The engineer, who introduced himself as Ernst Mundt, was a pleasant young man in his late twenties, blondish and pale-’ skinned with freckles that made him seem even younger. He showed Memling the carts of assembled rocket motors as proudly as any father showing off his children, and when Memling expressed astonishment that so much had been achieved, the man fairly glowed.
‘Before the war,’ Memling told him, ‘I was a member of the Belgian Experimental Rocket Society. I have always been interested in rockets and the possibility of spaceflight.’
‘Aha! Another man of intelligence.’ The German clapped him on the back. ‘You see, the war produces some good after all. It brings us rocket scientists together. We will achieve things here at Peenemunde that will be talked about for a thousand years, Third Reich or no Third Reich.’ Mundt, realising he had been indiscreet, grinned sheepishly at Memling but said nothing more.
He assigned Memling to perform final quality control checks on the completed rocket motors before they left the building for final acceptance testing. When Mundt had gone, Memling spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing the procedures manual and familiarising himself with the engine, struggling all the while to control his amazement and enthusiasm. The engines were rated to develop over twenty-five thousand kilograms of thrust – fifty-five thousand pounds – very near what he had originally estimated three years before. The general dimensions and carrying capacity – the Germans called it payload – were also quite close.
The massive hangar doors at the end of the building were opened to allow the Baltic breeze to sweep away the afternoon heat, and periodically a distant roaring sounded across the pine forest and scrub flats as engines were tested. Each time, the German engineer caught his eyes and winked, and each time, Memling responded. Enemy or not, there is something a great deal more important here, he thought, than politics and war.
That evening, much to Francine’s consternation, he sat up late, making crabbed sketches and notes concerning what he had learned. At first she sat on the bed trying to coax a response and, when he ignored her, angrily demanded his attention. Everything welled up so quickly that he had already slapped her before he realised what he had done.
‘You little fool,’ he hissed. ‘This is more important than sex.’
The girl tried to swing at him, and he slapped her again, hard. Francine shrank away, holding her face where the bright red finger marks were beginning to show, and nodded sullenly.
Memling went back to the table, and Francine continued to crouch on the bed in a sulk until she fell asleep. He worked a long time and then, feeling guilty, concealed the notes and drawing between a rafter and roof board, and got into bed beside her.
He stroked her back until she woke, and then tried to take her into his arms. Francine jerked away from him and curled into a ball. His anger at her childishness exploded, and he spun her around and forced her legs apart, seeking to relieve his own pain and fear. When he was finished, the girl was sobbing but refused to let him go. He lay awake for the rest of the night, staring at the moonlit ceiling.
The following morning Francine was subdued. Finger marks were still prominent on her cheek, and her eyes, red from crying, rarely left Memling as he ate. Frau Zinn glanced knowingly from one to the other, and she practically fawned over him until he was ready to leave.
The days then became routine for Memling. He would arrive at his station every morning at seven and leave at five-thirty when the shifts changed. In between, he spent hours painstakingly checking the tolerances of various engine parts, sometimes completing four assemblies in one day. By the time he was moved to the final check station at the end of the week, he was familiar enough with the engines to reproduce the blueprints from memory.
He had become quite friendly with the German engineer, Ernst Mundt, and on Friday afternoon was invited to Test Stand VIII to see the mounting and firing of an engine he had passed. Afterwards he was introduced to a tall, raw-boned man in army uniform with ordnance flashes and the insignia of a general-major. This was General Walter Dornberger, director of Heersversuchsstelle Peenemunde, the Army Research Centre. Mundt called him a member of the team, an appellation Memling found warming in spite of the fact that these men were enemies who intended to destroy his country with their rockets.
He took what advantage he could of the brief outing to identify the major structures he could see through the trees and along the beach. That evening he sketched a detailed map of the installation and added to it each night during the following week until it showed the centre divided into two distinct entities: one controlled by the army, Peenemunde East Development Centre; and the other under the auspices of the Luftwaffe and known as Peenemunde West. Together the installations covered ten square kilometres, as had been estimated by CIU in London. The problem for Bomber Command lay in the fact that installations were scattered generally along the eastern coast of the island from the northern tip to the town of Zinnowitz, fifteen kilometres south. Memling had gained a brief glimpse of the actual rocket launch stands, massive structures located close to the Baltic on the northern strand. Farther south were smaller stands for static testing, including Test Stand VIII, and beyond them began the engineering and research areas comprising both military and civilian headquarters, the administration buildings, canteens, officers’ quarters, and maintenance shops.
Two days before, he had been sent on an errand and having taken a wrong turn, found himself face to face with a barrier manned by soldiers in black uniforms bearing the jagged collar flashes of the SS. That night Memling added the roadblock to the map and sat puzzling over what it hid. The map showed nothing but marshy grasslands beyond the pine forest covering the centre portion of the island.
Eight kilometres south of the major test stands was the village of Karlshagen, a pre-war seaside resort of some renown where most of the scientists and their families were now housed in a special compound known as the Siedlung, or settlement. Many of the foreign workers were also quartered there in barracks near the square, across from which were barracks for the enlisted military personnel. A camp at Trassenheide some two kilometres west contained the Russian and Polish POWs who were used both at HVP and at the Luftwaffe installations. As diligently as he had searched and asked dangerous leading questions, he had been unable to locate the liquid oxygen plant, which, in his and Simon-Benet’s mind, was a primary target.
Memling contemplated his map late one evening as Francine came to stand beside him.
‘It does look rather sparse, doesn’t it?’
As on previous occasions, Memling was struck by her perception. It was hard to remember that she did have some training as a technician when she generally behaved as childishly as a twelve-year-old.
‘It does. There have to be major machine shops, chemical laboratories, a wind tunnel, and especially the liquid oxygen plant, but ‘I’m damned if I know where. Access is so limited that it would be suicide to try and search, even at night.’
‘But haven’t you learned a great deal anyway?’
Memling rubbed his aching eyes and glanced at the map. ‘I suppose so. But so much is missing and there’s so little time left to find it all.’
Francine’s fingers tightened where she had been massaging his neck. ‘So little time?’
‘Of course. We can’t stay here much longer. I want to be well out of Germany before the Gestapo turns us up.’
The girl sat down on the bed and stared at him. ‘Leave? Where? How do we…’
Memling had the damnedest feeling that she had never even considered the possibility that she would have to leave Germany. What in the name of God was going on here? Was the German resistance that inept?