was hot in her ear again. ‘Listen! You hear that? Above us.’
All Neliah heard was her body fight for breath.
‘That’s the German Army. We’ll crush this pigsty of a city in hours. And behind the army, the Einsatzgruppen. That’s where I should be.’ His fingers were tight around her throat again. ‘All I need is Cole and I’m back with them. Give me what I want and I promise you’ll get special treatment.’
‘My sister. You killed her.’ Through her blinking eyes she saw Zuri’s hair tied round his shoulder.
‘You think I give a fuck? I’ve killed a hundred niggers. A thousand.’
‘I swore to die first. It should have been me.’
‘If you’re lucky I’ll send you to meet her. Now, last chance. Where’s Cole?’
‘Zuri – nydi zembira!’ Forgive me.
‘Where’s Cole?’
This time, she made no reply.
With a roar of frustration Uhrig thrust her deep into the filthy brown river. Neliah felt his arm lock straight. She kicked her legs, clawed the bottom, tried to fight back. Her breath grew thin and venomous.
Her hand found his boot. She fumbled from his shin to the ankle, fingers seeking the place that had tasted her panga.
All she felt was unbroken leather. She had the wrong leg.
Neliah’s head was whirling. She saw dark shapes against her eyes, saw the spirits of the dead beckon her to join them. There were so many. She groped for his other leg, his other ankle. Found the wound.
Drove her fingers into it like a spearhead.
Above water, she heard Uhrig yell. The iron ring around her neck slackened. Neliah burst through the shit, gulped air.
Uhrig was clutching his leg. His teeth bared white.
Neliah charged, smashed him over. Waves of scum exploded around them. Then she was on top of him, burrowing her fingers into his windpipe. She held him there, saw that moment on the tyndo as Zuri stretched out her hand. Saw the terror in her sister’s eyes.
Neliah roared till her throat was dry. Let the rungiro feast.
Uhrig thrashed like a demon, beat the water in a frenzy. Ripped at her fingers. Not once did she loosen her grip. Time had no meaning.
And then the water was calm except for the hissing of foam.
Neliah dragged Uhrig out and carefully undid the braid of Zuri’s hair from his shoulder. She cupped it in her palms, pushed the Nazista’s body away. She wanted the rats to eat it. Gnaw on his face.
Neliah waded back to the walkway, placed Zuri’s plait down, then put out her hands to pull herself up. Her fingers brushed her panga.
Behind her a surge of water.
Uhrig exploded through the surface.
Neliah spun round, snatched hold of her panga, brought the blade swinging down with all her strength. It struck him in the centre of the head, buried through to his nose.
Split his skull in two.
His face disappeared in a mask of blood. Two white eyes staring at her – a look of rage and disbelief. And finally the emptiness of death.
Neliah prised the panga from the bone, let him drop back into the water. The current pulled him away, dragged him to the bars at the end of the tunnel. His body bobbed up and down.
She climbed out of the dung-river, sat and pulled her knees close. Ran her hand along Zuri’s tail, picking off pieces of dirt. She would wash and clean it, scent it with mafuta oil like Ina used to do when they were girls. Would keep it close to her skin for as long as she lived.
‘I swear it, Zuri,’ she whispered, hiding the hair away. ‘I’ll die first.’
Inside her head a familiar voice answered – I know, Neliah, I know.
Neliah. It was an old Herero name, her mother had given her it. Strong of w
ill it meant. Strong of will, vigorous of spirit, level of mind. She would live to be worthy of it yet.
Something rumbled overhead – the noise of tank wheels. The tunnel shook. Elsewhere in the city she heard machine guns, grenades. The booming of artillery. Getting fiercer, spreading into every street and building and home. Loanda needed an army to defend it. Not an army of whites or men like Penhor and Gonsalves. But an army that understood the fear of Muspel – whose hearts would roar like heroes.
Neliah spoke a final word to Mukuru, asked him to watch over Burton and Patrick, speed them home.
Then she joined the battle.
05:35
BURTON was laughing. A laugh of crazy jubilation. His whole body felt warm and rested. If Maddie had been there he’d have snatched her up, danced a waltz around the quayside. Asked her to marry him. She was all tears and giggles. Yes! She reached for his hand, pulled it to her lips. Then her eyes ballooned in horror.
