The Reich Legacy

by Stanley Salmons

  *

  Major Alan Wicklow got to his feet and shook my hand.

  “Heard all about it. Fine effort, Jim. Great shame it didn’t come off.” He hesitated, then said, “I’m afraid some of us are pretty pissed off with your compatriots.”

  “You are? I’m pissed off with them, Alan. I went in to get Scottie, er Scot, Hayward out, not see him blown to bits.”

  “Dreadful business.” He pointed me to a chair and sat down himself. His office was the same size as Gracey’s but the furniture had been laid out differently because there was a second door, presumably to an adjacent room. For a moment or two neither of us said anything. I knew he was looking me over with a professional eye, taking in my drawn, sleep-deprived appearance. Then he said, “Look, do you need—?”

  “No, this isn’t about me, it’s about Scot. I’m trying to put it together. I’m trying to understand why a guy like that suddenly goes stark raving bonkers. You knew him. Would you say he was unstable?”

  “Of course not. He had flashes of temper – who doesn’t? He regained control – often apologized afterwards.”

  That was my experience, too.

  “But you know,” he went on, “odd things can happen in a war zone. Close comrades get killed and there’s anger and a strong temptation to seek retribution—”

  I interrupted. “It’s been driven home to them over and over again. God, I’ve laid it on my own guys often enough. Article 13 of the code of conduct: ‘The civilian population is to be excluded from hostilities. Even if you suspect they are harbouring combatants, giving them food and shelter, they may be doing it under duress. Involving them in the conflict aggravates the situation, and doing so deliberately is a breach of international law.’ Scot was as aware of all that as anyone.”

  “Yes, I know,” he sighed. “But it’s all very well getting a briefing in a nice, comfortable, safe environment like this. You still can’t be sure how you’re going to react on the spot.”

  We sat in silence again. Then I said, “In your experience, how often does this sort of thing happen?”

  “Within the army, specifically?”

  “Yes.”

  “The armed forces carry out pretty thorough psychological screenings these days, so it’s certainly rare. I’ve never encountered it,” – he grimaced – “at least, not before this.”

  “Well I have.”

  “You have? When?”

  “Just before I came out here. Pretty much at first hand. And it wasn’t unlike this one. If I’ve seen two cases it can’t be that uncommon.”

  He shrugged. “The SAS is a highly selected force so my experience may not be representative.”

  “Okay, Alan. Thanks, anyway.” I got up. “I might do a little digging. There’s a computer in my office. Do you think that would have deep access to British Armed Forces records?”

  “Is that Heptinstall’s old office?”

  “That’s what they told me.”

  “Then it’ll have full access.” He smiled. “Owen Gracey evidently trusts you.”

  “Yes, I believe he does.”

  *

  I sat down at the terminal. The screen came up. It wanted a fingerprint or a backup password. Great.

  There was a knock at the door. Alan Wicklow was standing there. He handed me a scrap of paper. Lower case and upper case with some figures in between. The backup password.

  “I forgot,” he said. “You’ll need this.”

  “Thanks, Alan.”

  “No problem. Let me know how you get on.”

  I watched the door close behind him. It occurred to me that Alan Wicklow was as interested in getting to the bottom of this as I was.

  The first thing to do was search the Courts Martial. It took me a while to find the database, but when I got there I started to read through the last five years. Any time I encountered a mortality I made brief notes on the case in a text app, including the date and location of the offence.

  I wasn’t aware of time passing. When I glanced at my watch I saw that lunch had long gone, but I wasn’t hungry. I reviewed what I’d got. There’d been several murder cases in the last five years. Most of them involved a single perpetrator and a single victim. An infantryman stationed in Germany murdered the girl he was having an affair with. It was complicated because both were married to other partners. Another one stemmed from an argument in a pub in South London which ended up with knives. And a street brawl – that one was in Germany, too. A soldier and two civilians died, but from all accounts the soldiers were set upon. I didn’t get as far as the verdicts; my interest was in how these soldiers behaved, and none of them had gone out of his skull the way Scottie had.

  I sat back and thought for a while. Someone who went on a rampage wouldn’t necessarily show up at a court martial, would they? They could be killed. Bill Archer took his own life. Scottie Hayward was killed by his own side. Others could be killed by hostiles.

  But there’d surely be an inquiry.

  I jumped back to the keyboard and accessed Courts of Inquiry, looking specifically for cases involving deaths.

  A young soldier went berserk in a barracks, opened up with an automatic weapon and killed six of his comrades. Then he put the muzzle in his own mouth and pulled the trigger. I noted it down, adding the base in Scotland, five years ago.

  A soldier died of hyperthermia during a training exercise. I noted that down, too, then deleted it because it was irrelevant.

  I was getting nowhere. I stood up and paced the room. Maybe Alan was right. Maybe incidents like the two I’d witnessed really were rare, and it was merely coincidence that I happened to be around for both of them. I wasn’t convinced.

  The US Armed Forces were much larger than the British ones. Perhaps there’d be more cases to look at there. As CO at Fort Piper I had a high security clearance, and I could access the records with my own ID and password.

