The Land God Made in Anger

3

He drove hard back towards Swakopmund, the desert flashing by in his headlights. He was over the anger of the confrontation: now he was left with the shock. It made his flesh creep. It was macabre. Not just because she had obscenely shrieked Heil Hitler at him; it was the whole nine yards of the great swastika in all its frightening glory, the arrogant uniforms, the strutting jackboots – it evoked a legend of dreaded times, a legend he had learnt at his mother’s knee had been brought to life before his eyes. He had just seen ordinary, decent people ritualizing it, rejoicing at the altar, and if ordinary people were doing this on a remote farm in the heart of Namibia, what was happening in the rest of the country tonight?

Almost everything in life is a coincidence, in that something happens because something else has just happened to happen. If the good ship Bonanza had not come back to port a day early so that the Kid could have his new teeth installed for Beryl, this story would never have happened: if the Bonanza had returned any other day, the Stormtrooper would have been waiting for McQuade with open arms, he would not have driven out to the ranch in his determination to get laid, and he would not have come roaring back into the little German town of Swakopmund, angry and determined to get drunk, and parked outside Kukki’s Pub at the moment that the drunken Damara tribesman lurched around the corner and offered to sell him an Iron Cross.

McQuade was in no mood for drunken peddlers and he glared at the German medal because he presumed the man was also trying to exploit the birthday of Adolf Hitler. ‘No thank you.’ But the drunken Damara had more to sell. He buried his hand into his pocket and laboriously extracted a piece of white paper. He thrust it at McQuade dramatically and said: ‘Sell you this for only one rand!’

McQuade looked at it in the lamplight. A banknote? A white banknote? On the corners were the symbols £5, and the text read: The Governor of the Bank of England promises to pay to bearer on demand the sum of five pounds sterling … McQuade turned it over. The other side was blank. A banknote printed on one side only? Its date of issue was 1944. An old English fiver? He looked at the Damara. ‘What’s your name?’

The Damara said drunkenly; ‘Skellum Jagter.’

‘No, man, your real name.’

‘Skellum Jagter!’

McQuade half-smiled, despite himself. Jagter means hunter and Skellum is slang meaning sly. ‘Where did you get this?’ It was then that he saw the identification tag in the man’s dirty open shirt-front, and the words stamped on it, Seeoffizier Horst Kohler.

He frowned. Seeoffizier is German. Horst Kohler is definitely a German name. How did this drunken Damara come into possession of such a personal thing? ‘Where did you get that?’

Skellum suddenly looked alarmed. He tried to snatch the banknote back. McQuade said in Afrikaans: ‘No, I’ll pay for it! Just tell me where you got it.’ He pointed at the identification tag. ‘And that. Five rand and a bottle of wine.’

They sat in the front seats of the Landrover, outside Kukki’s Pub. It was a long story, difficult to extract, because McQuade made the mistake of giving Skellum the bottle of wine immediately, and the drunken Damara got drunker.

‘And where is your father now?’

Skellum waved the bottle northwards: ‘Damaraland.’

McQuade said in Afrikaans, ‘And are you sure he says there was no boat? These two men just came up out of the sea?’

‘No boat! They were just white wizards!’

Then they came from a submarine, McQuade reasoned. Absolutely fascinating. Forty years ago. It must have been a German submarine, with an officer named Horst Kohler, and it must have been wrecked. Why else would two men erupt out of the sea? ‘And one was wounded?’

‘Blood,’ Skellum said happily. He wiped his hand downwards over his face. ‘Blood.’

‘And the first man was carrying a package.’

‘Ja.’ Skellum clutched one hand to his chest and made exaggerated swimming motions with the other.

‘And then they fought on the beach?’

‘Fight,’ Skellum said joyfully. He punched the air aggressively. Then drew his finger across his scrawny throat cheerfully. He collapsed back onto the seat, to signify death.

McQuade thought: two submariners escape from a sunken submarine, then fight to the death when they reach the shore? Why? ‘And then the man who won the fight forced your father to lead him down the coast? But your father hit him with a piece of wood?’