Deep inside his head Burton heard a voice, hard and cautionary, like his father’s: It’s just the morphine. Be careful, son, stay alert.
Otherwise you’ll never get back to her.
He shouted over to Patrick, beckoned to him. He had fought his way to the French ship, was begging the legionnaires to let them on board.
There was no need. The tugboat was turning back.
Burton laughed again. Saw Farrow shout up to the bridge, order the captain to reverse. Some of the marines climbed down into a dinghy tied to the starboard side of the tug.
Patrick limped back, helped Burton to his feet. Seeing the boat return, the crowd pressed around them: a swarm of panicking bodies. More people threw themselves into the water.
‘We can’t come all the way,’ shouted Farrow. ‘You’ll have to jump, Major. Swim to the right side, to the dinghy.’
The tug stopped twenty feet short of the quay, its engines turning the harbour to froth. Burton and Patrick leapt.
The water was cold, chewed on Burton’s stump, blunted his euphoria. He swam, feeling no resistance against his left hand, only marrow-numbing pain every time it slapped the waves. There seemed to be hundreds of people around him: a frenzy of thrashing arms, wild faces. Hands snatched at him, pulled him down. Water flooded into his mouth and nostrils. He fought back to the surface. Saw Patrick reach the dinghy, clamber on board.
The marines opened fire, blasting the swimmers around him. The foam turned red, just like at Dunkirk. Burton kicked hard, fought against the fingers that tore at his body. He was almost there when he was dragged under again. A man was clawing his back.
Burton used his elbow to dislodge him, gwiwar, but the movement had little force in the water. He raked the man’s eyes. Broke the surface – a gasp of air – was pulled back down. Bubbles gurgled in his ears, the fizz of bullets, distorted screams. He had no more breath, no more fight—
An oar cracked the man’s head. He let go, drifted off helplessly.
Burton felt a hand on his collar. Patrick dragged him out of the water, his face crucified with the effort.
As soon as they were both on board Farrow shouted to the captain. The engines powered up again, swamping the swimmers below.
The tugboat pulled away.
‘Jesus wept,’ said Farrow when he saw Burton’s arm. ‘What happened?’
Burton was too exhausted to reply, simply shook his head. There were a few civilians on the boat – a matronly young woman, men in suits and panama hats – who regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and alarm.
‘What about Ackerman? I heard the consulate was hit.’
Another shake of the head.
‘Lying Jerry scum,’ said Farrow. He curled his knuckles into a fist, pounded his other hand. ‘I knew they’d break their ceasefire.’ He stared at Burton’s injury again. ‘It won’t be long to the Royal Navy ship. They’ll fix you up.’
‘Thank you,’ Burton managed to say, his chest heaving. ‘Thank you for turning around.’
‘Couldn’t very well leave you, Major. Another few minutes, mind, and you’d have been swimming home.’ He marched off.
Burton buried his stump beneath his armpit and sank to the ground. His brain kept issuing commands to his hand. He could feel them pulsing from his head to his shoulder, feel the tendons in his forearm ripple. Then nothing.
Patrick slumped down next to him. They were both too exhausted to speak, just sat there and watched the city slowly recede. A squadron of Heinkel bombers roared overhead, their jet engines lacerating the sky. Then a second wave. They would have flown up from the huge Luftwaffe bases in DSWA. Tracer fire from ack-ack guns pursued them. Missed.
How many cities have I seen like this? thought Burton. Dunkirk, Tana, Stanleyville, Douala. How many more would there be? The Nazis would change Loanda’s name – as they did with every place they conquered, as if victory alone was not enough. History had to be expunged. Soon Angola’s capital would be just another Hitleropolis: a city dedicated to an ageing dictator who no longer cared about Africa. The quayside continued to writhe with bodies, their wailing keener than the bombs: the anguish of those with no hope left.
Patrick covered his ears. ‘Those poor bastards.’
‘Fat days for mercenaries,’ replied Burton mirthlessly.
‘We left so many behind. All because they didn’t have nickel to pay.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Will God ever forgive us?’
‘God gave up on you and me long ago.’ Burton turned to face his old friend. His skin was pale, lips a purplish blue; he clutched his side. ‘You hit, Chef?’
