V2

by Robert Harris

  Although her heart was thumping, her mind was cool and sharp. Guillaume was not dead. He had fought for the Germans. He was in hiding – wounded, by the look of it. He would not dare show his face out of doors. Therefore, while the others might have gone out, he must still be in the house. He would almost certainly have heard her knocking at the front door, heard her come in, heard her go into the kitchen and come upstairs.

  Slowly she turned around, half expecting to find him behind her. But the doorway was clear, so too the landing and the staircase. She descended to the first-floor landing and peered over the banister down into the hall. The black-and-white tiled floor was deserted. He was unlikely to be in any of the other bedrooms, so either he was in the parlour or – more likely, given how cold and unused the parlour seemed – he was in his father’s study, probably listening. She calculated the distance to the front door. She could make a run for it, but that might bring him out to intercept her. Better, then, to walk normally. She looked around for anything she might be able to use as a weapon, but there was nothing she could see. Very well. She squared her shoulders. Go.

  She descended the stairs, crossed to the front door, opened it and stepped outside. The key was still in the lock. She locked the door and replaced the key on the lintel. The study window looked out over the garden. The curtains were drawn. She could imagine him behind them, the heavy material parted slightly, watching her. She suppressed her instinct to hurry and walked carefully across the grass. She was halfway to the gate when it opened and Dr and Madam Vermeulen came in with Arnaud.

  They stopped in surprise. She advanced towards them. ‘You’re all safe,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness for that.’

  Dr Vermeulen said coldly, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see if you were all right.’ Her voice sounded strangulated, high and false, so she added, rather too brightly, ‘Where did the rocket land, do you know?’

  Arnaud was looking at her intently. ‘We went to see but we couldn’t get close. It seems to have hit a field.’

  ‘That’s a bit of luck.’ She managed to smile at him. ‘Well, as long as you’re safe. I’ll see you all this evening.’

  They were blocking the path. She made a move to leave, and for an instant she thought Arnaud would stop her. He seemed to be trying to weigh her up. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that would be good.’ He stood aside, and an instant later she was through the gate and out into the street.

  In the square close to the cathedral, she flagged down a British army jeep – a corporal and two privates. It swerved across the cobbles and braked. The corporal said, ‘Yes, ma’am. Is everything all right?’

  ‘I believe there is a German soldier hiding in a house near here.’

  19

  AT THE HEART OF THE regiment’s launch zone, midway between Scheveningen and Wassenaar, in the flat landscape of woods and dunes about two kilometres from the sea, lay the Duindigt racetrack – an eight-furlong oval course, with three stands, built before the Great War. It was here that the mass funeral ceremony for Lieutenant Stock’s launch troop was to be held.

  Graf had not wanted to go. Four days after the raid on Peenemünde, in a hastily dug cemetery next to the railway line, more than a hundred coffins had been lowered into a communal grave; he hadn’t even known which of the plain wooden boxes was Karin’s. But how could he use that as an excuse, especially to himself? The deaths of the men were his responsibility as much as anyone’s. It was his duty to pay his respects. So once the V2 had been fired at Mechelen, and after the launch crew had packed up the site, he found himself slipping into the front seat of Seidel’s Kübelwagen, with Sergeant Schenk and a corporal in the back, and setting off to the racetrack.

  By the time they arrived, the dilapidated stands, with peeling paintwork and patches of rotted timber, were nearly full. A thousand men had been turned out, willingly or unwillingly: the headquarters troops, who administered the regiment; the technical troops, who unloaded the missiles from the trains and prepared them for flight; the fuel and rocket troops, the launching troops, and all the other ancillaries – drivers, maintenance men, signallers, cooks, flak men, firemen, radio operators – who had been consigned to this deserted stretch of coast in order to fire rockets at the English. They sat in sombre rows, listening as the regimental band played a selection of hymns.

  The sky was high, grey, clear; no sign of the RAF. On the sandy track, overgrown with couch grass, half a dozen chairs and a microphone had been set out on a low platform. A Protestant pastor and a Catholic priest sat next to one another. Twelve coffins were lined up in front of it, each draped with a swastika flag and bearing the dead man’s cap. An honour guard stood to attention beside them. The sight of those lonely caps in conjunction with the mournful music had a dismaying effect on Graf. It had been exactly the same at Peenemünde. He took off his hat and wiped his eyes on his sleeves.

