‘…found one difference between the Swedish rocket and your report,’ he heard the brigadier saying. ‘I suppose it can be counted as one for Captain Reynolds, since it was his pet idea. The Hun has apparently added a wireless type of guidance. One was found in the rocket. Now that we have it, it should be easy enough to develop a method to assume control of the rocket in flight and direct it away from inhabited areas, as he proposed.’
It was a moment before Memling absorbed what Simon-Benet was saying. Then he shook his head. ‘They don’t use a radio control system. The rocket is a ballistic missile. No provision was made for a wireless guidance system. Reynolds had a look at the rocket and admitted that himself.’
The brigadier smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Now don’t you fret about that, Jan. Even Jerry changes his mind occasionally. This rocket had a very sophisticated guidance system. You can see it for yourself tomorrow. But first I suggest you get to bed for a good sleep. You look as if you could use it.’ As he talked the brigadier led Memling to the door. For a moment a curious sense of déjà vu passed over Jan, and he wondered if it was starting all over again. The brigadier was speaking to him in the same condescending tone that all the others had used when refusing to accept his suggestions or evidence. But before he could say anything, Simon-Benet had opened the door and he saw Janet waiting for him in the corridor.
DESCENT AND RESURRECTION
Holland – Germany
December 1944
Franz Bethwig dived for the slit trench as the Mustang leapt over the hedge. Four distinct lines of machine-gun bullets raced across the frozen mud towards the V-2 squatting on its erector. As he plopped into the mud there was a dull boom and a flash that lit the waning afternoon. Pieces of metal showered the area, and when he dared raise his head above the lip of the trench, the rocket, its erector, and the firing and tracking caravan were little more than flaming masses of twisted metal.
An officer ran towards him shouting, trying to make himself heard above the blowtorch roar of flaring alcohol. His message was clear enough, and Bethwig vaulted from the trench and dived into the woods, while more aircraft raced in to drop their bomb loads and machine-gun the launch site.
Franz stumbled to a halt and sank down beside the trunk of a fallen beech. He huddled into himself, breath rasping, and stared dully into the declining twilight while the explosions went on and on. Somehow during the headlong run he had tom his army overcoat so that it gaped along one shoulder. He had also twisted an ankle.
A stiffening wind was getting up, and a few desultory snowflakes drifted past. Aircraft raids had become a way of life to V-2 launch crews. No matter how far they retreated into Holland, American Mustangs and Thunderbolts and British Spitfires and Typhoons sought them out. They always came like that, he thought, low over the forest so that they seemed to jump down on to the launching area, their only warning a snarling engine and stuttering machine-guns. The launch crews were so thoroughly demoralised that the SS had found it necessary to add a contingent of guards to stop the high rate of desertion. Just in the past two weeks there had been three executions within his own battalion. Two SS guards had been found with their throats cut, victims of army retaliation. Bad feelings between SS and army troops were developing into open warfare. No SS man dared walk about by himself, even in daylight.
The light was fading fast, and Bethwig knew that he should find his way back to the assembly point before darkness fell completely. He fumbled for a cigarette, found one that was comparatively dry, and lit it, shielding the match against the wind. He drew the smoke into his lungs and coughed; the tobacco was foul and musty-tasting. He stared at the glowing end with distaste but did not snuff it out.
‘You in there! Come out immediately and with your hands up.’ Startled, Bethwig peered through the branches to see two men in dark overcoats and coal-scuttle helmets watching him. One had a rifle levelled.
He muttered a curse and fought his way out of the tangle of branches to glimpse the lightning-bolt device on one man’s collar. ‘SS!’ His voice dripped contempt.
The tall one smirked. ‘Another deserter, Clement.’
Bethwig shook his head. ‘I am a civilian, an army employee. And you have no jurisdiction.’
‘Is that so.’
Bethwig could identify the rank now; the tall one was a sturmmann and the other an SS-mann, equivalent to lance corporal and private, respectively, in the army.
The sturmmann reached forward to rub the material of Bethwig’s torn greatcoat between his fingers. ‘This looks like an army issue to me.’
Bethwig knocked his hand away. ‘It is, you idiot.’ He unbuttoned the coat and flung it open. ‘But no uniform underneath.’
‘Not so unusual. Most deserters get rid of their uniforms as quickly as possible. They think to fool us that way.’
Bethwig shook his head in disgust. They were one of the SS patrols detailed to search behind the front lines for deserters. Soldiers caught away from their units without proper authorisation were summarily executed by men like these.
‘We are at least twenty kilometres from the front lines. Are you two skulking back here because there is no one to shoot at you?’ The private chuckled. ‘For someone about to be shot, your mouth certainly flaps a lot.’
Bethwig snorted. ‘I am an engineer assigned to a V-Two launch team, B company. Four hundred eighty-fifth Battalion, about a kilometre from here. It was shot up twenty minutes ago by an Allied aircraft.’
‘And so you ran away?’ the other sneered.
‘Of course, you fool. Those are standing orders, written by SS General Kammler himself. The Allied aircraft always try to kill as many of the launch crew as possible. The general’s orders are to scatter and return to a specified assembly point within sixty minutes. We have few enough trained technicians as it is.’
The sturmmann laughed. ‘Well, if that is the case, the Four hundred eighty-fifth is about to be one fewer.’ He looked around the clearing. ‘This spot is as good as any, I suppose.’
He undid the holster flap and drew his Walther pistol. Bethwig was so cold and exhausted that for a moment his actions did not register. To be shot almost seemed a welcome idea, but he forced himself to make the effort.
‘You damned fool. How do you think you will explain my execution to your superiors?’
‘Quite simply. We complete the report forms when we return to our unit. Whatever we say is accepted. Right, Clement?’ The SS-mann nodded in solemn agreement.
Oddly enough, Bethwig felt absolutely no fear, only curiosity as to the outcome, and he could not decide if this was a result of exhaustion or self-confidence. ‘You do have to submit the executed prisoner’s identification tags and paybook, do you not?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then before you shoot, you had better search me. You aren’t going to find either.’
The sturmmann shrugged, it is not unusual.’
‘What you will find are my identification papers that show clearly I am an employee of the Army Weapons Research Centre, now under the direction of the SS. I report directly to General Kammler and through him to Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.’ He tilted his head to one side as the man released the safety.