The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  It clipped the boat: on the port side, below the bridge. A burst of splinters, followed by a geyser of seawater.

  The tug rocked violently, knocking everyone off their feet.

  Then more whistling. Closer and closer.

  The second shell hit.

  It ploughed right through the middle of the boat. Spat out whole planks. Giblets of steel and wood.

  Burton was spun over, caught his stump. He felt his stomach twist inside out, bile fill his throat. Splinters stung his face and arms. There was no fire, just billows of choking smoke. The civilians he’d seen earlier – the woman, men in panamas – lay slopped on the deck. Some of the marines were also dead.

  The tug began to yaw horrifyingly, tipping the port side towards the waterline. Burton struggled to stand.

  The second inflatable was leaving the quay, Hochburg at the prow, a BK44 held across his chest. The first one was already halfway across the bay.

  Burton’s brain was yawing like the boat. He pinched the bridge of his nose, forced himself to focus. The uninjured marines were taking up position around the gunwale, were already firing. He shouted to Farrow: ‘Check the dinghy. See if we can still use it. Patrick, with me.’

  They staggered back towards the wheelhouse, met the captain climbing down the ladder.

  ‘Where’s the spare fuel?’ demanded Burton.

  ‘My boat … my boat.’ Tears streamed down his beard.

  Burton grabbed him with one hand, ripped at his shirt till their faces were touching. ‘Where’s the fucking fuel?’

  ‘There are some drums. On the aft.’

  Burton and Patrick got to them. The tug was tilting further and further to the left. Slowly sinking. They thrust aside the empty barrels till they found a full one. Rolled it to the side of the boat where some marines were firing. The effort was almost too much for Burton.

  ‘I need your bayonet,’ he said to the nearest marine, who handed it over without looking away from his gun.

  The first inflatable was approaching the port side of the boat, ten feet below them.

  Burton rammed the blade into the barrel, gouged open a hole. Tonneaux de Roumis they called these in the Legion, a technique for defending forts.

  Patrick ripped off a shred of his shirt. Burton soaked it in diesel then he plugged up the hole with it, making a fuse. They took either end of the drum and prepared to lift it on to the gunwale.

  ‘One. Two. Three.’

  They heaved. It was too heavy.

  Burton shouted over to the marines. ‘Help us!’ One of them took the middle of the drum. They heaved again, raising it several feet in the air … before it crashed back down. Patrick howled, slumped over, his face scarlet. He clasped his toecap.

  The inflatable was just below them, the stormtroopers swinging grappling hooks. Burton heard German voices: Erschiessen! Shoot them!

  He drove the bayonet back into the barrel, tore the metal open. Diesel gushed out, spread in a milky film across the deck.

  ‘You mad?’ yelled the marine.

  Burton lifted the drum to increase the flow, judged its weight till it was light enough. ‘Now!’

  Patrick managed to get back on his feet and the three of them hefted it on to the edge of the boat. Burton held out his hand to Patrick. ‘Lighter.’

  ‘Neliah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Neliah had it!’

  Stormtroopers were climbing up the side.

  Burton shoved the barrel overboard. It hit one of the troopers, knocked him back on to the inflatable, his legs and arms flapping either side of it. The raft sprang upwards, then crashed back into the water.

  Burton grabbed his Browning, aimed at the barrel through dripping hair. Pulled the trigger.

  The blast punched him back.

  He felt his nose and cheeks shrivel, hair frazzle. Debris rained down around him. Ignited the fuel on the deck. He rolled across it, through the inferno, out of the flames, feeling his clothes and skin fuse. Patrick crashed into him, his body smoking, hands orange and blistered.

  The whole port side of the tugboat was ablaze. Men thrashed about. Hurled themselves into the sea. Screams in German.

  Then gunshots – from the starboard. Sten guns mixed with BK44s.

  Burton turned towards them. Saw the marines there being blasted back; grappling hooks clatter over the edge. He bowed his head.

  Hochburg’s inflatable.

  05:45

  THERE would be no escape for Burton this time.

