‘What alternative do we have? Are you suggesting we should ask the Luftwaffe to bomb Mechelen?’
‘There is no Luftwaffe left to speak of; certainly not a force capable of bombing a town in Belgium.’ He looked up, suddenly inspired. ‘But who needs them? We have the weapon in our own hands, surely?’ He glanced around the room. ‘Isn’t it obvious, gentlemen? We should strike them with a rocket!’
Seidel’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Klein looked at the floor. Huber said, ‘With respect, Gruppenführer, the V2 is not designed for use as a tactical weapon. It lacks the accuracy.’
‘We’re speaking of a town, Colonel, not a bridge! Look at it!’ He pointed at the map. ‘Are you telling me you can’t hit a target the size of a town?’
Huber hesitated. ‘We may be able to hit the town, but the chances of us knocking out the radar units are tiny.’
‘Then we will fire two missiles, and double our chances!’ The Dust Cloud was whirling now, unstoppable. ‘When are we next due to launch?’
‘We were planning to wait until after the funeral ceremony.’
‘Which is when?’
‘Eleven.’
‘But that’s not for two and a half hours! I want this done immediately! What better way to honour our dead than to strike a blow against the enemy?’
Graf said quietly, ‘It wasn’t the enemy who killed them.’
Kammler turned on him. ‘You people make me sick! You’ve bled the Reich dry to build your damned rockets, and now you tell us you can’t even hit a town two hours’ drive away! I want this done at once, is that understood?’
Huber came to attention. ‘Yes, Gruppenführer!’
Kammler gave him a curt nod. ‘The name of the target should be kept secret from the men. We need to protect our source. You may go.’
The three Wehrmacht officers trooped out of the office. Graf followed them. In the passage, Huber said wearily, ‘Well, you have your orders. Seidel, get your platoon ready to launch. Graf, you had better oversee the re-targeting of the missile.’ His shoulders slouched. He looked crushed. He will be sacked by nightfall, Graf thought.
They crossed the lobby and went out into the morning.
* * *
—
Graf hunched over a map in the technical troop tent, measuring the distance with a pair of dividers. He calculated the flight path from Scheveningen to Mechelen as 121 kilometres. The protractor showed him that instead of a compass bearing of 260 degrees, the rocket would need to fly on a southerly course of 183. The engine cut-off time would need to be reduced from 65 to 26 seconds to flatten the trajectory. That would mean bypassing the onboard accelerometer and instead turning off the motor by radio signal from the ground. The arithmetic was all very crude, but it was the best he could do. Beneath his breath, he cursed Kammler.
He pulled back the tent flap. The missile lay in its wheeled cradle beneath the trees, hooked up to a tractor. The number 3 control panel was open. He used a screwdriver and a pair of pliers to rewire the accelerometer, nodded to the corporal and stood aside as the panels were fixed back in place. The corporal banged his hand on the side of the tractor cab, the engine started and the rocket was slowly moved forward to the warhead mounting section, where the nose cone with its one-ton charge of amatol hung suspended, still housed in its metal shipping drum. It took five men to lower it by block and tackle and guide it into place. Once it was screwed to the end of the fuselage, the container was lifted away. Five minutes later, the fuses were installed and she was ready to go.
Graf walked beside the rocket at a steady pace, like an undertaker beside a hearse, as the missile was moved along the forest road. In the clearing ahead, beneath the wide gantry of the mobile crane, the Meillerwagen was already waiting. The transporter halted alongside it, the V2 was hoisted up and swung across, her nose cone nodding judiciously in the wind. Three men strained on ropes at the back to hold her steady. When she had been lowered onto the Meillerwagen and clamped in place, fore and aft, Graf walked up to the cab of the tow truck and opened the door.
‘Any chance of a lift?’
‘Sure. Get in.’
They moved off towards the launch site. Graf wound down the window and stuck his head out into the fresh air. He gazed at the passing trees. He wondered if his exchanges with Kammler would land him back in a Gestapo cell and he realised he did not care. He felt disturbingly detached. He was not even much bothered that he had just re-targeted a ballistic missile to hit a Belgian town. British or Belgians – what was the difference? How many civilians had he killed already? He passed his hand across his face. My God, he thought, what am I? Was he really any better than the SS? In a way he was worse. At least they had the stomach to kill their victims face to face.