‘Wham,’ Skellum said joyfully, reliving the battle. ‘Whok!’ He smashed one hand down on his forearm. ‘Blood!’ He made the clubbing motion again. ‘Whok!’ He curled his arm over his head and cowered theatrically. ‘Finish,’ he said triumphantly as if he had laid the man low himself.

‘And your father returned to the place where the other man was buried? And the jackals had dug him up? And he took this tag from him. Did he ever return to the place where he had hit the first man, to see what had happened to him?’

‘Gone.’ Skellum waved his hand extravagantly at the horizon. Then he fixed his eyes on McQuade’s nose. He slurred conspiratorially, ‘Does the Baas want to buy some more white money?’ He burrowed into his pocket, and pulled out a black wallet importantly. ‘My father found this after the fight.’

McQuade took the wallet. It was bulky and made of leather. Some initials were imprinted on it. He switched on the cab light. The letters were in Gothic style: the initials were H.M.

The wallet was packed with white paper money. He pulled a note out. It was the same as the one he had bought. He pulled out some more. They were in good condition, though the edges of some were worn. He counted them. There were ninety-seven notes. Four hundred and eight-five pounds. He turned to Skellum. ‘This is old English money. It is not used any more. How many of these have you managed to sell?’

‘None,’ Skellum proclaimed. ‘Only to you.’

McQuade did not believe him. ‘So this wallet did not belong to the man who was stabbed to death? The man this tag came from. It belonged to the first man?’

‘Ja.’

Then McQuade noticed something else: the serial numbers on two notes were the same.

He flicked through a dozen notes. They all had the same serial number.

Counterfeit money …

He had read somewhere that during the war the Nazis had counterfeited tons of English money which they intended to flood onto the market to destroy Britain’s economy. He thought, this gets curiouser and curiouser. Two men escape from a sunken German submarine over forty years ago. One, a man called Horst Kohler, is already wounded but is chasing the other man, whose initials are H.M. H.M. is carrying a package. On the beach they fight to the death. H.M. is also carrying a wallet containing a lot of counterfeit English money.

Where had he got that money from? And why did they fight? Over the money? The contents of the package? Why did only two men escape from the submarine? Why was Horst Kohler chasing H.M. so furiously? H.M. was armed with both a pistol and a knife, Kohler had nothing but his fists, yet he persevered. Surely he would not have done that just for five hundred pounds. That meant H.M.’s package contained something much more valuable. Like diamonds?

Another point: H.M. was carrying the package as he swam ashore: he swam with difficulty. Only after the fight did he open the package and put the two bags into his pockets. Why did he not do that before he escaped from the submarine? Answer: H.M. did not have time to open the package inside the submarine – he only had time to snatch it up. That suggested that he left behind more valuables.

The more McQuade thought about it, the more convinced he became. That submarine was shipwrecked, because only two men emerged from it, in disarray, one pursuing the other. So, it was still where it sank, and inside was a hell of a lot more valuable stuff than H.M. had managed to struggle ashore with. Why? Because of the counterfeit fivers. Surely only a very senior Nazi official had access to counterfeit money and a submarine. McQuade had read somewhere about the vast treasures the Nazis were said to have accumulated and shipped away to South America. Well, here we have another case. To arrange a submarine you must be a very senior official, and a high-up Nazi official has more loot stashed away against the day the shit hits the fan than five hundred counterfeit English pounds and one package of diamonds.

McQuade stared down the sandy street, his excitement mounting. God, if all that was correct, there was a fortune somewhere down there, in that submarine. Crates of the stuff.

But why was this German submarine off the coast of South West Africa? That’s a long, long way from South America where all the Nazis ran to.

McQuade stared through the windscreen, trying to think as a seaman.

Two possibilities. One: because of Allied maritime patrols in the Atlantic, the commander decides to hug the coast of West Africa. He has navigational problems and because of treacherous currents, the submarine crashes into a sandbank off the infamous Skeleton Coast.