  Hochburg clambered on to the sinking tugboat. It was pitching at forty-five degrees, the far side ablaze. He breathed in the flames, a heady bouquet of tar and wood and flesh. Tasted that first burning in Togoland again. The deck was littered with injured men. One snatched at Hochburg’s boots, begged for help. Hochburg slid him away with the muzzle of his BK44. His eyes searched the boat.

  He found Burton and Whaler by the wheelhouse. They were climbing the ladder to the bridge as the flames snapped around their legs; a marine helped them. Burton looked beaten: his skin streaked with blood, clothes smoking rags. Each movement agony.

  For a moment Hochburg almost pitied him, the way he might a wounded dog when the kindest thing was a bullet in the head. Then the fire filled his nostrils again.

  He turned to the stormtroopers in the inflatable below. There were six of them.

  ‘Hauptsturmführer, get your men and the MG48s on board. Concentrate all your fire on the wheelhouse. We’ll flush them out.’

  One of the commandos began to climb; the rest stayed where they were, the Hauptsturmführer among them. They swayed anxiously, the fire glimmering on their faces.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Herr Oberstgruppenführer, the boat’s sinking, it’s suicide!’

  Hochburg aimed his BK at the inflatable, raked it with bullets. There was a burst of air and immediately it began to sink. The stormtroopers scrambled out.

  They took up positions along the slanting deck like gunners on a mountain slope. There was no cover – everything had slid to the port side, was in flames. Hochburg crawled to the front, watched the MG48s being loaded. The water was licking around their boots. Burton had disappeared into the wheelhouse.

  ‘Oberstgruppenführer!’ The trooper next to him pulled at his sleeve, pointed to the far end of the tugboat.

  Below the wheelhouse, a man in a waistcoat clambered into a rowboat.

  ‘Forget him,’ said Hochburg. ‘All I want is Cole.’

  He gave the order to fire.

  There was a marine at the top of the ladder. ‘Come on, mate!’ he said. ‘Almost there.’

  Burton climbed towards him – but clumsily, as if he had never climbed anything in his life, his stump banging on every rung. Fresh spots of blood had appeared on the bandage, were beginning to spread and join. The morphine was ebbing. He felt an itchy numbness, the bones in his forearm throbbed. His skin stank of cinders. Behind him Patrick wheezed and cursed.

  With the marine’s help they dragged themselves on to the bridge. Everything was at a giddy angle, creaking. The floor awash with blood. The captain was face down, impaled on a spear of decking.

  Burton dragged himself through the room to the window at the far side; it had been upended, was more like a skylight now. He lifted it, jamming it open, and looked out. Below was the hull of the tugboat, risen out of the water. Below that, the dinghy.

  ‘Farrow!’

  He’d found some oars, was sliding them into place. ‘Fit to go, Major.’

  ‘Get ready, we’re coming—’

  The wheelhouse exploded in gunfire.

  Burton threw himself down. Heard the distinctive rattle of MG48s. The cabin walls ruptured and snapped, the windows disintegrating. Burton shielded his face, felt like his eardrums were going to burst.

  The marine stood up, scythed the deck outside with his Sten gun. Was blown back, his ribcage torn open. Burton crawled over his body, through the hailstorm of glass, towards Patrick.

&nbs
p; The MGs stopped.

  Burton heard the clink of magazines and hot metal. They were reloading. He snatched up the marine’s Sten gun, kept himself flat to the ground and fired through the window. Screams. Then the MGs again. Bullets ripped through the wheelhouse, turning it to sawdust.

  ‘Patrick,’ shouted Burton. ‘We have to get to Farrow. Next time they reload. You go first, I’ll cover.’

  Patrick didn’t move.

  ‘Major Whaler!’

  This time Patrick rolled over, gave a snort of laughter. His face was all creases, nostrils flaring, pupils tiny pinpricks. He clutched his stomach, holding in his intestines.

  Burton felt his breath turn to thorns. ‘Chef! Can you move?’

  ‘There’s life in the old fool yet.’ Blood flowed down his chin.

  ‘I’ll cover you.’

  Another gut-sopped laugh. He took the Sten from Burton’s grip. ‘Not with one hand. You first.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m the better shot, remember?’

  The tugboat suddenly lurched downwards. There was a sound like steel rods snapping.

  ‘Major!’ It was Farrow calling. ‘For heaven’s sake, man. Come on!’