  Seidel looked at him with concern. ‘Are you all right, Graf?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  They climbed the steps of the stand and found the last few empty seats. The men rose to let them pass. Just as they sat, Kammler’s Mercedes drove onto the racetrack. It made its way slowly in front of the stand and pulled up in front of the coffins. The front passenger door opened and Kammler stepped out. From the rear came Colonel Huber and another tall SS officer. The three arrivals lined up in front of the coffins with their backs to the spectators and extended their arms in the Nazi salute, then mounted the platform and took their seats. Respectful in the presence of the dead, they removed their caps. The easterly wind that had been blowing since before dawn lifted the edges of the swastika flags and ruffled the thick blond hair of the second SS officer. He raised his hand to smooth it back, and Graf would have recognised him by that familiar gesture alone, for he must have seen it a thousand times in the past – on the windswept derelict ground of the Rocket Aerodrome in Berlin, on the test ranges at Kummersdorf, on the North Sea beaches of Borkum, on the Baltic foreshore at Peenemünde, on the central Polish plain of Blizna…

  There was a roll of drums. Everyone stood. The band struck up ‘Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden’, the soldiers’ lament. A thousand voices joined in the words:

  I once had a comrade

  You won’t find a better one

  The drum was rolling for battle

  He was marching by my side

  In the same pace and stride…

  Von Braun sang with the rest, but all the while his restless gaze swept the stands – back and forth, up and down, back and forth – until at last it came to rest on Graf.

  Graf looked away.

  * * *

  —

  He barely noticed the ceremony after that – the hymns, the pious sermons from the two clergymen, Huber’s eulogy (‘They died in the service of the Fatherland, yielding up their lives for our sacred cause…’). His mind reviewed a parade of ghosts – Karin on the beach that final evening, the girl in the brothel standing over him with the knife, Wahmke holding the tin of kerosene in the instant before he died, the human remains strewn around the crater of the exploded rocket, the shadows of the slave workers passing through the tunnels of Nordhausen. Only when he heard Kammler’s voice – that rasping, staccato delivery, made even more metallic by amplification – did he make a conscious effort to claw himself back into the present.

  The SS general was standing at the microphone, holding a sheet of paper. Graf tried to focus, caught odd words – ‘crusade for Western civilisation…historic destiny of the Führer…ultimate victory assured…’

  He flourished the paper. ‘Men of the Vengeance Division! I wish to share with you the following communiqué from the Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. “As of today, the V2 has destroyed three Thames bridges in London. The Houses of Parliament have been extensively damaged. There is not a building standing within five hundred
metres of Leicester Square. Piccadilly Circus has also been devastated. The Tower of London has suffered considerable damage from blast.” Let that be their epitaph.’

  He folded the sheet and returned it to his inside pocket. ‘Our comrades did not die in vain! You do not serve in vain! Each rocket you fire inflicts a smashing blow upon the enemy! We are the Vengeance Division! We will prevail! Heil Hitler!’

  The silence that met his words seemed to disconcert him. He dropped his arm and stepped back from the microphone. He glanced at von Braun and then at Huber, who nodded to the commander of the honour guard.

  ‘Prepare to fire!’

  The men aimed their rifles at the sky.

  ‘Fire!’

  The shots rang round the racetrack. The soldiers reloaded.

  ‘Fire!’

  They reloaded again.

  ‘Fire!’

  As the echo of the final volley died away, Graf stood. He had made up his mind, and he wanted to get away before von Braun had a chance to speak to him.

  Seidel caught his arm. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘We have a missile to launch, remember?’

  ‘Even so, I think you need to rest.’

  ‘I’ll prepare the rocket. Then I’ll rest, I promise.’

  * * *

  —

  The V2 was waiting for him on its cradle beneath the trees. He asked the corporal to open control compartment number 2.

  The man looked confused. ‘It was number three this morning.’

  ‘And now it’s number two.’

  The soldier did as he was instructed. They all knew Dr Graf; they trusted him. The component was awkward to get at. Graf had to lie on his back under the rocket and reach into the interior, working blind. With both hands he felt around the plywood platform for the programme clockwork – a small device, no bigger than his hand – and pulled apart the wires.

  He slid out from beneath the fuselage. ‘That’s fine. You can close the compartment.’

  Once again he walked beside the rocket as it was towed over to the crane. He stood watching as it was transferred to the Meillerwagen. He did not ask for a lift to the launch site. He had plenty of time. He ambled along the road through the trees, found a decent spot, spread out his coat and sat down. He smoked a couple of cigarettes and listened to the sounds of the wood. For the first time in many weeks, he felt at peace. His mind was pleasantly empty. He lingered for the best part of an hour, then resumed his journey.

  The rocket was on its launch table, fully fuelled. The electrical tests had been completed and the cables were disconnected. The men were preparing to unfasten the testing platforms from the vertical arm of the Meillerwagen. Standing watching them, his notebook open, was Sturmscharführer Biwack.

  Graf said cheerfully, ‘Still collecting information, I see.’

  ‘I think it’s noteworthy, don’t you? A missile fired directly at a British army unit for only the second time in history?’

  ‘Noteworthy – yes, I suppose that’s one word for it.’ And then he said, to no one in particular, ‘I just want to check the transformer one last time.’

  ‘No need, Doctor. Everything’s been tested. It’s working fine.’

  ‘Even so – we’ve had so many faults. Remember what happened to Lieutenant Stock? Just give me five minutes.’

  Before the soldier could object, he began to climb.