  Fifteen minutes later I had the figures for courts martial in which the defendant was charged with murder. There were quite a few like the ones I found before: single perpetrator, single victim. One fit the pattern, though. Five years ago an infantryman serving in Sudan went out on his own with a grenade launcher, killing civilians as well as combatants. It was added to the notes.

  In courts of inquiry I found more cases. I finished, logged out, and pushed the chair back. My head was spinning. I needed a break.

  I left the office and returned to my room, changed into the running vest and shorts I’d brought with me from the States, pulled on my trainers, and went for a run. The sun was getting low now and there was a chill in the air. I emptied my mind, just concentrated on breathing steadily and listening to the rhythmic thump of my feet on the paths and across the fields. The sky was dark with clouds the colour of wet slate, and the remaining light had the luminous quality that presages a rainstorm. It came soon enough, accompanied by a wind that cut to the bone. I ploughed on.

  An hour later I padded back along the paved path to my room, went straight to the bathroom, shucked off the soaking wet kit, and had a hot shower. I felt a lot better; cleansed and glowing. I put fresh clothes on, fastened my bootlaces, and then straightened up and paused. I’d seen a way of getting a little more order into those notes. I hurried next door.

  The idea was simply to place all the incidents in date order. If I’d thought of this before I’d have put them in a spreadsheet, but after shuffling them around for a bit in the text app I had the results. I stared at them, blinking.

  Five years ago there were just the two court martial cases, one in Scotland and one in the Sudan. Of the inquiries at that time none involved murder, so nothing appeared in my notes. Four years ago, there was one case, ill-treatment of detainees resulting in the death of one of them. Several people were involved, so again it didn’t fit the pattern. Three years ago, nothing involving deaths. Two years ago, seven cases of individual armed personnel going out on a killing spree, attacking civilians as well as suspected insurgents. Seven! In the last year alone
there were two recorded cases. To which I could now add two more, Bill Archer and Scottie Hayward.

  I sat back, chewing my lip. Eleven cases in the last two years, and hardly anything before that. What did it mean and why hadn’t anyone picked it up? I suppose the inquiries would have been held in different locations and involved different personnel. Perhaps the soldiers involved were on particularly stressful tours. It wouldn’t take much of a change in the political landscape to create a rash of missions in one geographical region. Where did the incidents occur?

  I went back to my notes and checked the locations. Colombia, Guyana, Nigeria, Angola, Pakistan. Did that make sense? Not really. We had boots on the ground in Morocco, Libya, and Syria. Those tours would be just as tough, but of the eleven cases not a single one came from there.

  I was out of ideas. I logged out and sat back. I was feeling hungry and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. It was a little late, but they’d still be serving. As for what I’d found, I’d sleep on it and have a word with Alan Wicklow about it in the morning.

  Outside my office I stood still for a moment. The weather had cleared and the air had the clean, cold taste it gets after it’s been washed generously with rain. I took a good lungful. Above my head the sky was a dark blue, but as I followed it over to the west it lightened to the palest green and below that a dying sun bled orange light into the horizon. A lone blackbird was singing.

  Why did I ever leave England?

  18

  Alan Wicklow looked across his desk at me.

  “Eleven cases in the last two years?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where, again?”

  “Colombia, Guyana, Nigeria, Angola, and Pakistan.”

  He thought for a moment. “Could be stress-related. Those are all danger spots.”

  “Alan, that just doesn’t compute. The armed forces are only ever sent to danger spots, and those are no worse than some of the others.”

  “We’ve got a bigger presence in those places. That could increase the incidence.”

  “Yeah, but that’s been true for – what? – five years? That’s how far back I started searching the records. There were just two cases in the first three years: one in Scotland, one in the Sudan.”

  “Well, I don’t know then. Any other thoughts?”

  “Not really. But something must have changed two years ago.”

  He rubbed his lower lip. I said nothing, letting him think. Then his eyes widened. “Mmm…”

  “What?”

  “No, it must be a coincidence…”

  “Come on, Alan, spit it out.”

  “South America, sub-Saharan Africa, and Pakistan are tropical regions. Personnel sent there would be routinely dosed for diseases endemic to those places, including mosquito-borne diseases like malaria. yellow fever, and dengue fever.”

  “Okay, but so what? Like you said, it’s routine, has been for years. Why should things change two years ago?”

  “Well, the drug combinations can change. I had to respond to a new notice only a few months ago. Hang on, I just want to check something.”

  I got up and strolled over to the window while he went to his computer terminal, which was on a table against one wall. Outside there was an asynchronous tramp of boots and I watched a squad trot by, fully loaded, no doubt making for the assault course.

  I turned back. Alan wasn’t looking at the screen any more. He was staring into space.

  “Alan? What is it?”

  He took a deep breath. “Two years ago the American Armed Forces approved a new cocktail of drugs for tropical diseases. The main change they made was to replace an existing drug with one that’s more effective against dengue fever and lasts longer.”

  “Right, but—”

  “Wait, I haven’t finished. Four months ago the British Armed Forces finally gave their approval to the same measure. So what have we got? Up to two years ago, cases of US soldiers going on killing sprees were rare. Since then, eleven cases to date. Until recently cases of UK soldiers going on killing sprees were rare. Now, one case: Major Scot Hayward.”