  Patrick pushed him away. ‘Go, boy.’

  Burton didn’t move.

  ‘I’ll follow, I promise. Got to get back to Hannah. But you first … chancers before age this time.’

  Burton knew he was lying. He slid away, kept glancing back at his friend through the haze of shrapnel. Patrick raised the gun to his eye, began to fire in rapid bursts. Lethal as ever.

  Then silence.

  The MG48s had stopped again.

  Burton heard the crackle of fire as it continued to devour the tug. Men groaning below; Patrick panting over his weapon. Back on shore, the constant crump-crump-crump of bombers. But there was no sound of reloading.

  A voice cried out, a voice that had haunted Burton for decades. A raw baritone.

  ‘My men are all dead, dead or wounded. Useless pricks. It’s just me now, Burton. You want the truth about Eleanor, you want to kill me – here I am.’

  ‘Go!’ hissed Patrick.

  Every muscle in Burton’s body had turned to stone.

  ‘I even have your silver knife,’ continued Hochburg, ‘ready to plunge into my heart.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t we once read a fairy tale together like that? Some trite little fable of beanstalks and revenge.’

  ‘Go!’ said Patrick again.

  Burton pulled out his Browning. He had one bullet left. He thought of his mother. Thought of Madeleine, the baby. It was going to be a girl, a sister for Alice. Somehow he knew it.

  Patrick shook his head. Swallowed. Each breath caused him to grimace.

  ‘I’m waiting, Burton,’ came Hochburg’s voice.

  Burton pushed himself up to his knees, crouched below the window. Body tense.

  ‘If you go out there,’ said Patrick, ‘we all died for nothing.’

  Burton lifted the Browning.

  ‘Go out there and I’ll shoot you myself.’ He twisted the Sten gun in his grip. ‘I swear it.’

  Neither of them moved. There was just the whipping sound of the flames. The boat sinking.

  Burton raised his pistol, clicked it and released the magazine. He tossed the clip to Patrick, then he leaned in, gently kissed his forehead and whispered a single word.

  ‘Home.’

  Hochburg tapped the knife against his thigh, eyes focused on the door, waiting for Burton to emerge.

  He held his other hand low, gestured to the gunner to hold his fire. They were both struggling to stay upright as the boat continued to yaw. The rest of the men lay lifeless or bleeding, their bodies listing in the water. The level was above Hochburg’s knees now. Rising fast.

  In front of him there was a clattering of wood against wood, half-heard voices. Then nothing more.

  ‘You risked everything in the Schädelplatz to find the truth,’ Hochburg shouted, trying to goad Burton out. ‘Now I’m giving it to you. All you have to do is walk through that door.’

  ‘How can I trust you?’

  A shiver ran through Hochburg at Burton’s voice. No longer the girlish pitch of a child, but the intonation of a man. He imagined it screaming as the flames seized him. Just like Dolan, just like the niggers.

  Hochburg sheathed the knife, then reached for some flotsam and tossed it away. It landed noisily. ‘You hear that? That’s your knife. I am unarmed. We fight like men.’ He lowered his mouth to the gunner. ‘Remember, I want him alive. Aim for the legs.’

  They waited. Hochburg felt a single drop of sweat trickle down the ridge of his spine.

  The door burst open. A volley of shots.

  The gunner returned fire, then crumpled over his weapon. Bullets strafed the deck, spat splinters into Hochburg’s face. He raised his arm to protect himself and watched as someone crashed through the side window of the wheelhouse; he couldn’t tell if it was Burton. The figure scrambled down the hull, flopped into the waiting rowboat.

  The pull of oars.

  Hochburg kicked away the gunner, lifted up his MG48. Fired at the rowboat, then charged the wheelhouse. Another volley came from the door – but this time the bullets flew wide. Hochburg felt them vanish over his head. He was invincible now.

  He reached the ladder, roared as he emptied the last of the magazine into the bridge. The fire had encircled it, was spreading up the walls. He climbed, the rungs burning his hands, and wrenched the door open.

  Hochburg pulled his Taurus. Cocked the trigger.