McQuade shook his head. All right, it was a possibility, but the Skeleton Coast was simply too far off the route to South America for it to be a credible course for even the most cautious submariner.

So, possibility two. Namibia, or South West Africa, as it was called, was a German colony until the First World War. It was then occupied by South African troops to protect the Cape sea route from German warships. At the end of the war, the colony was handed over to South Africa to govern as a trusteeship territory. But the country remained heavily pro-German. So this submarine had been heading for this vast, sympathetic, pro-German territory to unload its Nazis and their loot. However, before it could do so it came to grief on the treacherous Skeleton Coast, and H.M. escaped with some of the loot, with Kohler pursuing him to get his share …

This was the most likely scenario: Namibia was so vast and so German that it would be a good place for Nazis to hide, to become absorbed. This scenario presupposed that arrangements had been made with German agents in Namibia to rendezvous with the submarine, in a fishing trawler, for example, to receive the Nazis and the loot. This also explained why the submarine was so close in-shore, waiting for the rendezvous, that it came to grief on sandbanks.

But why did only two men escape? What happened to the rest?

McQuade sighed. He knew very little about submarines. Was it possible that two men were discharged, and the submarine sailed away happily? It was not likely. For several reasons:

Firstly, H.M. was struggling to swim with his package. Surely, if the disembarkation was planned, he would have secured his package in some way to enable him to swim properly. Secondly, Horst Kohler was injured, and he was furiously pursuing H.M. Kohler was trying to prevent H.M. from escaping. And thirdly, the most compelling reason of all: if the disembarkation had been planned, why would they choose the killer Skeleton Coast? Why not further south, close to Swakopmund, and why not come ashore with some kind of raft carrying some food and water?

So, it was obviously a case of shipwreck.

But why did only two men escape?

But all those questions surely did not matter. The only thing that mattered today, forty-odd years later, was that somewhere on this Skeleton Coast lay a German submarine with a lot of Nazi treasure in it. In water so shallow that two men could escape from it.

McQuade sat back. Excited. And he made up his mind. ‘Have you got a job, Skellum?’

Skellum turned to him, his eyes glazed. ‘Nee.’

McQuade pulled out a fifty-rand banknote.

‘You and I are going to drive up to Damaraland. To meet your father. So he can tell me this story himself.’

4

He first went back to his ship and collected the sextant, the nautical almanac, the sight-reduction tables, an Admiralty chart of the coast, a plotting sheet and parallel rulers. He grabbed some cans of food, beer, two bottles of brandy, some cooking utensils and four blankets, which he slung in the back of the Landrover. Then he drove back towards Swakopmund and the Skeleton Coast beyond. Skellum was sprawled in a drunken sleep. That was okay with McQuade: he expected no great meeting of minds on this journey and just hoped that the man had not made up the whole story.

The road north from Swakopmund was smooth, compacted sand. To the left was the moonlit Atlantic, in all other directions was only sand, hillocks and humps going on and on. At three o’clock they came to Henties Bay, a little resort for sport-fishermen, holiday houses sitting on bare sand, and McQuade swung off the coastal road, north-east, towards Uis Mine. Now they were in the dune country, hills of yellow and white in the flashing headlamps, going on and on. Then, gradually, the dunes began to turn flinty hard, impacted with the brown gravel hurled into them by the winds, and now the earth was turning into flinty rockiness, hills of rocks rising up into the starry sky, stones flying up from the wheels. Then the dry scrub began to appear. The first light came, greyness turning to pink. Outside Uis Mine he turned left, towards Khorixas, and now here and there were iron windmills. Sunrise came, red and gold fanning up behind the rocky mountains; it was early morning when McQuade drove into dusty, dry Khorixas and stopped at the service station. He shook Skellum awake.

‘You must show me the way from here.’

Skellum blinked around, all hungover and horrible. Then memory dawned on him. He suddenly looked uncomfortable.

‘Ah – I cannot take you to my father’s kraal.’

So it was all a hoax! ‘Why not?’ McQuade demanded dangerously.