  “And Scot—”

  “Yes, Scot had the new cocktail. I administered it myself. And before that he’d had it for another mission.”

  My mind was racing. “This drug, Alan, the one that’s more effective against dengue. What’s it called?”

  “Prescaline.”

  “Is it possible for a drug to do that – send someone right off the deep end?”

  “It’s unusual but it’s been known. About forty or fifty years ago the US military – and ours – were using an anti-malarial called Lariam. There were increasing reports of rare, but occasionally severe, adverse effects, and the US Special Forces Command banned it. Eventually we followed suit.”

  “What sort of adverse effects?”

  “Neuropsychiatric effects: anxiety, hallucinations, depression, paranoia, suicidal tendencies, that sort of thing. There was at least one incident of the sort we’re talking about, and people blamed that on Lariam.”

  I turned it over in my mind. “We’re deployed in other regions that have those diseases. Why haven’t we seen any cases from there?”

  “Like I said before, Jim, it’s a question of numbers. People react differently to drugs: some don’t get any ill-effects at all, others suffer from one side-effect or another. If you’re looking for a particular side-effect – a less frequent one – you’re more likely to see it where there are a lot of boots on the ground.”

  He got up from the terminal, but he didn’t take the chair at his desk. Instead he just stood there, hands in pockets, staring at the floor. Then he looked up, shaking his head. “I can’t understand it, Jim. An effect as serious as that should have shown up during clinical trials. If it had, it would never have got past the FDA, let alone the US Army.”

  “Who makes this drug, this Prescaline?”

  “It’s a German outfit, I think. Hang on, I’ve got some of it back here.” He opened the door that I’d noticed previously and disappeared into the adjoining room. Moments later he reappeared with a small box. He read off the manufacturer. “Lipzan Pharmaceutica.” He opened the box and removed a vial. “Here, take the box and the leaflet if you like.”

  “Thanks.” I pocketed it and got up, ready to go.

  “Jim…?”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t like this, I don’t like it at all. I gave that cocktail to Scot Hayward. What happened – well, I feel I’m to blame.”

  I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, Alan, you weren’t at fault in any way. You were observing best practice.”

  “But it’s still best practice! We have people going out to tropical regions all the time.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know, maybe I should revert to the old combination.”

  “I don’t think you have grounds for doing that right now. And if one of those soldiers came down with dengue fever, there’d be a lot of questions asked and you might end up taking the blame. Let me look into it first.”

  “Yes. All right. I suppose so. Keep me posted, won’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  As I got to the door I said, “By the way, I saw you before I went to Nigeria. You checked me over and gave me an injection. Did that—?”

  “Standard prophylaxis, Jim. And yes, it did include Prescaline.”

  *

  I headed back to my quarters, but not to my room; instead I went into the small office that had been assigned to me. I pulled up a plastic chair and sat with my elbows on the desk and my head in my hands. I’d only gone in there to turn things over in my mind, but soon the black thoughts came flooding in like an unstoppable tide. I was seeing it all over again: the dark figure rising to its feet, starting to run, the explosion, the smoke, the grass burning around a blackened patch of ground where my buddy Scottie Hayward had been just a few seconds before.

  Am I heading for the same fate? It’s only a distant possibility, but I’m not taking an
y chances. No practising on the firing range, in fact no contact with weapons of any sort until several weeks go by and I can feel I’m in the clear.

  I raised my eyes and looked at the blank wall with the grubby marks where posters or notices or maps had hung. I used the spacing between the marks to try to figure out what they might have been. And it occurred to me that this was what I had to do: fill in the pictures on a wall that was currently blank – blank except for one possible clue: a drug called Prescaline.

  I took the box from my pocket, shook out the leaflet inside, what these companies sometimes call the ticket or the label. I read through the indications and possible side effects. Going berserk and killing innocent people wasn’t among them. I learned that Lipzan Pharmaceutica GmbH was located in Taufkirchen, Federal Republic of Germany.

  I woke up the terminal and started searching. Taufkirchen was about ten kilometres south of Munich. I found some entries about the company. It was research-based, produced pharmaceuticals, also active ingredients for the cosmetic industry. I read about some of the drugs and additives they marketed. Nothing struck me as exceptional until I noticed the date the company was established. 1947.

  More than a hundred years ago? I was expecting a start-up, maybe a spin-off from a university, formed this century, not half-way through the previous one. And 1947? In the aftermath of the Second World War? Not the most propitious time, you would have thought, to launch a brand new company.

  I still wasn’t much wiser. But if these side-effects were genuine it would be interesting to know how this drug ever got approved by the FDA. The only person I knew there was Norman Harries. Harries had made a very helpful contribution in the counterfeit medicine affair.[2] He was a formidable individual, the sort of guy for whom light conversation was a ridiculous indulgence. I don’t usually stand in awe of people, but I was hesitant about contacting this one directly. Last time, of course, we were introduced by Stefan Dabrowski of the US Public Health Service Commissioned Corps in Washington. This time it was different and I couldn’t justify going via Stefan again. I checked the time. 12.30, that was 7.30 in Washington.