The launch table was already in position. A dozen men stood around it waiting for them. The tow truck halted at a distance of fifteen metres; Graf jumped out of the cab and watched as the Meillerwagen was uncoupled from the tow truck. Steel cables were connected to the chassis and it was winched by hand until the base of the rocket was over the launch table. The supporting jacks were screwed down. The hydraulic rams began to raise the missile. Such simplicity! After a couple of minutes, the V2 reached the upright position, where it was held rigid by the arm of the Meillerwagen a few centimetres above the circular platform. The position was checked and then it was slowly lowered. Once the missile was standing upright, the Meillerwagen withdrew a couple of paces. The hydraulic arm was lowered, testing platforms were attached at various heights, it was raised again and hauled back to the rocket. Cables were run out for the electrical tests.
Graf went over to one of the surveyors, who was peering through his theodolite to make sure the V2 was perfectly vertical. ‘For this launch, we have a different aiming point.’
The soldier blinked at him in surprise. Every missile launched from The Hague in the past six weeks had been set on the same course towards London. ‘Is this a new order?’
‘One hundred and eighty-three. Check with the lieutenant if you like. He’ll confirm it.’
He could see Seidel making his way over from the firing control vehicle. He beckoned to him. ‘I’ve calculated a bearing of one eight three.’
‘Very good,’ said Seidel. ‘You heard Dr Graf, soldier. Re-orientate the rocket.’
‘Yes, Lieutenant!’
A rumble of engines signalled the approach of the fuel tankers – two carrying methyl alcohol, one liquid oxygen and one hydrogen peroxide. Graf and Seidel walked away. Graf said, ‘I’ve disabled the accelerometer. I calculate we need to cut off the engine by radio signal after twenty-three seconds.’
‘What happens if the signal fails?’
‘We’ll hit Reims.’
Seidel stopped in mid-stride. ‘You’re joking?’
‘No. I checked it twice. If she flies the full distance, that’s exactly where she’ll come down.’
‘My God, this is insane – even for Kammler! Does he know this?’
‘Why would he care? It’s only the French.’
Seidel walked off, shaking his head, to supervise the fuelling and Graf took up his usual position, leaning his back against a tree, ready to step forward if his expertise was required. He watched as the men of the fuel and rocket troop took over the preparation of the V2. The protective cones were removed from the jet nozzles. The carbon vanes – too fragile to be fitted until the last minute – were attached beneath the fins. The batteries, which had been drained during the electrical tests, were lowered from the control compartment and replaced. The fuel tankers drew up around the rocket and hoses were run out.
Each one of these procedures had become routine. None of the soldiers would have the faintest notion of how many months and years of effort had gone into devising each one. My life’s work, thought Graf, and it has come to this – a long shot at hitting an unsuspecting Belgian to
wn. The 6,000 litres of alcohol were pumped in first – that took ten minutes – followed by 6,750 kilos of liquid oxygen, which took eight. The pipes gleamed beneath a layer of ice. Clouds of condensed water vapour billowed across the clearing. Hydrogen peroxide was pumped into the steam unit. The sodium permanganate, which reacted with the hydrogen peroxide to produce the steam to power the turbine, was removed from its heated container and tipped into an opening in the tail unit. The compartments were closed. The tankers withdrew. The arm of the Meillerwagen was lowered. The igniter was fitted. Finally the surveyors moved in to turn the rocket on the launch table so that the number one fin was precisely aligned on a bearing of 183 degrees.
Graf pulled his back away from the tree and made his way over to the firing control vehicle as the klaxon sounded. He pulled the heavy door of the armoured car shut behind him. Seidel was peering out of the hatch in the roof. He closed it and slid down into his seat. In his hand he held a stopwatch. ‘Twenty-three seconds, right?’
‘That’s it.’
He picked up a telephone. The radar station in The Hague announced that they were clear to launch. He nodded to the sergeant. ‘Begin the procedure.’