Skellum shifted. ‘Because he will beat me.’

‘Why will he beat you? Because your story is a pack of lies?’

‘Because,’ Skellum shifted uncomfortably, ‘he does not know I took these things from his hut.’

‘You stole them from your own father?’

Skellum waggled his hungover head. ‘I only borrowed them …’

McQuade grabbed him by his shirt front theatrically. ‘Last night I paid you fifty rand to take me to your father. Now get on with it! And if you’re frightened he’s going to beat you,’ he snatched a bottle of brandy off the back seat, ‘fortify yourself with this!’

It was nine o’clock when the Landrover went grinding up the stony track through the yellow brown rocky hills and came to a halt at Jakob’s kraal. It consisted of three small stone huts, plastered with mud, roofed with flattened paraffin tins. A cooking fire smouldered outside the central hut. A scrawny old man and an old woman appeared in the dark doorway, astonished.

Skellum was right to be nervous. As he and McQuade climbed out of the vehicle, the old man’s astonishment gave way to fury. He snatched up a thick stick and came charging at Skellum, swiping. Skellum flung his arms up and his father swiped him on the shoulders, swipe, swipe, shouting curses, and Skellum scuttled about backwards, his scrawny old father swiping after him. ‘Stop!’ McQuade shouted. ‘Stop! I am not the police! I am a friend!’ He grabbed the stick. ‘I am a friend!’

They sat around the smoky fire, on the ground, while the old woman made tea. Skellum sat against a hut wall, malevolently nursing his bruises and his hangover. Scrawny chickens scratched in the earth and half a dozen goats wandered around. Jakob had been pacified by a present of a bottle of brandy and assurances from McQuade that he had not come to make trouble. Why did the Baas want to hear the story? Because he was interested, McQuade said, and as he already knew the story, why should not Jakob repeat it truly? The old man was sullenly impressed by these arguments and the brandy, whilst still glancing malevolently at his son.

He solemnly told the story again. McQuade had to be careful how he asked his questions lest it appear that he criticized his conduct. They spoke in Afrikaans:

‘And you’re absolutely sure only two men came out? Is it not possible that more emerged after the fight?’

‘Not possible. I would have seen their footprints when I came back.’

‘Why did you go back?’

‘Because I had left my bag when I ran away. I hoped it would still be there.’

‘But you only found the wallet?’ He did not believe that – the old man had stolen it. ‘How many bottles of water were in your bag?’

‘Five.’

About five pints. A determined man could get a long way on five pints. ‘And how much dried meat?’

Jakob put his finger on his wrist, indicating a piece of meat the size of his hand.

‘And where is Petrus now, the other man with you?’

‘He has died.’

‘Have you or Petrus ever told this story to anyone else?’

Jakob shook his old head.

‘Do you remember the time when the great war ended?’

‘I remember hearing it was ended.’

‘Did this happen before or after that?’

‘After,’ Jakob said.

‘How long after? One month? Two? Four?’

‘Maybe one month.’

Oh yes, McQuade thought.

‘And was there water to be found in the river beds near the coast? If a man dug for it.’

‘If he dug for it he would find some water.’

‘And game?’

‘Yes, there would be some game near the river beds.’

So he could have got food and water. And he had a gun. ‘Why didn’t you take his gun?’

Jakob said, ‘I was frightened. I ran away. I did not think about the gun until afterwards.’

‘And the man’s front teeth were definitely broken?’

‘Broken.’ Jakob pointed at his own gums.

So he was in pain for a long time, McQuade thought, so the first thing he would have done when he reached civilization was go to a dentist. ‘Can you describe this man? How old was he? Was he younger or older than me?’

Jakob glanced at McQuade. ‘About the same age.’

‘And how old am I?’

‘Maybe you have forty years.’

Not bad, McQuade thought. That meant that if H.M. had survived, he would now be an old man of about eighty. ‘What colour hair did he have?’

Jakob pointed at a dark rock.

‘Was his hair curly or straight?’

