‘You really should check, you know. If I am killed you and your friend are liable to hang – from a meat hook. Himmler prefers that method of execution, I am told.’
The other SS trooper, Clement, put a hand on his companion’s arm. ‘Wait. I think we had better check, just to make certain. What if he isn’t lying?’
He pushed Bethwig’s arms up, yanked open his coat, and searched until he found the wallet and dragged it out. Using his electric torch, he examined Bethwig’s papers.
‘See, just as he said.’
The sturmmann shook his head. ‘Probably forgeries. ‘I’m cold, damn it. ‘I’m going to shoot him now, and then we are going back…’
Clement shook his head, if these papers are correct, we will hang. If not, we can shoot him later.’ He turned to Bethwig. ‘Where is this assembly point? Will there be anyone there to identify you?’
Bethwig nodded. ‘Of course. In the village of Vreden.’
The sturmmann muttered to himself, but Clement shoved Bethwig around. ‘Get started.’ Bethwig suppressed a snort of satisfaction and began to retrace his steps in the fading light. Apparently the sturmmann, although superior in rank, was deficient in brains.
It took them almost thirty minutes to find the clearing, and when they pushed cautiously into the deserted area, they found the remains of the launching site still burning. Bethwig trudged on across the trampled field towards the distant village of Vreden without waiting for them.
Bethwig had spent the previous month living a gypsy-like existence, moving from one raw launch crew to another in support of the offensive in the Ardennes. Peenemunde had been stripped of experienced personnel to direct the barrage of rockets launched against Antwerp, Brussels and London in an effort to disrupt Allied supply lines and kill reserve troops and headquarters units. For two weeks they had operated in the comparative safety of bad weather, but a few days after Christmas the weather had begun to clear, and they were being hunted again.
He had slogged from one frozen, wind-blasted forest clearing to another, following the same exhausting drill. The crews were all ill-trained, some lacking any idea of what they were about. He had only a few key veterans to assist him, and the spate of air attacks had killed the last of them two days before, leaving him with the sole responsibility for moving the train of vehicles from one location to another, checking the rockets, seeing that the necessary repairs were made – often doing them himself – then supervising the erection and launch procedures. Even so, with certain shortcuts he had managed to whittle down the time between launches to less than six hours. He could have improved on that, he knew, but the quartermaster corps seemed to have given up on the war, and as a result, his men were constantly hungry, cold, and exhausted. Then there were conflicting orders from Berlin and Kammler’s headquarters, all of which were interpreted by a succession of arrogant SS officers whose loyalties to Germany rarely seemed to coincide with their loyalties to obscure superiors who had other objectives in mind.
Now he sat on his bunk in the unheated caravan housing the launching and tracking equipment and stared stupidly at the piece of paper shoved at him by an orderly who had just wakened him from the first bit of sleep he had had in more than two days. It took several moments for the message to make sense.
He was to return immediately to Peenemunde. Nothing more. The order was signed by Kammler. Bethwig stepped to the door and pulled the curtain aside. Bright sunlight forced him to squint as he looked across the Dutch barnyard towards the amazingly flat fields beyond. He knew they were somewhere west of the River Ems, but had not had the strength to ascertain exactly where when they had arrived shortly before dawn. Wherever it was, they were nearing the absolute limit for V-2 operations against England. It must be true, then, he thought. The Ardennes offensive had failed. If so, troops would soon be falling back into Germany and the effectiveness of the V-2s would suffer accordingly.
He packed his few belongings and went over to the mess tent for a hurried breakfast of coffee – burned toast steeped in boiling water – hard bread, and ersatz jam. He showed the orders to the SS officer commanding the unit. The man was the fourth in as many weeks, and Bethwig had not even bothered to learn his name. The officer stared with glazed eyes at the yellow sheet of paper, then nodded. Franz went out and hitched a ride with a lorry heading east towards the Ems. Less than a kilometre along the road a Spitfire flashed towards them, waggled its wings in derision, and a few moments later they heard the explosions begin.
‘Herr Doktor, the Führer has granted the A-Ten operational status as a retaliation weapon. It is to be known as Vengeance Ten, and you are to see that its deployment is accelerated!’ Bethwig shook his head. ‘General Kammler, it is impossible.’
‘Nothing is impossible to a member of the German…’
Bethwig laughed. ‘General, do not waste my time with party slogans. I was a veteran party member while you were still at university. Slogans no longer impress me and do you know why? Because people like you have destroyed the party and, in the process, destroyed Germany.’
Kammler thrust his head forward and glared at Bethwig. ‘Defeatist talk! For that you could be shot!’
‘And then you would lose all hope of deploying the V-Ten, wouldn’t you?’ Bethwig shot back. He opened the box of cigarettes on the general’s desk, took one, and glanced at the name printed on the paper.
‘These are American.’
‘Help yourself,’ Kammler sneered. ‘They were taken from a convoy of American supplies a few weeks ago.’
Bethwig smiled. ‘That is my point, General. You, safe, warm and well fed in a rear area, have good American cigarettes, while the frontline soldier dies on the battlefield, with dried leaves for tobacco.’
Kammler’s face flushed, and he started to retort, but Bethwig, weary of arguing, held up a hand. ‘General, I did not say that I would not, I merely said that it was impossible to ready the V-Ten batteries in the time you expect. I am not averse to trying; I merely wish it to be understood that I do not expect to succeed. There is no longer a possibility of establishing four batteries by May thirtieth. My preliminary studies indicate that they will not be ready until September even if the priorities you claim could produce the raw materials. And a miracle would be needed, even for that late date. With the loss of the Dutch industrial areas, we cannot even produce sufficient liquid oxygen to fuel the existing four battalions of V-Twos, let alone four more of V-Tens. And you know as well as I how meaningless priorities now are. Where are the two railway locomotives I requested months ago? They are heading to the east, pulling wagons loaded with Jews. Why do these people, enemies of the German Reich, take precedence over the survival of Germany?’
Kammler turned to the window, his expression hardening. ‘I do not know. And I do not concern myself with matters that are not my responsibility. You would be well advised to follow a similar policy.’
‘Sound advice, General. And very necessary in our Germany today. However, please remember, it was you people in the SS who created the Germany in which such practices are accepted.’
Bethwig stared at Kammler who returned his look without flinching. Finally, Bethwig shrugged.
‘Perhaps I can furnish that miracle, General Kammler.’ When he was certain he had the general’s attention, Franz went on. ‘Three V-Tens were near completion when you sent me to Belgium. I told you then that given another month I could have had them ready for launching. If you had left me alone, perhaps now your batteries of transatlantic missiles might be nearing readiness.’