Guy Saville - The Afrika Reich

Past the open door Burton heard the sound of boots on stairs.

The winded Leibwache lurched towards Burton who slipped underneath him and thumped his wrist, the hannu , on to the back of his neck where vertebrae and skull connected. The man dropped lifelessly.

In the room beyond, another guard appeared, roused by the gunshot. For an instant his eyes met Burton’s. Then Burton slammed the door shut.

The click of the bolt.

There was no double-locking mechanism so Burton dragged Hochburg’s desk to the door, stood it on end and jammed it hard against the frame. It would buy him a few extra seconds. He was lathered in sweat, even the material of his breeches sticking to his thighs. He undid his top buttons and tried to breathe. The smell of rubbing alcohol burned his nostrils.

His watch read 01:21.

Burton reached down for one of the Leibwache’s Lugers. He wished he had the reassuring handle of his Browning to grip, but the pistol was in Patrick’s care. The Luger would have to do. He checked its firing mechanism and clip (seven shots left) and hurried towards the veranda.

Burton hesitated.

He looked back at Hochburg’s body. The bleeding had stopped. He was completely still except for his left foot which twitched sporadically. It looked almost comic. His features were a mask of scarlet. Burton thought of Ackerman: hot blood, cold blood. It’s still blood.

He needed to make sure.

Burton returned to the body, knelt and checked the pulse. Nothing. There was no breath from his nostrils either. He reached to retrieve the knife still buried in Hochburg’s throat… then decided against it. His last chance of knowing about his mother – why she’d vanished, what had happened – was gone for ever. Even the killing itself had been pleasureless, with none of the satisfaction he had envisioned. A numbness was spreading through his mind.

He stood, feeling he should mark the moment he had craved all these years. What would Father have done? Make the sign of the cross? Say a few words about the need for forgiveness? Maybe. Or maybe he’d have sucked on his lungs and spat.

Burton left without a backward gesture.

On the veranda the night was still; the sound of the gunshot obviously hadn’t carried. Burton was grateful for that. He lowered himself over the side and shinned down one of the supporting posts, his feet finding the nameless skulls below. Inside his boots his soles arched as though he were barefoot in an abattoir.

Burton marched out into the square. The searchlights moved idly; the Doberman patrol at the far end walking away from him. If the rest of his team had been captured, or if Dolan was still nursing his grudge and chose not to hit the detonator, this might be the shortest walk of his life. A ten-second stroll through a firing range.

He headed towards the far gate, resisted the urge to sprint. For some reason an old barrack-room tune sprang into his head:

An alarm began to sound. A wailing, mechanised klaxon.

The searchlights froze, then began to scour the square. They both found Burton. Ahead he saw the Doberman patrol halt and turn in his direction. The dog growled.

Burton motioned impatiently towards the guard towers, a gesture that said get that fucking thing out of my eyes or you’ll be on punishment detail for a month . He hoped they wouldn’t be able to make out the bloodstains on his face and hands.

A voice cried out from the darkness: ‘Apologies, Sturmbannführer. Is it a drill?’

Another alarm started up.

Through the cyan-white glare Burton made out two guards in each tower, one with the light, the other pointing an MG48 machine gun, enough to turn a man to bonemeal in seconds. ‘Search the perimeter,’ Burton shouted at them. ‘Then stand down.’

The lights did as they were told. Burton continued towards the exit.

‘There!’ came a voice from behind him.

He spun round to look back at the veranda. Standing on the balcony was a Leibwache, arm rigid in his direction. ‘Stop him. Fire!’

Burton ran.

Immediately the lights were back on him. The ground erupted in bullets, fragments of skull bursting upwards. Burton zigzagged wildly, lurching to the left, next second doubling back on himself. Anything to avoid the onslaught.

Where was Patrick? Where was that damn explosion?

There was a crackle of gunfire from the balcony. Another from the nearest guard tower, close enough to singe the leather of his jackboots this time. The light was relentless.

Burton slipped, his hands flailing. He imagined the guard in the tower seizing his chance. Burton had done it enough times himself. Wait for the target to stumble, line up the sights and squeeze the trigger: an easy kill-shot.

At least I got Hochburg, he thought. I’ll be able to look Father in the eye – before St Peter turns me away.

Then the searchlight was gone. Burton squinted into the darkness. The beam was pointing upwards, vanishing into the sky. The tower empty.

Across the square, the other tower aimed its light at him before it too jerked away. Burton could make out a guard gripping the MG48, aiming it at him. Suddenly he snapped back in the shape of a starfish. Dead.

Not for the first time Burton whispered a thank you to Patrick Whaler and his sniper rifle.

The two guards and the Doberman were now belting towards him. There was another silent blast from the darkness and the guard with the dog stumbled. He unleashed the animal and encouraged it on with the cry, ‘ Angriff! ’ The Doberman galloped forward, fangs snarling.

Another shot, then another. Both guards dropped.

Fuck the handlers, thought Burton, shoot the dog!

The ground splintered and spat near the Doberman – but the animal was moving too fast for Patrick.

Burton came to a halt, concentrated on the dog. In his mind he was back at Bel Abbès, the Legion fort where he’d trained as a soldier. A sous-officier was pointing at a blackboard; afterwards they’d practised on crude models made from jute and straw.

Patrick fired another shot. It clipped the Doberman’s tail, stoked its ferocity.

The dog was no more than ten yards away.

Burton crouched low like a sprinter at the start of a race. His chest was straining, the roof of his mouth dry. He was dimly aware of more alarms ringing, more gunshots from the balcony.

At the last moment – just as the dog leapt to attack – Burton sprang upwards and grabbed the animal’s front legs. Teeth gnashed inches from his face. With a single, vicious movement he wrenched its limbs apart.

There was a crack as the breastbone broke, then Burton flung the Doberman away. He forced himself not to hear its whimpering.

Another torrent of bullets – from behind this time.

Burton turned to see several Leibwache gathered on the balcony shooting at him. He fired off several rounds from his Luger, none of them finding their target but enough to make the guards duck out of sight. Then he ran again, sprinting to the gatehouse.

The barrier was down but there were no guards. As Burton approached he saw them slumped on the ground, haloes of blood pooling around their heads. The window of the gatehouse had a single bullet hole in it; inside, another guard looking into distant space. Whatever else might have happened to Patrick his aim was as straight as ever.

The gunfire continued remorselessly. There was a heavy-calibre retort mixed into it now. The Nazis were coming to full alert: another thirty seconds and he’d never get away.

Burton dived to the ground and crawled round the edge of the gatehouse. The window above him exploded, showered him with glass. Looking back across the square – through the bursts of machine guns – he saw an open-backed lorry roaring towards him, laden with Waffen-SS troops. There were more men behind it on foot. Enough firepower to quell an uprising.