‘Straight.’

‘Eyes?’

Jakob indicated his own eyes. ‘Brown.’

‘Anything else? Scars, for example?’

Jakob shook his head. ‘I saw no scars.’

‘What was his nose like? Broad; thin, straight, crooked?’

‘It was straight, like yours.’

‘How was his mouth?’

‘He had thin lips.’

‘How was his chin? Did it have a dent, like mine? Or was it round, like yours?’

Jakob thought. ‘I think it had a dent.’

‘How tall was he?’ McQuade stood up. ‘Taller than me? Or shorter?’

Jakob stood up. He compared McQuade to himself, then touched the tip of McQuade’s shoulder.

That’s short for a white man, McQuade thought. He himself was six foot so H.M. was about five foot three or four.

‘And was he fat, thin or average?’

‘He was not fat, he was not thin.’

‘Did you get anything else from the dead man apart from the cross and the tag? A piece of paper, maybe? Another wallet?’

Jakob shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘And what did this man look like?’

Jakob said: ‘He was dead. His face was covered in blood and sand. And the jackals had been eating him.’

‘All right. Now please –’ he was going to say ‘be honest’ but changed it, ‘– please think carefully. Was there anything else in the wallet apart from the white money? You can tell me without fear. Was there a card, perhaps? Some papers?’

Jakob glanced away. ‘Nothing.’

McQuade thought he was lying but let it go for the moment. ‘Did you ever exchange any of the white English money for our money?’

Jakob said emphatically: ‘No.’

McQuade knew he was lying. Four hundred and eighty-five is an untidy number of forged English pounds. But only a few people had trusted the strange-looking money. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I was afraid the police may say I stole it.’

McQuade nodded. ‘How many people know about this story, Jakob?’

‘I told only my wife and my son.’ Jakob gave a truculent glance at Skellum.

‘Did Petrus keep anything taken that day?’

‘He did not want anything.’

‘And how did Skellum get hold of it?’

‘He stole it! From my hut!’ Jakob said indignantly.

‘When?’

‘Last month he ran away. Later I found he had stolen these things.’

Skellum was sitting against the hut wall, a big bruise on his temple, one eye swollen, looking murderous. McQuade wanted to ask him how many people he had told the story to, but didn’t think he would get any truth from Skellum. Now for the all-important question.

‘And can you remember the place on the shore where the white men came out of the sea? The exact place?’

Jakob glanced at him. Then looked away.

‘I do not think I remember.’

‘But why not? Damara people remember the eyes of a buck they shot fifty years ago!’

‘Because the coast walks.’

This was true. The Skeleton Coast changes, the winds and tides slowly shifting the great expanses of sand, so that old wrecks are sometimes found buried hundreds of yards inland. McQuade burrowed his hand into his pocket. He counted off four fifty-rand banknotes elaborately. He held them out to Jakob.

‘Please take me to this place.’

5

They drove back through the scrub-rock hills towards the Skeleton Coast, stones flying from the wheels, dust billowing up behind. McQuade wanted to make the coast while the sun was still high enough to use the sextant. Then the yellow-grey hills gave way to the rock mountains heaped up on the horizon, iron-brown and shimmering under the merciless blue sky. It was afternoon when they reached the ranger’s post at Springbokwasser, midst a clump of reeds. McQuade got a twenty-four-hour permit.

They drove on. Slowly the iron-brown mountains gave way to the flinty dunes, grey-brown and yellow. McQuade said to Jakob:

‘This man spoke in German. You understand German?’

‘I understand many words.’

McQuade said: ‘How was it when the Germans ruled this country?’

Jakob stared through the windscreen. ‘Sleg,’ he said. Bad.

‘Why?’

Jakob shook his head. ‘Twenty-five lashes. And if the whip does not whistle that lash does not count.’ He added: ‘Blood.’

‘For what offence did people get twenty-five lashes?’

‘For anything.’ He added: ‘For falling down. Even women and children.’

McQuade frowned. ‘Why did they fall down?’