The A-10’s fourth launch, his first as project director, had been a near disaster. The new directional gyroscope had worked perfectly both in static tests and on the A-4 vehicle that had been made available to them. It had failed, however, in the A-10, causing it to veer off course in the first seconds of flight and head inland over Germany. The controller had no choice but to destroy the rocket. The power plant had performed flawlessly, and that in itself was some consolation. His engineers had subsequently discovered that the gyroscope mounting had given way under the unexpectedly high vibration from the new turbo-pumps used to pressurise the fuel tank. Steps had been taken both to reduce the vibration and to increase the strength of the mounting. In a marginal notation on his last report Himmler had professed himself satisfied with his explanation, yet now there was this business with von Braun less than a week later.
An open Mercedes touring car of the type the Gestapo was so fond of drew up outside the house at three-thirty that afternoon, just as dusk was closing in. The rear door was opened by the driver, and a figure emerged clutching a small bag. The driver pointed at the house and, without waiting, got back into the car and drove away. The failing light was uncertain, and the gathering fog obscured detail. Puzzled, Bethwig waited on the porch as the bent figure limped up the path. It was a woman, he saw, and as she looked at him through her heavy black veil Bethwig realised it was Inge. For an instant he could not believe it; he stood as if frozen while the woman stared at him with no sign of recognition. She lifted the veil, and a stray lock of hair escaped from beneath her hat; it was no longer the lovely amber he remembered so well but a coarse grey. The dull light served to emphasise her lined, wasted skin, and when she gave him a tentative smile, he saw that her teeth were badly discoloured and broken. As if in a dream, Bethwig helped her into the house and sat her down before the fireplace. The cruel drive in the open car had left her cold and shivering, and he poured tea from the kettle resting on the hob. Inge held the cup in both hands and, staring about her at the comfortable furniture, the clean rugs, the firewood neatly stacked on the stoop, began to weep. When Bethwig helped her remove her coat, he saw that she was wearing only a short-sleeved dress of coarse sacking. Inge coughed, a deep racking cough that doubled her frail body, and when he helped her into a chair, he saw the eight-digit number tattooed on her left arm.
Himmler’s mocking assurances flooded back: ‘Nothing has been spared in her continuing treatment… does not lack for attention… recreational activities supervised day and night…’ In his fury he could think of no curse, no defilement sufficient for the Reichsführer. All the time that he was being reassured, she must have been in a concentration camp, a plaything for the guards.
He looked at the wasted, dying woman, and a mixture of sadness and anger surged through him at the knowledge that he lacked the power to sentence Himmler to eternal damnation.
Scotland – Germany – Poland
June 1944
When Brigadier Oliver Simon-Benet found Major Jan Memling at the small training camp deep in the hills above the Firth of Forth, he was seated on an upturned jerry can studying a map. The brigadier noted as he slithered down the slope that exercise and sun had agreed with Memling. He was tanned and had filled out his uniform again. The brigadier recalled what Memling had looked like four months before when released from hospitaclass="underline" all skin and bones, and with a pallor that would have shocked an undertaker.
An enlisted man called Memling’s attention to the brigadier’s approach, and Jan stood slowly. Simon-Benet tapped his cap with his swagger stick. ‘Morning, Major. You’re looking quite fit.’
‘Good morning, sir.’ Memling’s manner was polite and icily formal, and he expressed no surprise at seeing him here in the north of Scotland. Obviously, the brigadier thought, he still blames me for that nonsense with the Crossbow committee last winter.
He looked around. Two non-commissioned officers were seated nearby. Both men had noted the red shoulder tabs denoting staff assignment and lost interest. The other man, a lance corporal, was busy repairing some type of electrical gear. The midsummer sun burned in an absolutely cloudless sky, and the temperature was in the mid-eighties. There was no breeze at all. Brownish heather covered hills that rolled away in every direction. Dark-green stands of trees filled the valley below. Simon-Benet wiped the sweatband of his service cap with a handkerchief, then his perspiring face.
‘Can you be spared for a few moments, Major? I must speak with you.’
Memling gave him a resentful stare, then nodded and called to one of the sergeants to take over. They went on down the slope to the valley floor where a small stream trickled and chuckled over mossy stones, and Simon-Benet lowered himself to the ground in the shade of a twisted oak.
‘I should get away from London more often,’ he commented in an attempt to break through Memling’s reserve. ‘Too many fine restaurants. ‘I’m getting fat and sadly out of shape.’
Memling, who had squatted down nearby, now and again glanced up the slope. ‘What can I do for you, Brigadier?’ he asked finally.
‘Stop acting like a silly schoolgirl, for one thing,’ Simon-Benet snorted.
Memling glared but said nothing.
‘I was not responsible for your removal from the Crossbow committee, nor was I to blame for their discrediting your reports. You know as well as I that Viscount Cherwell is convinced Germany cannot support the effort to construct war rockets, and nothing is going to change his mind until after the first of them falls on London. The other faction on the committee feel that you had originally underestimated the size and capacity of the German rockets. They point to their own reports showing the A-4 to have a carrying capacity of ten tons or more of high explosive as determined by photographic measurements. Until we actually capture one, there will be no convincing them. Your removal was effected because you were in hospital while I was in Washington trying to convince the Americans of the dangers of the new rocket you uncovered. Those people, I might say, are even more pigheaded than our own. Even with General Eisenhower’s endorsement, I couldn’t make them understand.’
The brigadier paused a moment. At least the man is listening, he thought, even though he refuses to look in my direction. ‘Look here, Jan, I know that you were under an intense strain, but the doctor gave you a clean bill of health. On that basis Combined Operations agreed to put you back on active duty. So I think it time you stopped acting like a wounded prima donna. You know as well as I that London committees are intensely political animals. It was a clear-cut trade where you were concerned. Certain people on the Crossbow committee felt that you were not technically competent, and you must face the fact that without a union card, in other words, a diploma, they will always think that. No one spends years taking specialised training, only to admit that a non-trained person might be as competent as he. Therefore, in order to gain support for the London anti-aircraft defence and the tactical fighter sweeps, I had to go along. You were the trade goods, Jan, and as much as your feelings were hurt, I do not regret my decision for one moment. The defence of London and its ten million people is of far more significance than your wounded feelings.’
Memling nodded as he finished speaking, but said nothing. Simon-Benet looked away. ‘I suppose I do sound like a headmaster, my boy, but damn it, it’s true.’
Memling stood up, a trace of a smile struggling through. ‘I must admit I have spent the last few months feeling sorry for myself. The spumed hero relegated to Coventry, I suppose.’ He stared off towards the slope where his CP had been set up. ‘I suppose Sergeant McElroy has the situation well in hand. Let’s walk a bit, loosen you up.’