  How huge she was, he thought! How powerful! He could sense the latent energy through the thin metal membrane. It was a mighty thing they had made, no question of it. She deserved a better purpose. He kept on climbing steadily until he reached the topmost platform. He fished in his pocket for his screwdriver and opened the door to control compartment number 3. Inside, next to the metal dome that housed the roll-and-yaw gyroscope, was a radio receiver. He reached in with his pliers and cut the electrical connection, closed the door and screwed it shut. He started his descent.

  Back on the ground, he said, ‘You were right. It’s fine. Enjoy the launch, Biwack.’

  He waved in the direction of the firing control vehicle and gave a thumbs-up. The hydraulic arm was uncoupled from the rocket. The Meillerwagen was pushed back.

  Graf walked a couple of hundred metres up the road, stopped and turned. The klaxon sounded. He took out his binoculars. The rocket stood alone apart from the thin metal antenna and its umbilical cable. The familiar cloud of white vapour was issuing from the vents above the liquid oxygen tank. All was quiet. All was good. The fireflies began to dance around the base. The sparks became a solid roaring orange jet. The mast fell away, the cable snapped free, the noise and blast wave of the engine at full power made him stagger back, but he kept his binoculars trained on the V2 as she lifted off.

  One second into the flight…two…three…four…

  Now!

  The rocket did not tilt. In the control compartment, the clockwork mechanism clicked in vain. Held steady on her course by her pair of gyroscopes, she hurtled upwards at an angle of ninety degrees – vertically, perfectly, gloriously – towards the heavens.

  A warning blast on the klaxon. A voice over the loudspeaker: ‘Tilt programme failed! Engine cut-off initiated!’

  He could imagine the panic in the control wagon as they tried to send the radio signal.

  ‘Engine cut-off failed!’

  A few moments later, the men of the firing platoon, Biwack among them, emerged from the undergrowth and ran up the road towards him. They sprinted past, shouting at him in panic to get clear of the site. Biwack gave him a frowning sideways look as he went by. Graf stood unmoved.

  He could see the flame of the exhaust quite clearly through his binoculars. At Peenemünde that summer, they had fired a test rocket in exactly this manner to observe re-entry. They had recorded a maximum altitude of 176 kilometres before gravity reclaimed her. She would continue to rise unstoppably through all the restraining layers of the atmosphere – troposphere, stratosphere, mesosphere – into the boiling heat of the thermosphere; then she would falter, begin to tumble, flip over, and fall with the precision of a feathered dart.

  The red dot of the rocket dwindled and disappeared into the cloud base. He put away the binoculars and advanced purposefully towards the deserted clearing.

  20

  KAY SAT ALONE AT A corner table in the officers’ mess. It was a little after half past four: sunset – not that she had glimpsed the sun all day. The lamps had been turned on. A couple of off-duty army captains were standing at the bar, drinking and telling dirty jokes. They had asked her if she wanted to join them.

  ‘No, thanks all the same.’

  Apart from them, the mess was empty. Every so often, one or the other would roar with laughter and bang his glass on the counter. Her suitcase stood beside her chair, her greatcoat laid across it. Somewhere in the building, her fate was being decided.

  * * *

  —

  She had led the patrol to the Vermeulens’ house. In the street outside, they had sat in the jeep while she explained the layout. They were plainly sceptical, suspected she was just a hysterical woman. The corporal said, ‘So is he armed, this German?’

  ‘He’s not German, I told you – he’s a Belgian who fought with the Germans. I don’t know if he’s armed.’

  ‘Sounds a bit unlikely, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘He fought with the third SS Panzer division, if that means anything to you.’

  That changed their attitude at once. ‘Fucking hell,’ said one of the privates. ‘Should we send for reinforcements?’

  ‘Nah,’ said the corporal. He reached for his rifle. ‘We can take him.’

  They went in through the gate. One of the privates took up position in the garden, with his rifle trained on the house. The other slipped quietly down the side path to the back door. The corporal stood on the front step with Kay
. He gestured to her to ring the bell.

  For half a minute, nothing happened. Then came the sound of the key turning, the bolts being drawn back. The door opened, and there was Dr Vermeulen in his dark green cardigan.

  Kay said, ‘I’m sorry, Dr Vermeulen. We need to search the house.’

  His body sagged slightly. He rested his head against the door jamb, seemed on the point of saying something, and then gave up. ‘Guillaume’s in the kitchen. Follow me.’

  Until that moment, Kay had half expected the whole thing to turn out to be a figment of her imagination, an embarrassing misunderstanding requiring an apology to all concerned. But there in the kitchen, seated at the table, was Arnaud and his mother and a young man, little older than a boy, with a dead-white pallor and long unkempt hair. He was wearing a scruffy blue pullover. His left hand was bandaged. They looked up, made no effort to move, as if this was a moment they had long expected.

  The corporal said to Kay, ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘The one in blue.’

  ‘Him?’ the corporal said, as if he couldn’t believe it. He pointed his rifle and gestured with the barrel. Guillaume swayed to his feet and raised his hands. ‘Out.’ He nodded to the door.