  Inside, the bridge was a mosaic of blood and shattered glass. He entered without caution, boots crunching on the floor. There was a dead marine, a fat man skewered on a spike of wood. And closest to him a third body, lying face down, arm at an awkward angle beneath its chest.

  Hochburg aimed his pistol, rolled the body over.

  It was Whaler. Dead.

  He’d spent his final moments clearing a shape in the broken glass beneath him. A ragged letter H. Hochburg stared into the American’s face. There was a faint, ironic smile on his lips. It seemed to mock him.

  The bridge was a box of fire. Hochburg pulled himself out through the window on to the roof and stared across the bay. He saw the rowboat heading towards the darkness of the ocean; could barely make out the rower and next to him Burton Cole.

  Hochburg let out a sob of inconsolable rage and frustration. The anguish of an executioner cheated, the world not righted. He fired his pistol – but Burton was already out of range. Then his mouth twisted cruelly.

  There was one last way to wound the boy.

  *

  Burton was shivering, slumped at the back of the dinghy. He held his Browning weakly in front of him. The ivory felt solid in his hand, the last bit of reassurance he had.

  Farrow was rowing hard, shoulders bulging beneath his waistcoat. ‘I can see her, Major. The Ibis.’

  Burton twisted round: saw a flotilla of vessels, ensigns of various nationalities, twinkling lights. As welcome as the candles Madeleine burned on Hanukkah.

  He turned back to the tug. It was almost submerged now, only the roof of the wheelhouse left above the water. It was burning, the diesel floating on the sea around it also ablaze. A halo of flames. And in the centre: Hochburg.

  ‘You want the truth, Burton?’ he yelled. ‘Want to know what happened to your mother?’

  Burton covered his ears, felt the cold metal of his gun against his skull. But the other hand – his stump – couldn’t block out Hochburg’s voice. It reverberated across the water, louder than the bombs dropping on Loanda.

  ‘Eleanor died because of you. Raped, beaten, left to perish on some lonely beach. Her blood is on your hands, Burton. Not mine, not the niggers. Not God in all his knowing brutality. Yours! The truth is she died because of you.’

  The words tolled in Burton’s head. No how, no why, just an accusation. Because of you. A procession of voices clamoured it: his father, Patrick, the rest of the team, Cranley. Because of y
ou. Because of you.

  He felt numb, tearless. Kept his Browning pressed to his head.

  The tug was sinking beneath the waves, the fire dissolving into coils of steam. Hochburg was up to his chest. He seemed not to notice; had always loved the water, been a strong swimmer. His mouth was a ring of hatred.

  ‘I’ll find you, Burton. Wherever you walk on this earth I will find you. You have my word.’

  The boat vanished in a cauldron of foam. Left nothing but a film of burning diesel and lumps of wreckage. Burton had a final glimpse of Hochburg. The skeletal head and contorted features. The black eyes. Exactly how he remembered them in his nightmares.

  Black as the devil’s hangman.

  HMS Ibis, Atlantic Ocean

  21 September, 05:55

  THEY carried Burton Cole aboard. Farrow and five sailors, like pallbearers. The hands of strangers gently supporting his body, laying him down on the deck, his Browning resting on his chest. The morphine had worn off, his stump throbbed. It wasn’t the agony he expected, more like a day-old burn … but growing in intensity. He felt a sense of irreparable loss. His face was livid and charred.

  ‘I’ll fetch the surgeon,’ said Farrow. He vanished with one of the seamen into the throng of passengers.

  Burton levered himself into a sitting position. A blanket was thrown around his shoulders, a mug of black tea put in his good hand. The vessel was crowded: men with sweaty, creased faces, haggard women with children at their skirts – every one of them white. The smell of stale perfume and unwashed bodies. They kept their distance from Burton, as if he were contagious, but their voices were clear. English mostly, but also Portuguese, Afrikaans, the occasional American accent. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, as if somehow it would keep them safe. A babel of rumour and half-heard news:

  The Krauts have invaded Northern Rhodesia … been beaten back at the border … the lads of the 8th Army, Montgomery brought out of retirement … we’ve already crossed into Kongo itself … Loanda are threatening to continue all the way to Stanleystadt if we have to … that’ll teach the bastards to mess with us … Germania is demanding an immediate ceasefire, Hitler’s raving …