Graf braced himself as the countdown started. Through the thickened glass he saw the familiar spectacle – the shower of sparks, the spreading flame, the sudden rush of noise and heat as the rocket reached full power. Seidel pressed the stopwatch the instant the missile erupted out of sight.
He spoke into the telephone. ‘Stand by to cut off engines. Twenty seconds…fifteen seconds…’
18
IN MECHELEN, A TELEPHONE RANG. It made them jump. In the confined silence of the bank vault the clang was as loud as a fire alarm.
Kay looked up hopefully. Waiting for something to happen had started to prey on her nerves. A dozen pairs of eyes went straight to the Signals Corps corporal as he lifted the receiver.
He listened, raised his hand. ‘They’ve launched!’
The bell sounded briefly. Kay picked up her pencil.
The corporal began his incantation: ‘Contact bearing one eight three; altitude thirty-one thousand; velocity three two two zero feet per second…’
‘Hang on,’ muttered Knowsley. He looked at the corporal, puzzled. ‘One eight three? That can’t be right.’ He grabbed a protractor, propelled himself out of his seat and strode over to the map.
Kay kept her head down, writing.
‘Contact bearing one eight three,’ said the corporal, ‘altitude forty-seven thousand, velocity—’
Knowsley interrupted him. ‘Request confirmation of the bearing.’
‘Can you confirm that bearing, please?’ The corporal waited. ‘Bearing confirmed.’ He listened to the voice on the other end. Now he too looked bewildered. ‘The missile’s rising but they aren’t picking up a track, sir.’
‘No, that’s because it’s coming straight at us.’ The wing commander’s voice was calm. ‘Sound the air raid warning. Everyone take cover.’
The V2, its engine cut off by radio signal, flashed over Rotterdam in free flight at twice the speed of sound.
All around the room everyone was ducking to find shelter, apart from Kay. She could not believe this was happening to her again.
Barbara said, ‘Kay – get under the table!’ She had to shout again to get her attention. ‘Kay!’
Kay got down on her knees and crawled into the cramped space. The howl of the air raid siren carried from the street outside. Barbara said, ‘Well, this is thrilling.’ They lay on their stomachs, side by side. Kay turned her head to look at Barbara. Beneath her cheek the parquet floor smelled sickly sweet of beeswax polish. Barbara gave her an encouraging smile, took her hand and squeezed it. Kay placed her other hand over the crown of her head to protect it – as if that would do much good, she thought. She closed her eyes. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death…
The air raid siren stopped.
Time seemed to stretch and tauten, to elongate further and further: unbearably far.
Suddenly, a change in the air pressure – the same minute click in the ears, like the whisper of a premonition, that she had experienced in London – followed a beat later by a tremendous bang overhead. Then came the thump of a distant explosion, subsumed in its turn by the avalanche roar of the incoming rocket.
Kay lay still in the ensuing silence. I have heard that three-part sequence twice, she thought. Not many among the living can say that.
After half a minute, Barbara whispered, ‘Is that it?’
‘I think so.’ She felt a surge of claustrophobia and used her elbows to wriggle out from under the table. The others were emerging from beneath their desks. She stood and brushed the dust from her skirt and tunic. The all-clear wailed from the street upstairs. Someone started to cry.
‘Oh do shut up,’ said Sitwell.
* * *
—
They filed up from the vault and gathered on the pavement outside. Across the road to their right, dark smoke was rising in the distance behind the spires of the Brusselpoort. People had stopped in the street to look at it, exactly as they did in London, thought Kay – shocked by what had happened, appalled to think who might have been under it, relieved it wasn’t them.
Barbara said, ‘I wonder what they hit?’
Kay peered at the tower of smoke. It was toppling slightly in the wind. ‘It looks to be in the same direction as my billet.’
‘God, let’s hope Arnaud’s all right.’
‘Come on,’ said Sitwell. ‘Don’t dawdle.’
As they followed the others towards the headquarters building, Kay kept her gaze fixed on the smoke.
Barbara said, ‘Every time you kiss a man, the Germans drop a rocket on him – have you noticed that?’