Patrick pulled back his shirt to reveal his Dunkirk scar, and further along his flank a new wound daubed in blood. ‘I’ll live.’ Tucked into his waistband was Burton’s Browning. He pulled it out. ‘You?’
Burton took the weapon. ‘Remember what you used to tell us in the Legion. “If it still hurts, it’s not that bad.”’ Tears welled in his eyes. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’
The tugboat continued across the bay.
Burton felt consciousness slip from him, like he was sinking into warm mud. He thought of the farm, the orchards. Saw the quinces on the trees, fat and golden and ready to pick. Next his mind wandered to Neliah. He heard her say his name. Burtang. She was so young. So fierce. He remembered something Madeleine had once said: girls make the best soldiers; aren’t as hysterical or irresponsible as men.
He hoped Neliah was still alive, that she would flee the city, maybe get to Mozambique … even though his heart told him she’d stay. Fight to her dying breath. Her pledge to Zuri was as strong as the SS oath to Hitler. Stronger in fact: it was born of love, not hatred or fanaticism.
Burton felt himself drift off further. He needed to stay alert. Forced himself to sit up, spoke to keep lucid. ‘You were right. It was a set-up from the start,’ he said.
‘You mean Ackerman.’
‘It went higher than that. Right to the top. The British, Germans—’
‘Germans?’
‘Field Marshal Arnim himself. Arnim, Cranley, I don’t know how many others.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘All for the greater good.’
‘Who is this Cranley?’
‘He wanted me dead. All of us.’
Burton suddenly grabbed Patrick by the shirt, pulled him close. ‘I have to get back to London.’ His breath tasted feverish. ‘Need your help, friend, one last time. Need to find Cranley before …’
The words died in his mouth.
*
On the jetty a new scream rose from the crowd. People surged forward like wildebeest fleeing a predator.
Burton struggled to his feet to see better.
Next instant he was lurching towards the front of the boat, the adrenaline flowing again, Patrick at his side. They reached the wheelhouse, climbed up the bridge ladder to the top deck.
‘Speed her up!’ Burton shouted at the captain. He was white Angolan, unshaven with a huge paunch, sucking on a kola-nut.
‘Who are you? Where’s Senhor Farrow?’
‘Do it!’
‘I’m already at ten knots. It’s too risky to go faster till we’re clear of the bay.’
Burton shoved him aside, grabbed the throttle-lever and rammed it to maximum. The chugging of the engines became an angry growl; they surged forward. He turned to Patrick. ‘Will it be enough?’
‘I don’t know, boy, I don’t know.’
Two panzers had appeared on the quayside, on their turrets the skull and palm symbol of the Waffen-SS. Behind them was a lorry full of troops. The tanks’ guns were being cranked up to the maximum elevation.
The captain crossed himself, kept the throttle at maximum.
Burton watched, waited. The guns were still rising. He caught his reflection in the bridge window. A stranger stared back – lacerated face, skin clogged with filth and blood. Dark, half-dead eyes.
There was a blast from one of the tanks. The sound caterwauled across the bay.
Then a boom.
The waves erupted in front of them, whipping water against the window. Burton flinched.
A second blast. Close enough to rock the tugboat this time.
‘Mais rapido!’ shouted the captain. His hand was jammed against the throttle now. He spun the wheel through several revolutions. Burton and Patrick tumbled to the starboard; climbed back down to the deck.
‘Fuck is going on?’ demanded Farrow.
The marines were gathered round him, mouths grim, jittery. A few were taking shots at the quays. Burton wanted to grab one of their Sten guns. There was a third blast. More water showered down on them, close enough to drench Burton.
On the jetty, the troops had climbed out of the lorry. They opened fire, mowing down the crowd, cleared a path for two inflatable rafts to be carried to the water’s edge. In the flare of the gunlight Burton saw Hochburg. He tore off his smock, hurled it to the ground. Even from this distance the elation on his face was clear.
The first boat was put into the water. The rasp of an outboard motor starting.
‘Faster,’ Burton yelled to the captain, even though he knew there was no more power left. ‘Faster!’
There was a flash of smoke from one of the tanks. A second later, the other fired.
Burton tried to track the first shot against the flaming background of Loanda. It was a streak of movement, almost invisible. But he could hear it: a whistle that grew deeper with every second, filled his ears with shrieking iron.