‘I believe, sir, you owe me your utmost loyalty. I have quashed very serious charges against you, and against Doktor von Braun at your request. And at great personal expense I have taken it upon myself to see that this half-witted woman of whom you are so fond has been given the best possible care. Accordingly, I will tolerate no further outbursts or disagreements over my orders. Do I make myself entirely clear?’
Bethwig, still reeling from the casual announcement of the cancellation of the moon landing, could only nod. Himmler gave him a final stare and, without another word, left the office.
London
October 1943
It has the feel of the last day of Indian summer, Jan Memling thought as he crossed Bayswater Road and sought, among the maze of streets north of Hyde Park, the address he had been given by Brigadier Simon-Benet the afternoon before. The sun burned down with unexpected heat, and a lazy stillness hung over the city. Traffic noises seemed distant, and here and there he could hear children laughing as they played. He was sweating in his wool uniform and feeling quite light-headed before he found the correct address in Norfolk Crescent.
From the outside it seemed like any other Victorian town house. The bombing had not devastated the West End as it had other parts of the city, and the area retained the feeling of ‘pre-war England’ which the papers were beginning to write about as if it had been a distant and shining time rather than the tail end of a worldwide depression.
He rang the bell, and the elderly porter who opened the door nodded him inside where a heavily armed Royal Marine sat in shadow. An officer stepped out of an anteroom to check his credentials and compare his name and photograph with those on his list. When the officer was satisfied, the porter conducted him along the hall and opened the door to the library.
Six men sat around a polished table spread with maps and photographs. Simon-Benet jumped up when he spotted Memling, and came forward with a smile. ‘Gentlemen, this is the young officer I was telling you about.’
He introduced Memling to the men sitting at the table. He recognised only two of them: Viscount Cherwell, the Prime Minister’s scientific adviser, and Duncan Sandys, Churchill’s son-in-law and head of the new committee charged with the investigation of German rocket development under the code name Operation Crossbow.
Sandys smiled and stood to shake his hand. ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Major. I am certain you earned it. Brigadier Simon-Benet has told me of your latest adventure. An amazing piece of work. Gentlemen’ – he turned to the others at the table – ‘in case you are not aware, Major Memling has just returned from a sojourn in Germany.’
One or two eyebrows went up at that, and Sandys added, ‘From Peenemunde, to be exact, where he actually worked for two weeks before escaping to Sweden.’
There were mild exclamations of surprise.
‘Since his return,’ Sandys continued, ‘unfortunately too late to advise Bomber Command on the selection of targets, Major Memling has been reviewing the after-raid photographs. I have asked him here today to comment on his conclusions in light of his recent visit, and to describe to us what he learned at Peenemunde.’
‘I am certain,’ Simon-Benet suggested in a dry voice that told Memling all he needed to know about the tensions around the table, ‘that when the major has finished, we will have a few surprises to deal with.’
‘I dare say,’ Cherwell murmured, and nodded towards Memling. ‘Perhaps the major would begin?’
Memling spoke for an hour, describing in detail the design and number of rocket engines produced on a monthly basis, noting that the figures were still on a pre-production basis; the type of testing to which they were subjected; and their specifications, including materials. He also described the launching he had observed and the engine test firing.
Memling hesitated before continuing. He and Simon-Benet had discussed the advisability of mentioning the new rocket project he had uncovered. The brigadier was insistent that he do so; but Memling was reluctant, recalling the reaction given his earlier reports. With a glance at the brigadier, who encouraged him with a smile, he related his conversations with Ernst Mundt and presented his estimate of the size and capabilities of the new rocket. Memling could see by the pained expression that passed across Viscount Cherwell’s face that his report was being received much as he had expected. When he suggested that such a rocket might have a transatlantic range, it was only Simon-Benet’s stern glance that prevented an interruption.
When he finished, Simon-Benet did not allow the briefest lapse and immediately launched into a description of Memling’s escape. The brigadier had somehow got hold of his after-action report to 2 Commando, to which he was still officially attached, and narrated in detail all the events, including his killing of the four SD men. There was polite applause and smiles from the military men present, while the civilians looked a bit uncomfortable.
A slim, quiet man in elegantly tailored clothes asked to direct a question to Memling, and Sandys nodded agreement.
‘This new rocket you speak of sounds quite an advance over the smaller one the Germans refer to as A-Four. I would assume it would require a great deal more in the way of support services, such as increased launching areas. Those used for the A-Four are readily detectable, now that we know what to look for. Why is it, then, that we have not spotted such an area for – I believe you called it the A-Ten?’
Memling took a deep breath. He had expected this question. ‘Such a launching site does exist. I found indications of it in earlier photographs. The site is in the central southern portion of Usedom, well away from the Luftwaffe or A-Four launch sites. It occupies an area normally referred to on our maps as marshland. Few photos have been taken of this area, as overflight time is necessarily limited, and the concentration has been on known launching sites and test facilities on the northern and Baltic coastal sections of the island. The Germans are, as we all know, masters of camouflage, and the wide marshy area is easy to disguise. We have asked that the next recon flight include this area.’
The man studied him for a moment, then nodded, clearly unconvinced, and Memling felt a flash of anger at the man’s dismissal of the information simply because it did not fit his pre-conceived theories. Sandys started to ask his assessment of the bomb damage, but Viscount Cherwell interrupted with a question.
‘Major, correct me if I am in error, but are you not the one who first reported the work in Germany on large rocket engines, in, I believe, 1938?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And again in 1940, as the result of another daring mission behind enemy lines, this time in Belgium, I believe. At that time you supplied an estimate of the capability of rocket engines seen in, I seem to recall, Liege, was it not?’
Memling nodded, glancing quickly to Simon-Benet who was scowling down the table at Viscount Cherwell.
‘Major, you and I have debated the status of the Nazi rocket programme before, and you are well acquainted with my opinion that Germany cannot spare the economic resources for a research and development programme of such magnitude. Now I freely admit’ – he smiled in condescension – ‘that my opinion may be coloured by my own prejudices in this matter, and I would ask you to stop and consider whether, in view of the amazing series of coincidences by which you have ferreted out what you believe to be the secret of enemy rocket research, your own opinion and conclusions are not coloured by your personal prejudices as well?’
‘I say!’ the brigadier exploded, but Memling’s calm answer stopped his further objections.
‘You may be right, Viscount Cherwell. And in your position I would be inclined to ask the same question. Since you first raised your objections nearly a year ago I have given it a great deal of thought. As you may recall, I described in a formal paper how sufficient alcohol could be produced for fuel, and I believe my estimates have since been verified by independent intelligence means.’