Upstairs in the mess room, Knowsley asked for the doors to be closed, then clapped his hands to get their attention. He had an army major standing next to him, square-faced and thickset, like a boxer, who seemed to be examining each of them in turn. Kay could feel him looking at her. ‘All right, listen, everyone. It’s important we stay calm. The Mechelen area has been hit by a couple of V2s before, but they originated from launch sites in Germany and were almost certainly intended for Antwerp. That one came from The Hague where the batteries are only firing at London. So unless they’ve suddenly changed their targeting, we have to assume it was deliberate.’
He allowed the implications to sink in. A nervous murmur ran around the mess.
‘I need to talk to Stanmore and to our head of security.’ He turned slightly and nodded to the major. ‘In the meantime, it’s probably best if we suspend this shift. You can either wait at HQ or go back to your billets, and we’ll reconvene here at fourteen hundred. And please remember – I cannot emphasise this enough – you are to tell no one about what I’ve just said. As far as the local population and our own service personnel are concerned, that was just another rocket meant for Antwerp that went off course. Is that understood? Right, stand down.’
The room broke up into separate conversations. Barbara turned to Kay. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I think I ought to go back and see if the house is still standing.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, I’ll be fine.’
* * *
—
The smoke from the V2 was like an optical illusion. The faster she hurried towards it, the further it seemed to recede, as if it were a malevolent spirit beckoning her on. Alarm bells sounded occasionally, but only faintly, and always far away. By the time she reached the Vermeulens’ street, it was obvious the rocket must have landed well outside the centre; it might even have fallen short of the town altogether.
She opened the garden gate and walked up to the front door, rang the bell and waited, then tried the door. Locked, of course. She rem
embered how Arnaud had retrieved the key from the lintel the night before. She stood on tiptoe and felt along the smooth stone until her fingers touched metal.
Inside, the house was silent and empty; dim even in the daylight. Standing in the hall, with its shadowy religious decorations, she felt nervous, like a thief. She went into the kitchen. The dishes had all been cleaned and put away; everything was straight and tidy. She retreated back to the hall, considered taking a look inside Dr Vermeulen’s study but decided against it: that would have been too much like trespassing. She climbed the stairs to her room.
The curtains had been drawn open. On the bed – her perfectly made WAAF bed – there was a slight depression, as if someone had sat on it. She looked in the wardrobe at her clothes, then sat at the desk and opened the drawer. Her slide rule was there, and her logarithm tables, and the sheets of calculations she had practised on her first night. However, the pages were not precisely as she had left them. They were slightly disordered. Most people would not have noticed, but she was trained to spot such things.
It was like using the stereoscope at Medmenham. You examined a single photograph and the picture was flat. You laid another beside it, taken a fraction of a second later, and the images leaped up at you in 3D. Gazing down now at the desk drawer, everything that had happened over the past two days acquired a new perspective. For almost a minute she sat calmly, remembering every tiny detail: incidents that had meant nothing by themselves but that together made up a different picture. The reluctance of the Vermeulens to take her in. The photograph of the dead son placed face down on the desk in the study. The Nazi salute in the waterfront bar. Arnaud’s nervous glances at the ceiling while they were making love. The empty food cupboard. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke outside the back door that morning.
She rose, left the bedroom and walked along the passage to the landing, then began to climb the stairs to the second floor. She guessed that the room directly above hers must be at the rear of the house, on the left. The door was half-open. Inside, the sheets on the single bed were tangled, as if someone had been tossing and turning in a fever. There was a strong male smell of sweat and stale cigarettes. Piles of books. A first-aid box, its lid open, containing rolled bandages, gauze, lint pads, a bottle of antiseptic. On the dressing table, a tin of the Fray Bentos corned beef she had presented to Madam Vermeulen, empty, with a spoon stuck in it that had been licked clean. She opened the dressing table drawer. A small grey identity card, like a passport, with 3. SS Panzer Division ‘Wiking’ written on the outside, and on the inside a picture of a young man remarkably like Arnaud, made out in the name of Guillaume Vermeulen, with his blood group, the signature of his commanding officer, and a purple swastika stamp.
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